Tasm Peter X Reader - Tumblr Posts

let me in your ocean; [tasm!peter imagine]

— Pairing: TASM!Peter Parker x F!Reader

— Summary: Peter's been running away from his duties ever since he came back from there. Another universe. A different reality. He's been so busy trying to wrap his head around the fact that it's all real; trying his best to process all of the guilt and shame from his months of taking out his anger in the bad guys, that he stopped doing his job. Stopped being Spider-Man for a second.

Meeting you changes that.

— Word count: 9.7k

— Warning(s): Heavy angst ahead. Mentions of death, violence. Reader's going through grief, Peter finds her and they bond through shared pain.

main master list | marvel master list | ko-fi ❥

Peter hears the cries when he's coming out of Techno Lab at the end of an afternoon.

It startles him for more than one reason.

Number one—it's heartbreaking. Peter hears the choked sobs and broken whines from where he is in the corridor, and right after his spidey senses hit that there were unfamiliar noises close by, his second assessment was one of hurt.

Number two—his hearing picked up on it, despite his best efforts to train his hypersensitivity. It had been working since he came back from there—the other universe. Two days in disarray with his abilities all over the place again as if he were a recently bitten newbie, and Peter decided to get his heightened senses in check. He wasn't supposed to be listening to anything, much less the crying of someone.

Number three and most important of them all, it makes his skin crawl.

Vibrate, shiver, tremble. However you call it, Peter feels it, and the second he takes note of it, his feet are carrying him through the corridors of Empire State University and going straight to the source of those heart-wrenching sounds.

He climbs two floors, walks through staircases and at last, finds the open door that leads to the terrace outside.

His heart freezes in his chest, and Peter stops with his hands inches away from the doorknob, trying to collect the pieces of his heart from the ground and convince himself to just go for it, at the same time as his head is screaming to him what the hell are you doing?

What will you tell them? Hey, this is Peter, I heard you crying like someone just died—

No.

He's not doing this right now.

It also does not matter.

Peter pushes the door open wider and walks to one of the University's open towers. They're on the East Wing here, right where the Science and Math courses meet, and right over the tower, pacing back and forth in front of the edge of the building, there's the source of the tears.

Her sobs are as painful and as unstoppable as before.

Peter feels out of place, and at the same time, like looking in front of a mirror.

He stands there, frozen by fear, and the knot that out of nowhere lives on his throat, trying to gather any strength left in him to just go.

You're crying like someone reached inside of you and broke something.

He knows what that feels like.

Peter wonders if it'd be best to just let you be alone right now.

He sighs, letting the pain bloom and take over his chest like spring always takes over the snow at some point, like he knew it would when he saw the source of the pain. Why did he even come? Why would he interrupt someone in such a private moment?

You don't want him here.

Peter doesn't even know you. All he knows is that you're almost screaming right now, standing alone in one of your school's towers at the end of the day, probably after a whole morning and afternoon of pretending to be a person.

Of holding that all in.

It's when your body collapses against the rail of the roof and you keep crying over it that his instinct kicks in—this is the sixth floor. This is tall, you should not be leaning in this much—please step away, this is dangerous, you can't be this careless—

Peter takes the first step, letting go of the door, and the noise calls your attention. Fuck.

You turn sharply to him, and Peter raises both hands in the air in a gesture he's all too familiar with.

"I—I come in peace," he tries. It's a feeble joke, and it falls on deaf ears.

Your face is red, swollen, and your chest is still breathing rapidly since you're out of breath from how hard you'd been crying.

You turn away from him sharply, and Peter grimaces with the way he did not think this through.

"I'm so sorry," he tries again. "I promise I didn't—" didn't what? Look for you? He did. He grimaces again, and fights against his stupid brain who makes rash decisions without thinking of outcomes. "I didn't mean to interrupt you." There. That's a decent half-truth.

You're wiping your face on the sleeve of your hoodie, and that pulls Peter's eyes to it. It's a Tweety hoodie, big enough to be a dress for any occasion.

"I just... heard someone stealing my crying spot," he finishes in a lame whisper. He looks up to you and—oh. There it is. It looks like your soul's back on your body, and woah. Those are intense eyes. "You can just... go back to it. I won't bother you. I'm just gonna--can I stay? I'll just stick by. In case you want any company. Or, you know. If you want, I can go. If you say 'go' right now, I swear I'll go."

"Do you usually talk this much around people you don't know?"

Her voice is nice.

Peter almost smiles at the exasperation in her tone, and registers that she manages to give a piercing look almost as penetrating as Aunt May's.

He nods, keeping the smile down. "Yes. Unfortunately. It's a big problem, I've heard complaints about it before."

To that, you have no answer.

All you do is stare at him for a moment, wiping your face clean again.

Peter looks away from you because staring at you is suddenly very hard.

His heart spikes—something it hasn't done in a while.

Not since he stepped on a damn portal.

Slowly and with deliberate moves, almost as if he's dealing with a wounded animal, Peter kneels down, and sits on the edge of the rail.

He can feel your eyes following his movements, and his heart feels big and heavy inside his chest the whole time.

Why the hell did you come, man? What, was she gonna jump? You don't know that. That's ridiculous.

He breathes in, then out. Counts to ten in his head, all while listening to your breathing that's coming down since he stepped outside on the roof with you.

Finally, after what it seems like forever, you ask him. "This is your crying spot?"

Peter had been joking about that.

He looks to his side—your eyes are very much intent on watching him, and Peter finds that lying to you is kinda hard. His neck twitches, and he narrows his eyes, "Ah... technically, no. No, it's not. That was an impulsive lie—my crying spot is usually the bathroom."

He hears a scoff. "I can't cry in the bathroom. D'you know how many girls would come asking me if I'm okay if I did that?"

Peter turns to you, swinging his legs back and forth in the air. "Girls do that?"

"Yeah." You nod. "Girls' bathrooms are one of the best places on Earth."

"Wow." He's never heard that one before, but your heartbeat remained the same while you said it, so it must be true. "Never knew that before. I'm kinda sad now I'll never get to experience that for myself."

The next scoff was more of a chuckle—you just snorted air out of your nose in tiny laughter.

Peter wondered how hard it was to make you laugh.

"I am so sorry that as a white, probably hetero, cisgender man, this is a privilege you won't get to experience," your voice dripped in sarcasm.

Peter's jaw fell open, and for the first time, you two exchanged a proper look.

Him, looking at you dumbfounded. When he left his last class of the day and was suddenly caught by the sound of a heart breaking, Peter didn't expect to be met with so much attitude.

You, looking at him pleased with yourself. Seeing the awe on his face, your air-nose laugh slowly becomes a smile.

It never reaches your eyes, and Peter recalls why he's here in the first place.

"You know what?" He nods to himself. "You're right. That is a tragedy," he adds the last bit just to see if it gets something else from you.

There's nothing. Peter looks to his side again and sees he has lost you once more, and to his surprise, he's okay with that.

He came here for... well, he's unsure of the reason yet, but it wasn't to try and brush off your pain.

"I mean it, you know." He says those next words without looking at you. It's easier talking to you when your eyes aren't on him, for some reason. "If you wanna just... go back to crying, I can just... sit tight."

"Why would you want to listen to someone crying?" There was no malice in your question or any strangeness. Just confusion.

Peter shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know." He truly didn't. If it were any other day, Peter might not even have heard you. "I just know sometimes it sucks feeling all that pain alone."

Well. That sure is something you can tell a complete and total stranger.

There's no reply from your side, but Peter knows it's okay. Your heart's still beating the same way, and he hears the sound of your clothes shuffling until you're sitting in the same position as he is.

That makes him worry.

If he falls, Peter doesn't get past the fifth floor. He'll hold on to the wall with his adherent fingerprints, but you had a one-way ticket to the floor down there unless you were hiding radioactive bites somewhere, too.

"Why d'you cry?"

Your question pulls him out of the worst-case scenarios his mind was drawing and the different ways he could save you and get away with it.

Peter looks at you and sees you observing the trees in your line of sight. They're gorgeous Ipe trees, and they're blooming with white, purple and pink flowers.

"Because loss hurts so much that you just wanna scream or cry through every stage of it?" It was supposed to be an answer, but it comes out as an embarrassing confession.

Your eyes squint at his awkward, close-lipped smile, and then soften.

You look at every inch of Peter's face, and whatever it is that you see there, it softens every feature in your face.

"It does, doesn't it?" You agree. Turning away sharply, Peter sees your chin trembling. When you speak again after a few moments, your voice sounds hoarse and choked-up. "I... I don't..."

Peter waits.

Sometimes, people become unaware of how grief deteriorates their ability to see beyond it. To think, rationalize, or be logical with it.

Flashes of the punches he stopped pulling make him wince.

Images of the people he hurt before he took his inter-dimensional trip and discovered not everything had to be lost all the time come to haunt him, and Peter has to shake his head from side to side.

Thankfully, you don't see him fighting his ghosts. Your eyes are distant and blinded by your own, and Peter breathes in shaky, squeezing the concrete underneath him to ground him here.

Empire State University. 2022. You're Peter Parker. (The third one.) Things are okay.

Your voice pulls him back. "I don't think... I've had a single thought these past six months... That hasn't been related to her."

Peter listens to that, and feels the words in the chemic of his bones.

"Yeah, it feels like that," he agrees. "Like..." He thinks about it. Survivor's guilt. Attachment. The passage of time. How time mends, heals, erases. "Like they have nowhere else to go, so they just... live in the corners and cracks of our minds."

"Yeah. Yeah," you nod. Peter hears you swallow down thickly, and when he looks to you again, your cheeks are glistening with the tears coming down.

The sky behind you starts going through the phases of Twilight, and it should be a crime to have a scenario that might as well have been painted by Van Gogh when there's so much pain at the center of this painting.

While your pain bleeds red down the concrete of the school's walls, the sky behind you paints your frame in light pink and warm orange.

Your tears look like Renassaince details, and Peter's fingers itch for his camera for the first time in years.

The silence between you both is neither heavy nor uncomfortable.

You cry in silence now, staring at the Ipes like the trees froze your gaze in their direction. While you stare ahead, Peter stares at you.

Your hair is curly and right now, wild.

Your cheeks are big, rounded and so red. Your lips are big, and it matches well with those big, intense eyes of yours.

Peter looks away, thinking about why did he never see your face around here.

Because you haven't looked up in months.

Not even your job you've been doing.

He shakes his head again.

This time, you catch it. The gesture seems to break your spell because you look away from the trees to him and, sniffling, ask him. "I feel like—am I going crazy? Why do I feel insane right now?"

And there they are.

Peter sees the dam breaking again—the resolve you'd built when he crashed your pain parade is crumbling, and Peter wants to stay as badly as he wants you to be okay, so he has to offer one last time.

"You're not going crazy. You're hurt. And you probably have people telling you a bunch of stuff that doesn't help all the time." He knows that, because he remembers how unhelpful everybody is when someone is gone. "Can I...?"

He leaves the question unfinished, but you understand it nonetheless. Can I stay?

You nod with trembling lips, and then you do something that personally, Peter finds very brave.

You go right back to crying, just as you were before he came in here.

It's not as loud as it was before, but it comes from the exact same place.

Peter wants to inch a little closer and maybe offer a hand. Some comfort.

He stays where he is, though, and for some reason, he feels like it helps.

To his surprise, you speak up, mid-sobs and tears. "I—I don't want to be okay with it. Th—that's why I'm so—so angry. People—keep telling me 'it'll b—be okay' but they fail to fucking get that I—I—" your sob cuts your sentence, and Peter finishes for you.

"You don't want it to be okay," his own eyes sting. He came here for the heavens know what reason, and now he's forced to deal with the fact that he gets that. "Fuck people," Peter adds.

It's probably delivered with more heat than he intended because, through your cries, he hears a choked burst of laughter.

It makes him smile, and he wipes the tear coming down his cheek. "No, I'm serious. Fuck people." Your laughter comes out again, and Peter laughs with you. "What the hell do they know?"

You scoff. "Considering the state our world's in, absolutely nothing."

"Oh, wow. You're definitely a student here."

That makes you laugh again.

Just like that, Peter's enchanted by the warmth your laughter brings.

Silence falls over you two like a blanket, and Peter looks away so you can clean the traces of your tears one more time.

He hopes his presence felt like a comforting hand over yours, even if you two are strangers.

That reminds him—, "I'm Peter, by the way," he introduces himself.

You look to your side, and the smile that blooms on your face is sad, but not as hopeless as one would expect from the girl who was crying her heart out in the roof. "Hi, Peter. I'm really sorry you had to meet me like this."

"It's fine," he shrugs it off. "I've met people in much worse ways, you'll just have to believe me on that."

"Oh, really?"

"Oh, I promise you. Terrible ways," he waves his hands. "Compromising positions—you've got nothing going on, actually. I caused horrible first impressions in the past. It's all good. If you ask me, second impressions are where the money's at. I think judging someone by the first encounter is a very, uhm, harsh. And unfair decision."

When his ramble ends, Peter's eyes find yours.

This time, your laughter is definitely at him. "That's good to know. I'm Y/n." You extend your hand. "Nice to meet you."

Peter sends a silent prayer to whatever he's supposed to believe in that his hand doesn't stick to yours, and shakes it.

Your palms are so freaking soft and when you lean in, Peter catches a whiff of what must be your shampoo or conditioner because—hmm. That's nice.

"Thanks for keeping me company during my breakdown, I guess," you tell him with an awkward chuckle. You two pull back, and Peter sees the tip of your ears painted on the same shade as the sky in the background. "I... definitely didn't expect today to end like this."

"How did you expect it to end?"

"I don't know." Something tells Peter that you do know. He stores that information for later. "I've just been—getting by, as people try to convince me that 'everything's alright' and the nine yards. Like—," you scoff. "Like that's just gonna... make it go away."

"Hey." Your head snaps in his direction at his call. Peter puts on his best smile. "As someone who's been hearing that bullshit for three years now, here's my hot take: you're the only one who decides what goes away, and when."

At his words, Peter watches your face fall. Your lips part and some of the ghosts must come out for a haunt because he sees a shadow in your eyes.

It's been almost four years now, and Peter's got no idea where this is coming from or how it's coming out, but he goes on before he loses those words. Something tells him he needs to hear them too.

"Sometimes... you forget." He swallows thickly and focuses on the orange taking over the pink behind you to get through it. "Like—a day will go by and you notice you haven't thought about it, and—that'll absolutely destroy you. The fact that you forgot, you know? It'll make it worse, and nothing will make it better. But then... one day... out of nowhere, okay? No one can tell you when, not even you. One day, you'll just—" he chuckles, and recalls her annoying fake laughter. "You'll just remember something so funny. So... incredibly fucking funny, or disastrous. Just... a good memory. And trust me—you'll have a blast. All on your own, too," he laughs. "You'll about it, and then you'll probably cry because you're laughing alone."

For him, it was the day he took off all of Gwen's polaroids from inside his wardrobe.

One week before his second year in college.

Almost a whole year ago, now.

"And that'll be when it starts registering. Dust settling, and stuff. The fact that it happened, and that... it's a part of all this."

He looks at the Ipe, and thinks about three months ago when they were bare—nothing but brown branches, dry and devoid of any life.

"I just wanna be able to play some word association with my friends without breaking down in the middle of class right now," you whisper to him. Ah—so that was what happened to you. A trigger, something so personal and related to the missing piece that you wanna ruin the whole puzzle. "That's all I want."

He nods in understanding. "That's fair." And probably still a bit far for you. "It'll happen. In your time."

The next heartbeat you two share Peter feels it.

In slow motion.

He hears the thump-thump of your heart pumping blood, strong and sound in the middle of your chest. He hears the birds and the ruffling of the trees, and the way your breathing is still a little clogged from all the crying you did.

What surprises him is that he doesn't mind.

"Do you think they could ruin something for us?" The question slips out of his lips almost as if it was by someone else.

Peter feels exposed, but you look at him the same way you did since he sat down. Even though you're seeing something Harry never does, or Aunt May rarely sees—there's no pity in your face like there usually is in hers, and instead, he finds you looking pensive.

Thoughtful.

"For some time, maybe? Yeah... definitely." Your mind goes away somewhere when your gaze leaves his face. "If someone played Tchaikovsky right now, I would definitely eat a bullet."

Peter's eyes widen, meets yours, and then you two burst out laughing together.

"Wow," he comments. That is some dark humor if I ever heard it.

"My bad," you laugh. "But yeah. For some time. But—forever?" You shake your head. "Nah. If there was love, it washes away. Anything that you put on love is just a taint. Real love, of course. It can be a big taint, a resilient one—my mami said and I stand by it: anything washes away if you know the right product. Or wash it enough times."

His Uncle Ben's voice comes from somewhere in the deep corridors of his memories, and the words come out from his mouth. "Constant dripping of water wears away the stone.”

You smile at him. "Yeah. Exactly."

That is a pain he hasn't felt in a while.

The significance of you bringing that small little idiom Uncle Ben was so fond of back to him hits him in the chest like a common nemesis loves doing—hard, right in the center, where it hurts.

"My uncle used to say that," he tells you.

His tone must be what gives away the grief in that part of his life, too, because your smile dims.

Then, after a second, you say. "My best friend used to say, 'having a good discussion is like having riches', and—I used to laugh," you chuckle. Your eyes set on him with a weight that means something, and Peter feels compelled to keep his eyes on you as well. "Guess she was right."

Peter smiles at the look of surprise on your face.

He wants to ask you something more—maybe what brought her to say that, or how often did she usually deliver those cheesy lines; as often as Uncle Ben delivered his, maybe?

Fuck, she's the one that's gone.

Before he can open his mouth, though, a ringtone pierces through the bubble you two have created against the outside world and you rush to find your device inside your backpack, muttering apologies to him.

Peter shakes his hand to you, and gestures for you to go head.

He bounces on his feet awkwardly, hating how now that his senses are somehow back to their crisp precision.

"Hey, Diva," you greet.

Peter grabs his skateboard in hands and starts playing with it. On the other side of the line, he hears. "Bitch, where the fuck are you? Oh my god, babe! We've been looking for you like crazy, you're not at the classroom, or the—"

"Diva, babe. Calm down. Breathe," you interrupt. It's safe to assume this Diva character must be a friend of yours given the tone and the way of speaking with you.

"Don't 'Diva' me, I was worried sick, babes."

"I'm sorry. I lost track of time—I came upstairs for a smoke and I met a new friend, that's all." The chillness in your tone impresses him. Peter looks up at the mention of 'new friend', and you give him a small smile.

"...Right." Diva does not sound convinced. "Well, are you coming? We're waiting at the car for you. If you still wanna ride we'll wait a few more minutes."

A silent and yet respectful request for you to wrap it up with your 'new friend'. Peter likes this Diva person. They sound caring, and worried, even through the static and distant voice in the phone.

"Alright, I'm coming. Lemme say bye to Peter, kay?"

"Ahhhh," now with a name, Diva's confidence that you must be speaking the truth seems to rise. "Alright. Yeah, sure. Say bye. We'll be here waiting. Ten minutes, kay?"

"Sure."

"Love, you babes."

You roll your eyes, and the fondness written on your face is priceeless. "Love you too."

"Oh—Y/n?"

"Yes?"

"I'm happy you're there making new friends, Miss Joy. Seriously."

To that, you have no answers. Diva seems to need none, though, because they hang up right after.

You look down at your phone, put it back in your backpack and this time, the silence is a little weirder.

Strange how you two find comfort in one another so easily when your hearts are bleeding out of your sleeves, but now that you have to make 'normal people' interactions, Peter's awkwardness comes back in full swing.

"So—I'll definitely see you around, right?" Ugh, Peter. He scrunches his nose at his horrible attemp. "I don't know what course you take. I imagine we'll see each other again."

"Biochem Engineer. Y/n Y/L/N," you extend your hard again, and your smile tells him it's okay, I'm a little awkward, too.

Peter realizes he now has a way to all your social media. And that it was a deliberate choice on your behalf. He smiles and shakes your hand again, one, two, three times. You laugh, and he smiles as he does a proper introduction. "Peter Parker. Biophysics."

You whistle. "Damn, Peter Parker."

"What?" He chuckles, embarrassed.

"You're a massive nerd."

"You're an engineering student!" He laughs.

"Yeah, which is one degree less nerdy than physics department." Your smile is contagious.

Peter hasn't smiled like this in a while.

You look down between your bodies and he follows your gaze, and—oh. He's still holding your hand. Again.

He drops it, and scratches the back of his neck. "Thanks for the words of wisdom," he whispers.

You take a second to reply and when you do, it's with the first real, full smile he's ever seen on your face. "Unbelievable," you whisper to yourself. If Peter's hearing was lesser than it is, he'd have missed it. "Thank you for the kind and... rare act of keeping me company in my grief rage," you chuckle humorlessly. "You didn't think I was gonna jump or anything, did ya?"

Peter's jaw drops again, and he laughs one more time at how blunt you are with your humor.

"No, I didn't." He's still unsure of what brought him here in the first place. "I just—I heard the pain. Decided to come to land a helping presence."

"And succeeded."

"Mission accomplished," he nods.

"Indeed." Your sarcastic grin is as contagious as your true — and rare — smile. "I gotta go. But, it was nice meeting you, Peter Parker."

"You too, Y/n Y/l/n."

When you leave, Peter stays on the roof for another hour before swinging his webs all the way back home.

It's instinctive.

One minute, he's sitting on the edge where you were, crying your heart out. The next, he's dropping his body in the direction of the parking lot and using the web-shooters that's been collecting dust on his wrists for three months and he's home.

Aunt May looks at him strangely, but fondly throughout dinner. She seems to be happy that whatever made him happy has him talking, and they have one of the nicest conversations they've had in a long time.

Even Uncle Ben is mentioned.

Later that night, Peter sits on the fire escape with the mask he's been neglecting in hands.

It's heavy.

It carries the weight of much more than a persona or a superhero.

It's heavier than any of the loads he's supported in these two hands, and yet...

Anything that you put on love is just a taint.

Is it? Peter asks the image of you.

Is everything he's failed at just a taint? Can he wash it away?

Is he worth the effort of it?

For some reason, it's your voice that answers him.

You won't know it 'till you try it, Peter Parker.

Peter breathes in, shakily. Exhales steadily.

He did things wrong for months after Uncle Ben died.

After Gwen, he did things very wrong, for a good while.

Then, he was transported to somewhere else, a whole other universe, and everything he knew had to be rewritten.

He knows there's still the outline of all his stains. Just a shadow of it, maybe, but—it won't go away if you don't put in the work, he thinks.

He'll have to do better.

Peter took three months and shut himself out of the world, but it left him only empty. Processing all you never processed before. He shut down everything around him, ignoring the sounds, the cries, the sirens.

Now, as if a button was turned on, he hears it all again.

He's aware now that all the weigth of New York City's safety isn't and cannot be in his hands, but he can help. He's proven that before, and if wants all the pain attached in this red and blue suit to go away, he'll have to try again.

Peter puts on the suit.

Slowly, he slips on the mask.

Maybe if he washes his eyes out of the sights that haunt him, he'll be able to see the city in the same lights he used to. He'll want to photograph it, just like he wanted to photograph the sky.

Photograph you.

Peter shoots the first web, and opens his ears to any trouble. He'll do some difference tonight and maybe, who knows—tomorrow is another day.

Maybe tomorrow he'll cook Aunt May breakfast for a change. Finish his homework before he gets to class and not five minutes before the teacher walks in.

Maybe he'll discover what corridor is the Biochem Engineer course.

Peter missed the clarity that only the night city can bring.

🏷 peter parker tag list ☆ open; would you like to be added? more one-shots with peter to come! and a series in the near future <3

Hi! I'm so exited that you asked for request for tasm Peter Parker, the second I saw it all I could think of is him being like, assertive..does that make sense? I don't know he's just so sassy and lovely, and I believe whole heartedly that when it comes to people he cares about he can be very pushy with them.

So like I don't just like a scenario for you to build off of, like domestic assertiveness like making his s/o take breaks when they're over working themselves like gently but firmly "suggesting" they eat something or take a nap or go out side, get fresh air you know anything. This is just something for you to go off but I'd love anything you'd make. I hope you have a lovely day :)

a/n omg i hope i captured the vibe that you described bc it's just SO GOOD like so in character and cute,, he's just meant to be a bf

----

It's so much like clockwork that you don't even need to look up from your notebook to undo the latch of your fire escape. Which is a good thing, because the day has somehow managed to crawl by at a snail's pace and still slip through your fingers too quickly.

All of your homework has piled up through no fault of your own. At first, only two classes decided to share a deadline, but then another teacher assigned you an essay and another added a test on the math chapter you've understood the least. At first you thought you'd be able to push through and finish off most of your work today, giving you a decent amount of time to try to decode your calc. But now it's been hours and your eyelids are feeling heavy and you've just started a pre-test worksheet that you had forgotten about.

The now familiar groan of the fire escape being pulled open barely registers. Despite how hard you're trying to keep all your focus on the study guide, a warmth you've gotten much too used to roots itself in your stomach.

"Always unlocked." Peter's already pulled himself into your bedroom, the shift from the outside world to your room a transition he could complete with his eyes shut. "As Spider-Man, I should tell you not to for safety reasons, but it does make it easier when I'm tired."

Your eyes tear away from the page long enough to look at him. Peter's mask is already pulled up his face.

"I don't--you're tired?" You blink hard, trying to focus. "Was it..." The whole Spider-Man thing being so open is still relatively new to you. Peter's never made it feel like a particularly sore or easily triggering issue, but you know how much trust he's giving you by being this casual about it. And you're prone to worrying, to pushing and doting and wanting to wrap Peter in bubblewrap. "...Eventful?"

Peter frowns, leaning forward on the window sill. "That gets a reaction?"

You retrace your words, wondering if you've said something wrong or overly sappy. You can't find any mistakes. "What?"

He relaxes at the genuine confusion in your voice. He gives himself a second to really look at you, at the notebook on your lap. "Are you still doing homework?"

"Uh..." It's almost like the papers surrounding you are embarrassing. "Yeah, a lot of stuff's coming up." You let out a breath that doesn't exactly work as a laugh. "And I wanted to finish it early so I'd have time to ask Gwen to go over some calc stuff with me."

Peter stands slowly He's not used to this, to feeling unsure in your room or around you in general. Maybe you're trying to be passive aggressive. Did he forget something? Or stand you up or do something to upset you? He can't remember anything negative about any of your interactions, but that could just be his side of things. Maybe he's been taking advantage of you knowing his secret. It's easy to become less attentive when he can just fall back on blaming everything on Spider-Man.

"I know about calc." It feels small, almost shy.

"I know." You swallow, hoping to hide any insecurity in your voice. Peter's the most important person in your life and on days like this you don't feel like you deserve to even run in the same circles. All of the stuff you're struggling with comes naturally to him and on top of that he's a freaking superhero. Complaining about not getting math and school stress has to sound stupid and unimportant to someone who literally fights crime. "But I was going to see her tomorrow morning anyway, and it's just some basic stuff I want to make sure I get before the test on Friday."

You don't want his help. He tries not to take your reaction personally. Gwen's your friend just as much as he is and there a lot of reasons you could be waiting. Maybe you're frustrated and over trying to understand it today. Or maybe the way Gwen summarizes things makes more sense to you.

Peter stands, consciously telling himself to let it go. It's been awhile since the two of you have just gotten to peacefully co-exist. Okay, only awhile by your usual standards considering that he had hung out for awhile after school before his usual patrol. But that was mostly studying, and he misses you more than he can justify.

He picks up a notebook and a few papers scattered next to you, shuffling them neatly before sitting next to you.

"Peter."

"What?"

The amount of innocence pushed into the word forces you to look up. "I'm--" He's closer than you thought he'd be, staring at you with a partial pout. "I'm trying to do homework."

His hand shifts, pinky touching the side of your hand. "Take a break." Your head snaps up. "You've been doing it for way too long."

Your chin comes up a fraction of an inch. "Because I need to."

"You're going to burn yourself out." You want to listen, to at least pretend to be considering his opinion, but your tired and his tone is so contradicting. A touch of actual annoyance is in there, but it's undercut by an exasperated softness. Equal parts stress and a concern that'd better fit a parent correcting a child for their own good. It's too genuine and oddly nice. You smile. "I'm serious."

You recover quickly, forcing yourself to frown, "I know, but I'm seriously okay." You wish there was a way to physically prove it. "I just..." You wipe your eyes with the back of your palm, "I have to do this sometimes." Something about the way your voice softens tells him that you're not talking about just homework. "It's not always natural."

Peter turns too quickly, his knee bumping into yours. "Hey." He doesn't know where he's going with this. Doesn't know how to talk to you about these kinds of things without melting and fully exposing himself.

"You are so smart and-and good at so many things." The praise hits you straight in the chest, making warmth rush to your face. "But taking care of yourself isn't one of them."

You roll your eyes, finally finding it in yourself to look at him. "Which one of us messed up their hip two weeks ago and wouldn't go to the doctor?"

Peter sighs, "It was not messed up."

"It so was." You crane your neck to better glare at him. "You could barely walk."

He presses his lips together, fighting down a smile. "It was not that bad."

"I had to help you get to my bathroom." You keep your tone light, partially teasing, but it still doesn't feel that casual. That was the first time you had seen him that injured. It had turned your stomach so much you couldn't even overthink about how close the two of you were physically as you helped him.

That was almost your breaking point. You wanted to get him to a hospital. The two of you could have come up with some kind of story to justify the injuries that wouldn't have outed him as Spider-Man. But Peter practically begged you to let it go, to just patch him up like usual and let him crash in your room for the night. You wanted to push, but he had been so insistent and nice as he tried to comfort you. You caved. You always cave.

"I was--a little sore." The admission is reluctant. You tilt your head, eyebrows raising as if to say that you've made your point. "Not the same." He says it like that should take away from your feeling of victory, but it really doesn't. "I'm serious, you can't work yourself sick."

You let out a small sigh. If it was coming from anyone else, you'd be annoyed enough to tell them off. But this isn't anyone, it's Peter who's trying to mother hen you to death for no other reason than worry.

You reach for his arm, fingers gently squeezing just above his wrist. "I'm not sick." He turns his hand over. "It just--it's not always natural to me...and I have to make up the difference."

"Don't do that." Your pointer finger drags down the face of his palm. "You're too smart not to see it." Peter 's hand shifts into a fist, trapping your pointer finger. "And you're too smart to burn yourself out."

There's no way for you to get any response out, so you just stare at where your fingers tangle together. "I'm okay, I just need to keep my calc grade up."

He's close enough now that when he lets out a tired breath you can feel it against the side of your head. You can't remember moving closer. "And if you fall asleep in class or can't focus because you're exhausted."

"That doesn't--" You don't know what to say. That that doesn't count, that that kind of thing doesn't happen to you. You know that Peter's just trying to help, but you're not in the mood for reason and understanding. You just want to feel like you have it together the way everyone else seems to. "You get less sleep than me."

You push yourself further onto your bed, creating some needed space. The closer you are to Peter, the easier it is for you to melt. One inch too far and before you know it you're holding hands or his head is on your shoulder and your fingers are gently combing through his hair.

A part of it feels petulant and a little silly. He's your best friend, you don't know why you're starting a competition over whose worse at self care.

"Yeah," he admits easily, leaning back so that he can better look at you, "That's how I know it's hard." Peter shifts again, the movement has your notebook almost falling forward. "And I don't--" He sighs, eyes dropping down to the mess of papers between you. "I don't want that for you." The words are mumbled quietly, his attention focusing on organizing your notebooks and paper.

It's enough to get you to visibly soften. He's just looking out for you the way you want to look out for him. "I know, it's just--" You watch Peter tap his pile of your notes against his leg, straightening them out. "It all has to get done and I--I see everyone just getting it and doing all these other things and I'm barely holding on to the bare minimum."

Peter stops. "What?" He immediately sets down your notes in favor of reaching for your hand. "You can't--" He squeezes your fingers, more for his own sake than more. "Getting the grades you do isn't the bare minimum and you're--" Peter stops himself from gushing over how smart he thinks you are. "Is that why you don't want me to help you with calc?"

Spider-Man has made his life harder in a lot of ways, but he never thought it'd hurt his relationship with you. It's been a conscious choice. You're a priority.

Maybe he's been talking about it too much...coming off like he thinks he's that in important when in reality he just wants to impress you. Is that it? Have his attempts to seem cool and brave and like a guy worth your attention come off as ego?

"Is..." He isn't sure where to start. "Is this because of..." Peter can't bring himself to say it, so all he does is lift the hand still holding onto the mask.

"No," you blurt out a little too quickly, "I-I mean I don't think so, at least not fully." You sigh, embarrassed that this even needs to be a conversation. "It's that you're balancing that and your grades perfectly and Gwen's got her internship and one week of extra assignments is all it takes to throw me off. And it feels like I always need help with this stuff." You briefly squeeze your eyes shut, unsure how you even admitted that. "And now I'm officially terrible friend. I suck."

Peter pulls your intertwined hands forward, settling your fist on his knee. "No, you're not." You give him a look that says you don't buy a word of it. "You do so much, even if you don't see it." He drags his thumb across your knuckles. "You help me a lot."

You don't feel like you do. Peter's the one going out and taking the hits every night. The most you do is research certain local crimes and patch him up the best you can. That's nothing compared to everything he does for everyone. It's not a competition, but you definitely don't feel okay adding to his work load. "Peter--"

"I'm serious, do you think I could do everything I do without knowing that you're here?" Peter's expression blanks. Too much. Way too much. "And that--that you're ready to help clean me up and-and research all that--" He cuts himself off again. There is no good way to comfort you without accidentally admitting how much he cares. "Crime stuff."

Despite yourself, you smile, "Crime stuff?"

Instead of taking the bait and falling for your slight teasing, he holds onto his point. "You get what I mean." He lets go of his mask in order to squeeze your hand between both of his. "You're important and so smart, even if you're not always smart enough to see it."

Heat rushes to your face. "Okay." A reluctant retreat. Peter secretly indulges in his victory. "Help me with calc?"

"Okay," Peter agrees easily, "Tomorrow, though, because you need sleep."

You roll your eyes, "You are such a mom sometimes."

"You're the one that wants to get Spider-Man a jacket."

You let out a mock gasp. That suggestion had been a joke. Kind of. "First off, I was kidding." Eh. "And second, it gets cold in the winter and your suit's so thin."

Peter grins before taking his hands back. You frown a little at the loss of contact, but try to recover quickly. "Can I stay over?" He wraps his arms around himself, exaggerating the chill in the air by moving his hands up and down his arms. "Because it's so...cold?"

You fight down a laugh, reaching over for a pillow to hit him in the shoulder. Honestly, Peter's found some lame excuses to sleep over, but recently it's like he's not even trying. Which is perfectly okay with you--if he's tired, he's tired. And also, it's always kind of nice when Peter stays over. Nicer than it should be. "I should lock you out and let you freeze."

"Mhm," he hums, pushing himself to his feet, "Do I have any--"

You pick up your homework so that by the time he gets back from changing, Peter will have space to lay down. "Top drawer, I threw your sweatpants and some of your shirts in the laundry the other day, so they're good to go."

Peter lets himself smile once his back is into you. He can't remember ever giving the whole domestic thing much thought before he started crashing here kind of regularly. Your parents are rarely an issue, both of them have long commutes to work which means they're usually asleep by the time Peter can swing in and they leave for work in such a rush that if they do check on you before leaving, Peter only has to worry about hiding for a second, and his extra sense always warns him in time. They're a lot less likely to catch him bruised and injured than his aunt.

"You're perfect." The honestly of his words leaves his face hot. It's a good thing he's still not facing you.

You're still too busy organizing your school stuff for tomorrow morning to notice the way that sentimentality swells in his throat. "Mhm."

"I mean it," he pulls open the drawer, taking out what he needs to sleep, "You need to give yourself more credit or I'm going to do it for you."

Warmth begins to crawl up your chest. Why is your best friend the kindest, most understanding, overwhelmingly pretty person you've ever met? "That's the worst threat I've ever heard."

Peter shuts the drawer and turns towards your bedroom door. Your bathroom is just down a short hall, and as long as he's quiet, he won't get caught. "That's because it's not a threat."

You move to sit at the edge of your bed, "Oh, are you--" Asking if he needs any kind of patching up still feels awkward. You're not sure why...there's nothing even remotely feely about it even though it's overly touchy, even by your standards. "Did you get hurt at all, or--?"

"Oh," he shakes his head once, "No, I'm--" Peter knew you'd ask, you always do because he doesn't always love showing you the more tolerable bruises and cuts until you give him those soft, worried eyes. But he's actually fine tonight, which means that he didn't really have an excuse to stop by and sleepover. "I'm good tonight, just a little tired."

You nod, expression so casual Peter can't read much from it. Maybe you're so used to him crashing by now that you don't even need to think through the reasons. "Good. I like when you're safe."

Fondness tugs at Peter's chest. "I'm always safe."

You roll your eyes as he slips out the door. A few minutes later, Peter comes back. You're already laying in bed, beneath the covers, face only illuminated by your small, bedside lamp and cell phone screen.

"I know I said you need sleep..." You push yourself to sit up a little straighter. "But if you wanted to watch something for a little bit..."

He trails off, trying to push against the slight guilt of selfishness. Most nights when he stays over, Peter tries to time his arrival to give you two enough time to watch something on TV. The two of you usually fall asleep too quickly to care what's on, but it does make it easier to get close to you. If you guys watch TV first, he can find a window to hold your hand or pull an arm around your shoulder.

But you really do need sleep tonight.

"Yeah," you grin, "Sounds nice." You push yourself a little more to your side of the bed. "Just for a little." Both of you know that the TV will be on until whoever falls asleep first has drifted off. The one that's still awake will have to search the bed for a remote.

"Cool," Peter agrees, walking around your bed to turn the bedside lamp off, "Wanna watch the show from last time?"

You nod lazily before finding the remote. Peter gets into bed as you adjust the volume before opening the right streaming service. With a few clicks, your show is on. As the intro roles onto the screen, you drop your head onto Peter's shoulder.

"Hey," he whispers, knowing you're half asleep, "You can't let yourself get stressed out like that and not--" He trusts you so much, and he wants you to be able to feel the same way for him. "Not tell me about it, okay?" He finds your arm in the dark, fingers instinctually drawing patterns against the inside of your wrist. "Please?"

You try to sit up a little straighter, but all you actually do is just read your head more fully on him. "Okay." It's a fair request considering the way you bully him into admitting to every new cut and bruise, no matter how small. "I promise." He trails his nails down your arm, "I'd pinky promise, but I'm too tired."

Peter lets out a partial breath, amusement trying to disguise itself as annoyance. He moves his hand, taking his time to find your pinky. He bends his around yours. "Do you only keep me around to do things for you?"

Even though the joke is the complete opposite of everything he's just said, you still smile as you let out a mock gasp. "No, I keep you around 'cause you're pretty."

The teasing comment is worse than the kind of response you'd throw at him if you were more awake. He's suddenly glad he turned off your bedside lamp before laying down. "I'm pretty?"

A second passes and no response. Not even a hum of acknowledgement. Carefully, Peter leans forward and sees that your eyes are shut and your breathing has evened out.

experiencing withdrawal..(my fav tumblr author hasn’t posted a fic in 3 days)

fic authors who tag their fluff/angst works with character name x reader smut i will come for you.

like please consider that some of us actually have those tags blocked so no you’re not reaching a wider audience by putting extra tags. so now you’ve missed out on potential engagement(not to mention ITS BARBARIC!!!) AND I MISSED OUT ON MY SLEEPY CUDDLES FANFIC.

Conversations With Peter Parker

Laundry Room Conversations

**Rating: Mature/Warning: Innuendo**

You: Peter? Peter?

Peter: (distractedly) Yeah?

You: This isn't working.

Peter: What? I can do this, really. I separated everything by lights and darks. I'll even put my suit in separately!

You: That is not what I mean. This isn't working.

Peter: The washer? It seems fine to me.

You: Not the machine, Peter. You. Me. Last night....

Peter: Y-you mean....

You: Look, Peter. I just went searching through the entire basket of laundry. I mean you cannot keep tearing my panties into pieces every night, I have no underwear left. None.

Peter: You mean my plan is wor--I mean, that is such a shame, such a shame.

...to be continued...

This is simultaneously sexy and adorable so I'm going to say it's sexorable. Which is almost like the word, exorable, (DEF: capable of being moved or persuaded) and one could argue that Reader's dress was doing that to Peter (cough cough) but his kiss was not w/o effect either...

Charming story!

Ur writing is great and all but can you write something where Peter is nicer?! I'm over here squirming like a donkey with a carrot dangled in its face and idk I wanna see Peter squirm for once

Ps. I literally inhaled all of ur blurbs in one sitting

dress

tasm!peter x fem!reader

a/n: actually i am physically incapable of making either one of them nice. it’s a character flaw

*

“peter,” you call, slipping some elaborate strap through shoes you know you’re going to regret later, but are far too good, too hot for now. “are you almost ready?”

last you heard, he’d been putting on his socks and just needed to grab his tie—which he had conviently forgot about.

but knowing peter, you’re not so sure.

you hear a grunt from the other room which means absolutely nothing, and, of course, everything.

“babe,” you whine, standing up to admire your leg for a moment, and then walking into the bedroom, click-clacking on your way. “we’re already fifteen minutes late.”

peter is standing in front of the mirror messing with his hair while his tie hangs loose from his neck. “ j’st one sec,” he mumbles, flipping his mop of a head to the other side like it’s going to fix anything.

“you know you’re supposed to tie that, right?”

“it’s in the name,” peter answers, rolling his eyes before they meet yours in the mirror, and widen every so slightly. “ouch,” he says, turning around you look at you.

“what?”

“that’s what you’re wearing?”

you look down to your dress; you’d been saving it for some special occasion, been waiting at least a year to pull it out from the back of the closet. it’s long and elegant, shows off just the right amount of skin, and is in peters favorite color (not that it matters).

you frown. “yes? is there something wrong with it?”

peter turns around again, clearing his throat. his hands reach for the ends of his tie, but he doesn’t do anything more. his eyes are on yours through the mirror. “nothing,” he says, while watching you.

but his voice is off and he’s still frozen, like he can’t move until you look away.

but you’re not going to back down first, obviously. he doesn’t get the win.

“no,” you say, walking to place a hand on the side of his waist. “what’s up?” you ask, leaning up so your whispering in his ear.

“it’s pretty.”

“then why do you look like i’ve just stolen your baby or something?”

peter shakes his head, and finally, he looks away. his hair gets more messy with every movement he makes. “i’m just nervous.”

“you’re nervous about a charity event that you volunteered both of us to go to?”

“i think the mayor might be there…” he mumbles, messing with the cuffs on his sleeves.

(it’s only slightly distracting)

you snort. “you literally asked the mayor for a fist bump on the news the other day.”

“hey,” peter says, tilting his chin up, “i didn’t do anything.”

“whatever, peter. what’s really going on?”

“i already told you.”

he’s messing with his tie again, but his hands are shaking a bit. and even though he’s pretending to wrap two ends around eachother, he’s not really doing anything at all. just mindlessly fidgeting.

you look at his face, brows furrowed. there’s a hint of pink on his cheeks, and when his eyes meet yours for just a split second, he’s flashing them away like he’s afraid that you’ll catch him.

you blink, frowning, and then you get it.

you smile at him, a bit cruelly.

“you’re nervous, huh?” you say, moving even closer to him. a hand falls on his shoulder, and the other plays with a loose strand of his hair. “this is a big event.”

“uh-huh.”

“i completely understand. who knows what might happen,” you whisper, faux pity in your voice. you turn so you’re facing him, pulling him towards you from the two ends of his tie. peter follows almost limp. “here,” you say, smiling at him, “let me help.”

you wrap the ends into a knot, not looking away from peters eyes for even one moment. you don’t think he’ll mind if his tie turns into a bow.

“you look really nice,” you tell him, whispering even though he’s the only one that can hear you. “i knew you’d look good in a suit.”

peter swallows. “you’ve seen me in one before.”

“mmm, this is different. i’ve never seen you put one on before.” a finger trails up his jaw, and you tilt your head at him.

“oh.”

you giggle, and finally look away, tightening the tie up to his neck. when it’s done you look up at him, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his chin. “there. good?”

peter clears his throat again and turns from your hands to look in the mirror. he straightens the tie, though clenches his fist before he can do it. he nods at you. “thanks.”

“anytime,” you tell him, moving away. you look in the mirror, playing with your hair. “do i look alright?”

peters head snaps towards you. “of course. you look great.”

“really? cause i wasn’t so sure about this dress…” you look down at it, a false pout on your lips.

“it’s beautiful.”

“are you sure, peter? because you kind of froze when i walked in, so… if there’s something wrong with it—“

“no,” peter interrupts. he spins you so your facing him. “it looks great. you look great.”

you sigh, and pull away the tiniest bit. “i guess i could still change, but we might be even later.”

“you don’t need to change,” peter says. his cheeks are even rosier now, and his eyes seem almost pained. but he doesn’t look away from your face.

“you cant even look at me, peter. you don’t need to lie.”

there’s a pause where you’re looking at peter—and even though your face is serious, your eyes are deadly. you want to watch him break. he’s looking back at you, eyes faltering, mouth opening and closing like he’s not quite sure what to say.

and then he shakes his head, sighing. “i cant look at you,” he admits, voice a bit harsh but quiet.

you tilt your head, “why not?”

“we’re already late.”

“what do you mean?”

peter hangs his head for a moment, laughing at the floor. then he looks back at you, and pulls you in by your waist. “if you want to leave any time tonight, then we can’t stand here any longer. i’m already going crazy.”

“why? are you okay?”

he scoffs at you. “c’mon, don’t tease.”

“i would never, peter.”

he rolls his eyes. “i know what you’re doing,” he whispers, leaving a peck on your nose. “and so do you.”

“i’m not doing—“

but he kisses you, rough like he’s been waiting to do it for years on end. his mouth his hot and his hands are desperate as they cling to your waist, your neck, keeping you from moving even a centimeter away from him.

you cant breathe when he kisses you like this, but it’s not completely necessary. you kiss him back with just as much fever, your fingers wrapping into his hair.

when he pulls away, he’s breathless and his eyes are dark. “we really have to go,” he says, voice raw.

you smile up at him, feeling just as breathless. “so you like the dress?”

*

hi v!! if it's not much to ask, could I request a tasm peter fic where reader encourages him to wear his glasses more cause he looks soooo good in them 🥺 you can take this prompt wherever you want lol I just thought it'd be cute. totally fine if you can't/don't want to!! have a great day <33

glasses

tasm!peter x reader

warnings: fluff, head trauma, teasing (as per usual)

a/n: no one in this fic grabs glasses by the lens because i am not a monster

*

you’re humming to yourself as you walk through the door. bag hanging at your side, feet aching from the walk home.

and your neck hurts a bit. tiny pin pricks of pain trailing up your skin like an uncomfortable reminder that you’re still human. and your stomach is grumbling from the lunch you made, and you can feel your head grinning maliciously, the beginnings of an ache coming on.

but you’re home. and it is a welcome enough reminder when you see peters shoes by the door. his bag hung up against the door, camera strap hanging out the side.

a fresh smile warms your face, and even though you know peter can hear you—feel you—you tiptoe into the living room, sliding off your tennis shoes.

you peek around the corner, sneakily looking for a mop of hair and unnaturally tan skin. but he’s not on the couch.

you frown.

sneaking up to tackle peter might be your favorite part of the day.

“peter?” you call into the empty apartment. “hiding is against the rules.”

you walk into the kitchen, biding your time by stealing a couple of grapes and sipping on whatever coffee peter brought home. it’s cold, but sweet, like chocolate milk so you carry it with you.

but when you’re back he’s still not there.

you scowl, crossing your arms. “i am not playing hide-and-seek,” you say, into the abyss. the silence is teasing.

you sit on the couch, turning on the tv just to get back at him. look at how unbothered you are.

you sit there for probably three minutes. sipping on peters coffee, and tapping your fingers against your leg incessantly. of course he would do this. today.

you’re just about to say something to him again—where ever the bastard is—when something falls on your head.

you yelp and move back, staring at the glasses, now smudged, sitting on the couch like a taunt.

and finally you look up.

peters got his hand over his mouth, a smirk hiding behind those eyes. you glare back at him, biting your lip before you can yell at him.

“oops,” he says, dropping himself on one hand so he can fall on the floor next to you, rubbing the new bump on your head. “sorry, bug.”

your mouth is open and you’re staring at him—glowering—as his lip twitches with the effort not to laugh.

“glad you find yourself amusing,” you snap, but your own laugh sneaks up on you before you can stop it.

he holds his hands up in defense. “all you had to do was look up.”

“oh yeah,” you nod vigorously, accidentally elbowing him in the stomach. “my bad for not checking for you on the ceiling.”

“it was in self defense!” peter pleads, sitting down next to you. his eyes are evil. “i was trying to avoid being attacked!”

“so you attack me instead?”

“they fell,” he emphasizes, sliding his glasses back on. “i said sorry.”

“you’re not forgiven.” you turn away from him, laying back on the couch.

“c’mon, baby.”

you pout.

“it was an accident. y’know id never hurt you on purpose. i cant say the same for some people in this house…” he adds on, smiling at you innocently. he ruffles your hair. “i missed you.”

finally you meet his eyes. completely adoring and somewhat irritating. you make a face and groan. “ugh,” you say, shielding yourself from him. “stop that.”

“what?”

you push him away. “take those off.”

peter frowns, trying to look at his glasses, crossed eyes and unserious. “what? why?”

“you cant look cute when i’m trying to be mad at you,” you say to him, reaching for the glasses, “it isn’t fair.”

peter leans back, giggling mischievously. he pushes your hands away. “i didn’t realize you liked my glasses.”

you pause and blink at him, glaring. “everyone likes a hot nerd.”

“so you think i’m hot,” peter drawls.

“you’re literally my boyfriend. we’ve had this discussion.”

peter leans towards you, a smirk playing on his lips. his cheek keeps twitching and it’s getting hard not to laugh at him and his high eyebrows. “i don’t remember,” peter whispers, “you should remind me.”

you poke his forehead, pushing him and his self righteousness away. “why are you even wearing those? you don’t need them.”

“i think my eyes are going bad again.”

his head twitches, and you watch his completely warm and inviting eyes as he lies. he’s staring at you, and you watch as his eyes dart down, then back up.

“oh no,” you coo, crawling towards him, a different feeling emerging in your chest. “let me see.”

you’re an inch away from his face. if you said another word your lips would brush his. you stare into his eyes, watching him flinch at the feeling of your hand on his chest. his breath hits your cupids brow.

“oh yeah,” you whisper, leaning forward, his lips hitting yours. then you pull back, frowning. “you’re going blind,” you say, “there’s nothing to be done.”

“is that the doctors professional opinion?” peter mumbles, swallowing.

“you won’t be needing these anyway,” you say to him, smiling viciously, and stealing them off of his face.

then you push away from him, moving to the opposite end of the couch.

peter clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. there is a tense moment where you both avoid each others eyes.

“is this payback?” peter asks.

“not sure what you mean, baby.”

“my glasses hit you on the head so you hold them captive?”

you smile, wiping a smudge on the lens with your shirt. “don’t worry, we’re just getting acquainted.” and then you put them on, grinning at peter.

“so you can wear them but i can’t?”

“if you want them back…” you push them down your nose, looking at peter through your eyebrows. “i guess you’ll have to come and take them.”

peter snorts and stands up, taking his time walking towards you. his face is dark, his eyes have fallen down your trap, and you don’t plan to let him go any time soon.

as he takes another step towards you, you can feel it. that tension, the magnetic pull between the two of you. and you know that peter would stick to the ceiling just to get away from it. to avoid the undeniable chemistry between the two of you.

and you know that you would jump up and cling on to him.

when peter is one step in front of you, you pout innocently. “did you want something?”

peters movements are undetectable as he throws the glasses off of your face, leaning down over you, all of him imposing and strong and completely right as his hands wrap around your face, his lips just millimeters from yours.

it takes genuine restraint to keep yourself from leaning forward. and you can tell that peter is feeling the same thing.

“am i forgiven?” he asks, voice low and blurred by your want to leave marks on every inch of his skin.

“just kiss me,” you hiss, and the words are nothing but a pencil scribble down the page before peter is on you, and you are on him.

your hands pull on his hair, and you force him to smother you, his chest leaning against yours, his arms falling as you make him let go.

you’d gladly let peter crush you forever, if only he would string your skin together like fabric.

he moans when you scratch at his scalp, and bites at your lip when you giggle in response.

it is no slow kiss, with no more teasing.

you’ve both reached the end of this cliff, and if he falls, you’re going right with him.

it is breathless and rough, and you don’t mind at all as peters hand around your waist pulls you even closer. as his lips attack yours, and his breath contaminates your own.

your hand moves, going to the neck of his shirt and pulling. then around his shoulders, pleading.

peter laughs against you. he moves back, just so he can whisper, “i’ll start wearing my glasses more often if this is the consequence.”

“shut up,” you lean up to him, using his skin for leverage.

his smile is childish and it melts into you.

you breathe against him, unable to keep your own smile back. teeth clash, but neither of you mine or pause.

until peter breathes too harshly, too recklessly. he pulls back, laughing at your face, at your puffy lips and bewitched eyes. “bedroom?” he asks.

you smile back at him, leaning over to grab the glasses he threw beside you, and sliding them on his face. “those stay on,” you tell him.

his laugh echoes as he carries you down the hallway.

*

I've been busy with life away from Tumblr, but in a stolen moment happened across this story and am thus far enthralled. It's going somewhere and where that is I know not but I am going to follow along whether it's headed toward the dark forest or the enchanted palace filled with chocolate croissants. Reader is haunting with a past full of hints and I live for that. Am pouring myself a tea (black like my heart) and looking forward to future revelations....

PETER PARKER ANGST????❤️🫡🛬🤭😍🗣🙀🫡😀🫡🫶😀😟🫶😟❤️ (if you dont write it ill sob violently on the floor ☹️)

we could call it even

tasm!peter x fem!reader

summary:

"peter parker," she says, "you're like a legend around here."

warnings: unspecified angst, series, no fluff, no explanation

a/n: might i introduce a playlist entitled stupid boy which i listened to while writing this (and the other parts????)

*

there's a specific time of night that is appropriate to go to the market. 

or inappropriate, depending on how old you are. 

if you're in your sixties and sometimes feel like your joints are just notches that need to be oiled, midnight probably isn't your designed time for grocery shopping. seven in the morning is typically the best time for swollen lungs and--literal--broken hearts. 

but if you're you, exhausted from running around all day, unpleasant from all of the people you've talked to, and trying to avoid anyone (everyone) you might know--and secrets you don't feel like sharing--then midnight is a perfect time. and perfectly normal, thank you very much.

you're not even sure why meyer's is open this late. there's no way the owner, jerry, is staying up until midnight to check out the lowlifes or drunk teenagers stopping by, and you know that these aren't prime business hours--evident by the crickets you can hear behind the 'fresh produce' section. maybe he forgets that it's open, and that susan--the only person willing to work here--is still on the clock. or maybe he's just taking pity on you. you don’t think he’s ever there, but maybe he hides around corners, noting the new lines on your face so he can report it back to every person in town. gossip is like a disease, and you’re never alone in a place like this. never quite at peace. 

you look around the next shelf for jerry, or a gust of wind that follows him running away. there’s only silence. the echoes of your footsteps. 

it doesn't matter why meyer’s is open. you're thankful for this time alone. or at least by yourself.

it's a welcome change to have no one judge you for your selection of deli cheese and baked goods. or the three containers of instant coffee you've hidden underneath it all. just out of habit. 

tuesday nights are yours, and the market is your chosen domain. 

usually, that is. usually, you're all alone. usually, you can run around on the carts and pick up anything you accidentally knock over. you can spill an entire bottle of wine on the floor and no one will blink an eye. jerry wouldn’t even be able to hear it from three feet away.

but tonight--on this tuesday when your feet hurt a little bit more than necessary, and your eyes are twitching at all of the lights--apparently you're not alone. 

which you wished you would have realized before you started humming 'single ladies' a bit too loudly. 

you wished you would have skipped shopping at all, really, as soon as you see his face. 

his wide eyes--surprised and silvered by age, much like yours--and his open mouth.

in a different world, you would be shocked--shocked instead of scared--and you might run to him. you might ask him why he didn't tell you he was coming? what is he doing here? in a different world, you two would be the only people in the market and it would be fine. 

it might even be great. 

this subtle shift in autonomy wouldn’t hurt the peace you’re looking for on this tuesday night.

there wouldn't be this obvious horror story standing between the two of you, this looming presence. the history of a thousand lies, bruise after bruise, and scars so red that they could burn through the ground. glass shattered around your feet.

the lights might as well start flickering. you should probably call out "hello?" even though he's right in front of you, and if he was going to murder you, he probably wouldn't answer. a door should creak. 

you should probably go. 

you should probably run away before he can take a step closer. you don't look a threat in the eye and smile at it. you don't feed a stray cat. 

it always comes back. 

why is he here? 

you take a step away. as soon as you notice him--behind, between, all over you--silence ensues. you might as well be at a loss for words. you don't have much to say to him. 

not to that look in his eyes, or his receding hairline, or that peak on his mouth. 

because peter would be here. at this time. and he would be trying to hide a smile, a smirk, when he's not even supposed to be within a five-hundred-foot vicinity of you. 

actually, maybe you forgot to mail that restraining order. 

but the words come out anyway because your body has always betrayed you when it comes to him. 

"peter?" you blurt out, and just saying the word stirs the simmering feeling inside of you. just saying his name is enough of a warning. 

"hey," he whispers and takes a step closer. you step back. he leans away like he knows his proximity is toxic. "sorry, i didn't mean to scare you." 

i didn't mean to. 

and yet. 

you breathe and forget how to blink. he might disappear. "peter," you repeat, as a form of masochism. you don't breathe at all. 

"sorry," he says, again. he doesn't say what for. there could be a million things. 

"um," you choke out, looking around--away from him and his manipulative eyes. "what?" you laugh to yourself, hand running over your face. you roll your eyes back into your head and laugh again. you shake your head. 

you look at peter, at his furrowed brow and inward stance, and you snort. look away from him before it's too late. 

you're laughing like something is funny. it's not. 

it's really not. 

"are you..." peter is swallowing. you'd like to pretend that his voice is hollow and cold, much like that cave inside your chest, but it's not. you recognize that concern, that softness in his voice that used to be just yours. "are you okay?" 

you almost giggle at him. it comes out as more of a cough. 

you wonder if you look like a ghost. some remanent of who you used to be--the person that only peter used to know.

"peter," you sigh, and step away from your cart. into the shelf you've been backing yourself into. 

you step away from him, still shaking your head. 

"i've got to--" you trip as you turn around and say to mostly yourself, "i've got to go." 

groceries, and peter, be damned, you think, as you walk out of the building and prepare yourself to never ever come back. 

it wouldn't be the first time. 

*

you are having your daily debate with mrs. brooke about the amount of calories in each pastry, in which you tell her that you only measure the amount of pleasure someone might get out of each one—which earns you a lovely sneer—and that she should try the blueberry scone. 

she always rolls her eyes at you, says something about watching her weight even though she’s looked the same since you were five years old and sneaking through her yard to catch the neighborhood cat. and then she leaves with a breakfast sandwich. 

it’s actually one of the most enjoyable parts of your day. 

here’s the thing about knowing every single person that comes into the shop: you know exactly what they’re going to order, and you know what type of conversation you’re going to have with them. 

mrs. brooke always stresses about her breakfast, her smile a tense sort of pleasant, but by the time she leaves her head is held a little higher. if she chooses the sandwich instead of the scone, then she’s started her day off right. you used to feel exasperated by her indecisive nature, but now you find it kind of adorable. 

mr. meyer—jerry—just comes in so he can complain about the surplus of options on your menu. he wants a black coffee, and he wants to complain. you always smile at him and ask if he’s sure he doesn’t want to try the raspberry green tea. he finds this less than humorous. 

every kid wants some kind of hot chocolate—which you actually have an excessive amount of—and no matter what their parents say, you sneak some extra marshmallows in. and everyone pretends otherwise. 

susan—your kindergarten teacher, now friend—asks if you’ve met anyone special lately. it doesn’t matter that the selection of single people your age is always the same. there’s got to be someone special, she says to you and leaves with a cider she tells everyone is a latte. 

there are the people who want their lattes and mochas, those who want some alternative milk that they complain about—even though you’ve tried every brand on earth—there are the people who don’t ever buy anything, and just come in to pretend they want something and talk to you. they gossip about the other people in town as if you aren’t well aware of everything that goes on.

you roll your eyes, but you appreciate the company. things get pretty boring when you can guess everyone’s schedule. 

but you like your tiny tea shop. you like the consistency. you enjoy the smiles you throw out, and the complaints you receive. it’s a routine, and nothing goes wrong. you're in control of this one thing, and that's just how you like it. 

in control, that is, of course, until you see him when mrs. brooke is walking away. 

“oh!” she says, pausing, her drink shaking in hand, her pink fingernails a smudge against the shadow suddenly coming from right in front of you. she is just a foot too close to him. “is that peter parker?” she asks, saying his voice like an omen, turning around so she can set her cup and bag down, and then hugging him so hard you can see her muscles working beneath her sleeve. 

“hey, mrs. brooke,” peter wheezes out, a strangled smile on his aged face. his same eyes.

he is just as surprised as you at her sudden outburst, the cooing noises she's making as she attempts to crumble him.

“look how handsome you’ve gotten! and so strong. what are those new yorkers doing with you?” 

“definitely not trying to squeeze me to death.” 

mrs. brooke laughs, somewhat vindictively, and she turns back around to look at you, with wide eyes. “did you know he was in town, dear? why didn’t you say anything? i almost had a heart attack.” 

peter clears his throat before you can throw any type of face on. any mask. “it’s a surprise,” he mock whispers, and his eyes dash to yours, then away, just as quick. “don’t tell anyone.” 

“it’s not like they’d believe me anyway,” she scoffs, “you’re a legend around here.” 

“i’m honored.” 

she laughs again, then grabs her cup. “oh,” she whispers, too loud. her eyes are tight, as if she’s intruded. “of course. i’ll leave and let you two talk.” 

and within a blink of an eye, she is running out of the shop, faster than you’ve ever seen anyone escape from here. 

and peter is there, standing in front of you. his face is smooth, calm, his eyes roaming over your face like he still has the privilege of knowing any of it. 

and your heart might be racing, if it was still there. 

"hi," he whispers. it is quiet enough for you to feel it in your chest. his voice and the memory of it. 

does he sound different? has he really changed that much in the last two years? is his face a bit worn? are his eyes a different color? 

but it doesn’t matter what rattles through your head—when you look at peter, you just see him. your peter. 

except that he’s completely different. 

you clear your throat, looking away and pushing off of the counter. “what can i get you?” 

peter blinks. “oh, um…” he looks at the menu above your head, back to you. “what—“ he swallows. “what would you recommend?” 

“it’s all good.” your voice is clipped. you should’ve said pure brewed black tea, no ice, no sweetener, no cup. just to get him out of here. you should've recommended the starbucks three towns over.

he swallows, again. a hand rakes through his hair. “i… just a sec.” 

there is a single second where you grant him the patience you would give every other customer—smile politely and let them know to ask if they have any questions. a single second where you treat him like anybody else. 

and then you say: “do you want a mocha, peter?” with an anger that shouldn’t—can’t—be contained inside of you. 

you wince at his name. the singe of his brand on you, going down your throat. 

peter seems to watch this on your face, because he’s even quieter when he answers, “sure, that’d be great.” 

so you grab a cup, writing his name on it, and move to grab the milk. 

you turn around and pretend like you’ve just forgotten he’s there. 

peter doesn’t take this hint. 

“so…” he says, his feet are loud as they tap on the ground. “you still work here, huh?” 

you barely grunt a response, spilling chocolate in the cup recklessly. if peter dies of a clogged artery it won’t be your fault. 

“that’s nice. felix always loved you. and you loved working here, back in highschool.” you have to face him as you steam the milk, and you try not to pointedly stare. not to roll your eyes or hiss at him. “it’s different though. the decor, i mean. but nice. i like it. did you do it?” 

“yes.” 

you grab his cup, pouring the milk and shoving the cap on it. “here,” your fingertips burn as you pass it to him, and you don’t think it’s because of the drink. 

“thank you.” 

you both stand there; peter blinks and doesn’t leave. 

he coughs. “i didn’t pay.”

“mrs. brooke would kill me if i made you pay for your first drink back home.” 

“well, she knows where you live,” his lip twitches, but he doesn’t laugh. 

and neither do you. 

“is it just you here?” he asks. “no felix?” 

“he sold me the shop a year ago.” 

his eyes widen. “oh. oh! that’s great. congrats.” 

“thank you.” 

you don’t move your eyes from his face, because it’s suddenly not fair that he’s here. that he’s allowed to intrude like this. 

“it’s good to see you,” peter relents, a fake smile playing on his lips. 

you falter. your heart turns in your chest, just so it doesn’t have to look at him anymore. “i’m working, okay?” you say, whispering. “i can't do this right now.” 

“right. yeah.” peter trips on a step back. his eyes are scanning your face again. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t—“ he blows out a breath. “i’m sorry.” 

you nod. watch the ground as he stumbles over it. 

“i mean it though,” he adds, like he hadn’t thought about it. “it’s good to see you.” 

and then peter swallows. you blink at him. 

when he turns around the bell rings as he pushes it. and peter doesn’t look back. 

he’s right about one thing, at least. it is nostalgic. 

*

"when were you going to tell me?" your mom asks, leaning against her kitchen counter--the same one you scribbled on as a kid, smiley faces still apparent. she's doing that fake smile thing. the one that makes you want to storm off and slam the door like some mistreated teenager. 

you don't, but both of you know that you think about it. for at least five seconds

"tell you what?" you ask, instead, setting the groceries you brought for her on the counter. 

"about peter." 

your eyes close. he would follow you around, wherever you go. he's probably hiding in some vent, smiling maliciously. 

there's that teasing voice in your head saying small town, small small town, but you just turn around, ignoring it, and her, and raise a brow. "peter parker?" you repeat, rhetorically. "twenty-four, new york. brown hair, brown eyes. lived here his whole life, has an aunt who lives next door, tried to steal our cat when he was nine..." you drawl off, making a point to smile. "ringing any bells?" 

she throws a dish towel at you. "you know thats not what i meant." 

"do i?" 

you wipe the counter with the towel, then fold it nicely on the counter, all the while avoiding your mother's eyes. 

but you know she won't leave it alone. the same way she hasnt left you alone once in the past four years, like she can dig your feelings up from whatever grave you buried them in.

there's a part of you that wants to crawl over to her and ask her to make you some hot chocolate, to watch some childrens movie on the couch with you. you want to be the little kid who would've depended on that knowing glance she's still giving you. the little kid who idolized her and wasn't afraid to admit the truth--even if you did steal that chocolate bar from under her sink.

but you're grown, and this doesn't matter. not in the long run, anyway. 

you look up, expectant eyes. she has your same eyes, and meets them.

"linda told nancy, who told jerry, who told me over the phone..." she shakes her head. "but may was here earlier." 

"yeah? how is she?" 

"good, busy, i'm guessing, because you know how she dotes over him." 

"yeah..." 

you fold the towel again, running your fingertips over the embrodered flowers. 

"have you seen him?" 

you swallow, and nod absentmindedly. you're not going to tell her about the grocery store. "yeah, he came into the shop yesterday." 

she taps your hand, and you let go of the rag. she hangs it back over the oven, the ebbing silence more like a threat, her hands falling to her hips. "why didn't you say anything?" 

"it's not a big deal. he came in, ordered, and then left." 

"and there were no words between the two of you?" she prods. "no wandering eyes? you just read his mind instead of taking his order?" 

you grit your teeth, rolling your eyes. "he asked for a mocha and i made it for him." 

"nothing else?" 

"he said it was nice to see me." 

she waves a hand at you. 

"and i said that i was working." you sigh, leaning against the counter. "that's all." 

"you're not freaking out?" your mom ducks her head so she can meet your eyes. her face is sullen, but her smile is genuine. 

it's like talking to a counselor. 

"why would i be freaking out? he had to come back sometime." 

she scoffs. the little necklace your dad gave her dangles from her neck, and you watch it. "i don't know," she says, using the same voice you do when she tells you not to take a tone with her. "maybe because you havent spoken to him in the last three years?" 

yeah, the same voice says, rough and patronizing, you haven't spoken to him in five years. why is that, again? 

but you snort at your mom, a defensive smile making its way to your lips as you look at her. "water under the bridge," you say, dismissing it. 

you don't want to talk about this with her. you don't want to talk about this with anyone. 

because the only person who might actually understand is the same person who left three years ago. who came back with no warning at all. 

"did may say when he got here?" you ask, voice escaping before you can stop it. 

"just a day or two ago, i think. why?" 

"is he here for the holidays?" 

"yes. she said he plans to stay until at least january. he's between jobs, i guess." 

"oh." you smack your lips and move away from her, back to the groceries, which is the reason you're here in the first place. you take out the milk jug, walking to the fridge, but a soft hand stops you. 

your mom is smiling when you turn towards her. "you don't have to talk about it," she's saying, her voice smooth and comforting. "i don't--i don't know what happened between the two of you. i just mentioned it because may said he was talking about you. it..." she drops off, wincing. 

"what?" 

"it might be good to talk to him. put the water under the bridge." 

you roll your eyes, nose twitching. you don't need to say anything, you won't. your mother is just another town gossip, and her opinion has no sway over you. 

even ask the words sink in. 

"now put the rest of those away," she says, ruffling your hair, "i know what happens when you take your 'breaks.'" 

you push her and put the milk in the fridge. 

*

you're mopping the floor when the bell rings, and a cold brush of air trails goosebumps up your skin. 

it's late enough in the season to no longer smell like the leaves falling onto the ground, or the grandesur pine needles showing off their lifespan. it's cold in the shop now, and you have three coats in the back. 

but the person who walks in is only wearing one. one you recognize from several years ago, with the holes in the sleeves from when he jumped over your fence and sprained his ankle. the stain on the front when may threw a plum soaked rag at him and you'd laughed so hard that you'd fallen to your knees on the floor and couldn't breathe. 

peter's face is wain. his eyes are cautious as they meet yours. 

you're not used to anyone coming in at 5:55. everyone knows you close at six, and the few people who'd dared to come in and order a drink a minute before you flipped your sign have learned their lesson. 

but peter hasn't learned anything. 

"i know," he says, like tracking your mind. "you close at six. may told me." 

"okay." 

you're still holding the mop, sure that his footprints would leave mud all over your floors. 

"i don't want to buy anything. or--" he breathes out, hands wringing at his sides, probably from the cold. "i will. if you want me to. but that's not why i came. i wanted to see if you..." 

he does a sweep over you, and his words fall in the air, as if he's just realized something. 

you look down at the snowflake apron your mom bought last year. it's not that dirty. 

you look back up, brows furrowed, and peter's expression matches yours. "yes?" you prod, feeling that anger simmer in the core of your chest. but you've been rude enough to him. 

your mom's words ring out in your head. 

it might be good to talk to him. 

peter swallows, whatever emotion on his face fading. "i wanted to see if you would go to dinner with me. or take a walk. or--or i'll buy you groceries, since you left yours the other night. it doesn't matter. i just want to... talk to you." 

"you want to talk to me?" 

peter nods. "i can wait outside, while you finish." he waves a hand, like an explanation. "it doesn't have to be long. just five minutes?" 

you watch peter, his face a world of feeling that you can't recognize anymore. 

and maybe that hurts the most. not him being here, not the distance or the time you've let edge you apart, but the fact that it's changed things. peter has changed and you've just let that happen. he's got a life seperate from you and there's no one to blame. he'd reached out enough, initially. months of letting his calls go to voicemail and ignoring may when you saw her in the street. 

putting yourself back together in the misshaped way you are now. peter probably doesn't even recognize you--not like this.

maybe it's your fault. 

but you find yourself nodding anyway, ignoring the guilt seeping through the cracks of you. you nod, and peter's face changes. 

it's not the first time you've noticed his eyes, or watched relief ease into him, but it's just the same. 

"yes?" peter asks, his voice rough and dry. you look at that jacket again. 

"where's your coat?" 

"my..." peter looks down with you. "oh, my coat. all of the ones aunt may kept were too small, and i thought--" he scratches his neck. "well, i forgot how cold it gets." 

you nod, slowly. 

peter nods back. 

you stare at him a moment longer, and then break away from his unfamiliar gaze. 

"just give me five minutes. i just need to put this away, and grab my stuff, and..." you swallow. 

"okay. great. do you want to me wait outside, or should i?" he gestures around, looking as uncomfortable as you've ever seen him. 

"you can sit. just--don't get any dirt on the tablebases." 

"okay. thank you." 

you nod, one last time, and look away from him. 

your heart runs circles around peter as he sits at one of your tables, his long legs not fitting beneath it. it taunts you again and again as you try not to notice him breathing, try to ignore him completely. 

you dup the mop water, spilling it on your shoes. you wipe down the last counter, the syrup sticking to your hands like a scar. you walk around the shop trying to find something else to do so you can avoid this as long as possible. your feet are cold and your hands feel abnormally dry. maybe you need to go home and shower. maybe you shouldn't be doing this at all. 

you sit in the office for a moment, wishing you could watch peter without him knowing. scope him out before you hear what he has to say. 

and--

okay, maybe there's a part of you that's been waiting three years for this. 

that dream where he's there even though you don't want him; that moment when he apologizes and you forgive him automatically, because your heart has always been small and fragile around him; that fantasy where peter comes home and he's the same teenager you used to walk around town with at two in the morning, the same brown eyes laughing as you both slipped on ice and fell on top of eachother. 

you won't deny that you've thought about this before. what you might say to him if you got the chance. 

but as you grab your bag and hang your apron around the chair in the office, the words have gone some place else. what could you say to him to make any of this make sense? 

still, you clear your throat when you walk out, feet aching from standing all day. you blink at him as he struggles to get up, pushing your chair in, the legs scratching on the floor the only sound between the two of you. 

Caught In Their Webs (Series Masterlist)

NWH Spoilers below and in this series, read at your own risk!!!(Masterlist will be updated as story progresses, not much yet)

Summary: Your best friend and long term crush Peter Parker rocks up at your apartment with two other Peters Parkers in tow and tells you he has managed to break the damn multiverse. You agree to host the two other Peters, whilst your Peter tries to fix the damn multiverse. What will happen during a full week with three Peters filtering in and out of your apartment.

* = Smut

Prologue

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

😩😭😩😭

still here 

tasm!peter x reader 

summary: there’s an ache in me, put there by the ache in you

(for @elysian-chaos)

warnings: angst, fluff, feeling unworthy, feeling useless, you know, seperation 

a/n: ‘tis the damn season is the best song ever. dont argue 

*

Keep reading

And this is epic too. Like- Fucking hell... People are epic.

Hard Enough

A/N:  Based off of THIS PROMPT by @liz-allyn​!

****IMPORTANT NOTE:  So, for this I decided to mix characters. Reader is the Stark!Reader with quake powers in my Stark!Verse, mixed with TASM!Peter Parker. So, I’m basically now making a little multiverse within my own stories? So. I guess we can call it the Crumble!Verse lmao I’m sorry. ****

Pairings/Characters: Peter Parker x Reader (Andrew Garfield’s Peter)

Warnings: Swearing, graphic depictions of violence, end fluff

Summary:  Based on THIS PROMPT: Spider-Man is missing - kidnapped by a mob of ruthless enemies.

This is definitely post-college, adult Spider-Man

WC: 2,437

You and Spider-Man were so, so careful. Your jobs made having a life a little difficult. However, they made having a romantic life extremely difficult, but you both had your ways around it. While you couldn’t scream your love from the rooftops publicly, you were able to share your love with your close, private circle of friends and family. You didn’t even have each other’s names in your phones. Peter’s name for you was, “My Love <3.” Your name for him was something along the lines of, “BoyToy3000.”

No one said they had to make sense.

Keep reading

hellooo!! im not sure if your requests are open so feel free to ignore this but i was wondering if you could write for tasm!peter where the reader just got her wisdom teeth removed and she’s all loopy on anesthetics and forgets peter is her boyfriend? i saw this video where this girl got her wisdom teeth pulled and forgot she was dating her boyfriend and fell in love with him all over again😭😭

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPR7sGQo5/

thank you for your request! ♡ fem, 1k

"Here she is," the nurse says gently, walking you out with his arm behind your back. "Alright, say hi to Peter." 

"Hi, Peter," you mumble, eyes on the floor. 

Peter grins at you, worry warm at the back of his throat. "Hey. Is that everything?" he asks, nodding at the nurses paper bag of aftercare. 

"Everything you'll need." The nurse helps Peter take over, hoisting your arm over his shoulders before stepping away. "Alright, feel better, okay? And don't hesitate to call if something comes up. We're here to look after you." 

You seem appreciative in your fog, but it's hard to tell. Peter curls his arm around your hip and gives it a soft rub as he leads you to the stairs. Whoever devised the floor plan here had murder on their mind —the second floor is completely inaccessible. Luckily, Peter has a lot of strength at his disposal. 

You can feel it. "Woh, you're strong," you murmur. 

"You know that already." His grip on you tightens, pretty much carrying you down the tight staircase. 

"Do I?" you ask. You make a sound like you're hurting, a squeak. 

"I'd hope so." At the end of the staircase, he sits you down, worried you're not feeling well. "You okay? I can princess carry you if you need me to." 

You look at him with wide eyes. He turns to check there's no one standing behind him, but you're really looking at him. "What?" he asks, touching your knee, imploring. "You look like you've seen a ghost." 

"You're Peter?" you ask. 

Ah, the amnesiac effect of anaesthetic. His touch turns comforting, stroking your thigh with as much care as he can drive into his palm alone. "That's me. Hey, if you're forgetting me, does that mean you're not mad at me for last Friday anymore? 'Cos I know you said you forgive me but I can tell it still pisses you off–" 

Your eyes fall to his hand. "Why would I be mad at you?" you ask. 

"I finished the milk and put the carton back in the fridge, even though I promised I'd stop doing it. You see the jug and think there's milk left. We were gonna have macaroni and cheese..." He nudges your fingers with his. "Are you okay? You don't look like yourself."

"What do I usually look like?" 

"Not so, you know. Daunted." 

"You're really handsome," you whisper, refusing to meet his eye. 

"Oh, you think so?" 

You nod like your head is too heavy. You're embarrassed, you sweetheart, oh my god Peter could cry into your lap. 

"Let's get you to the car, baby." 

"Where are we going?" The gauze gives you the world's most adorable lisp, and it turns your gasp into a hum as Peter stands you up. 

"Home." 

"Together?" 

"Yeah, we live together. It's a nice place, and you're a great decorator, you know? It's cozy." 

"Thank you," you say shyly. 

You're not not shy with him, but it's been a long time since you got so quiet over a practically innocuous comment. He wants to see how you'll react to real compliments, over the top stuff that he one hundred percent means. It's a little mean, but when will you ever be like this again? 

He helps you out past the desk and onto the street to your car where it's parked a half a block down. "Don't worry about all this, okay? I'm gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart. There's an ice pack and a brand new comforter with your name on it waiting at home." Peter smiles at your starry eyes as they flash to his, amazed at his simple plans. "How does that sound, beautiful? Is there anything you want before we head home? Anything that would make you feel better?" 

"You're gonna take care of me?" you ask breathlessly. 

"That's my job. That's my number one boyfriend duty." 

"You're my boyfriend?" 

"I am!" he says happily, laughing as he speaks. "For a while. I've been trying to take things further but you're always really shy about getting married–" 

"You want to get married? To me?" 

Peter presses a soft kiss to your cheek. "You're the only person I'd ever want to get married to. We already picked the flowers–" 

"We did?" 

He laughs again, all your questions. He loves regular you but loopy you is especially endearing. "Last time I got super drunk, yeah. You never let me forget it." 

"So you love me?" you ask, stopping short.

"I love you so much," he says immediately, hugging you into his side. He dots another kiss against the top of your head. "You should remember that even if you don't remember me." 

"I love you," you say quietly. 

Peter doesn't know if that's your memory returning, or if you've fallen in love with him in the last fifteen minutes. He could easily fall in love with you that quickly, and yet he's still amazed at your confession. 

"That's good. That's great. Thank you, sweetheart," he says, desperate to hold your face in his hands but weary of causing you future pain. "There's your car," —he points, lowering his head to yours to make sure you can see it, hand now protectively held between your shoulder blades— "let's go home now. Yeah?" 

You start walking again at his requests. He can pretty much see the steam rising off of your face, giddy with happiness at these revelations. You're together, you're in love, and you think he's handsome. He wonders what you'll have to say about his biceps in this state of delirium; you go crazy for his arms sober. 

Which reminds him. 

"I totally have another secret to tell you," he says, unlocking the car as you approach and helping you into the passenger seat. 

"What is it?" you ask. 

Peter closes you in and skirts around the door, climbing into the driver's seat. He's glad that New York is as ridiculously loud as ever, because not even the closed doors or your sodden gauze can smother the way you shriek.

"My boyfriend is Spider-Man?!" 

the other woman - tasm!peter parker

pairing: tasm!peter parker x black!reader, peter parker x gwen stacy

summary: you’ll always be the other woman

warnings: angst, heart break, one-sided love, mentions of death and greiving

a/n: this is what you get when i listen to the other woman and think of peter and gwen. i have no clue what is up with me and that one sided love trope but i love using it and writing for it is so much fun. i really hope you guys enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it <333

i loved peter the moment i saw him on that play ground when we were five years old. he had fallen off the swing and of course me being me i helped him.

“hey you okay” i ask kneeling beside him, he nods as tears continue to fall down his face. i looked down and saw him holding his knee, i looked up at him again and he was looking directly at me. “can i see your knee” i asked and he nods before uncovering it, i gasp as i see the big cut on his knee he hisses as the breeze touches his knees “im sorry” i squeal and he laughs a little making me smile. “im ok don’t worry” he says and i smile a little bigger and nods l.

“i’m y/n” i say as i hold my hand out and he takes it, i pull him up with a little struggle but get him to stand up right. “peter” he says with a goofy smile. “nice to meet you peter would you like to play, we don’t have to because you just fell” i ask and he nods “i wanna play” he says and he grabs my hand again.

and ever since then we had been inseparable. i was there with him for everything, the good and the bad. i was there when he rode a skate board for the first time and when he became spider man, i was also there when his parents and ben died. i helped peter through everything even getting his first girlfriend.

peter was absolutely head over heels for gwen, he would do anything for her in a heart beat. i remember the first time we talked about her after he met her.

“y/n she’s so amazing, i think i’m in love” peter sighs and i smile at how happy he is “what is she like” i ask and he looks at me with the biggest smile on his face. “she’s like a shot of espresso” he says like he’s day dreaming.

i smile once again, feeling my heart chip “im happy for you, she seems amazing” the words are truthful, gwen seems like a wonderful but i just wish i was in her position. “she is, she is more than amazing actually words can’t describe how great she is” he goes on and once again i smile through it.

“im happy for you pete, you deserve it”

the day they got together i cried myself to sleep, feel my heart continuing to chip slowly. i had boyfriends through out their relationship but none of them lasted seeing a though i was in love with my best friend.

the relationship didn’t last long, they broke up after her fathers funeral and he was an absolute mess. he already felt like his death was his fault but leaving gwen was the icing on top of the cake, and once again i helped him through it.

“peter none of it is your fault, he made that choi-” i say gently but i’m cut off “you don’t get it, he’s dead because of me and i left gwen when she needed me the most because when i- i look at her i remember the promise i made to her dad and i- i cant break that promise” he yells, startling me.

the room was silent for a moment, the air suddenly becoming cool “if you want what’s best for gwen you keep that promise but if you want what’s best for you then that’s a decision you have to come to on your own and know that there will be consequences with that” i say before getting up to leave his room.

“if you need anything you know i’m always a call away” i remind gently before closing his door

peter broke the promise and got back together with gwen not too long after her father funeral, once again my heart chipped.

by senior year they were inseparable but peter was dealing with his own problems. the promise he broke was constantly on his mind, haunting him. on the day of our graduation peter was contemplating not being with her because his conscience was finally getting to him.

“y/n it’s like every time i’m spider-man i see his face and the words he told me replay in my head on a constant loop” he explains and i nod “it’s eating alive because i don’t want to break her heart but i don’t want her to be in danger because of me” i explains and i nod.

“would you rather her have a broken heart or her end up hurt or even worse dead because i know you and you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if she got hurt because of who you are” i explains and he nods.

that night at her dinner be called it quits and they were both heartbroken but over time they both healed, or at least that’s what it seemed like because quickly after they ended up seeing each other again. peter explained it to me as trying to be friend with her which i could tell he was trying to do but, it was eating him alive not being with her all the time.

shortly after they got back together gwen died and that night peter showed up at my windows needing some type of comfort.

i opened my windows and helped him climb into my bed room, i knew by his body language that something was off so i pulled his mask off gently and laid it on my bed. i looked up at his face and saw that tears were falling down his cheek “what happened” i asked barely above a whisper and he chokes on his sob.

“gwen’s dead” he says and my heart drops, i feel tears well in my eyes not just got my own heart break but peters as well. “she’s gone” he sobs and falls to the ground talking me with him, i pull him into me and he cries into my shoulder. he clings onto me as if i’m his life line.

that night i cleaned peter up, bathed him, dressed him, and put him to sleep. it was like he couldn’t function so i did everything for him and it went like that for months after her death.

he got better with each day, coming back to his senses. he still refused to be spider-man no matter how bad the city was getting, crime was up 43 percent and he was still sitting in the house. well at least until i encouraged him a little.

“peter i know you’re all woe is me but you need to get the fuck up and put that suit on and go help the city, last night two women got abducted hell i almost got mugged the other night” i express “it’s not safe anymore peter and the people are i need of a man in a red and blue suit peter” i finish and he nods.

“you sound like gwen”

there would be many more comments like that over time, if i was patching him up it would be “oh gwen’s would to it this way” or if i was cooking it would be “gwen would add this” and it was never ending.

and the more and more he made those comments the more and more he thought it was acceptable. one night it all just became too much and i lost it.

“peter i really need you to help around the house” i beg and he shrugs “peter i don’t get it i’m doing the absolute best i can to keep everything together all im asking is for you to help around the house” i yell and he gets up.

“im going through a rough time” he says and i nod “i know and i’m trying to help but i can’t do everything myself” i say and scoffs. “gwen would be more understanding” he says and i lose it.

“well newsflash peter im not gwen” i yell “i cant be gwen and i’ll never be gwen’s but i can be y/n because that’s all i can be” i yell. he looks at me with an apologetic look on his face and i walk away from him and go to my room and shut my door.

that night i cried myself to sleep knowing i’ll always be the other woman.

tearing up 

"You deserve all the flowers."

Relationship: TASM!Peter Parker x Reader Drabble Summary: Peter brings you flowers every night and you're just not sure why. Word Count: 740 A/N: what?? what??? a new drabble - a FRESHLY written drabble? i got so excited last night when I finally had the motivation/inspiration to write. this is over on the word count for my usual drabbles but it's under 1k so i think it still counts lmao i hope you enjoy!!

Masterlist

You swore one of these days Peter was going to turn your apartment into a full-blown greenhouse. You didn’t know how it started or why he always showed up with flowers but your kitchen was crowded with vases and it was slowly spilling over into your living room.

And now here Peter, still in his Spider-Man suit, was once again entering your apartment through your fire escape window while gripping another bouquet. He brought you daisies this time. They were very fragrant; their scent filled your bedroom immediately.

"Hi, sweetheart," Peter muttered after he pulled off his mask. "I picked these up for you tonight. I hope they’re okay, I don’t think I’ve gotten you daisies in a while."

You couldn’t help but smile as you took the fresh flowers from him. "Thank you, Peter. They’re lovely," you replied. He had most certainly just gotten you daisies last week but you weren’t going to mention it. That bunch was in your kitchen, blooming and bright.

Peter planted a kiss on your cheek before shuffling aside your open textbooks and flopping on his unofficial official side of your bed. You were just finishing up studying for your college midterms when he came in.

You took in Peter’s exhausted form. He didn’t look too beat up, just a bit tired, which put you at ease. You weren’t a stranger to this situation. Peter would come to your apartment following his patrol, flowers in hand, ready to talk about nothing and everything before you both inevitably drifted off to sleep. But you’d never go to bed before the flowers were taken care of. Even though Peter brought you a plethora of them—so much so you were having to seriously get creative with the vases—each one melted your heart. Each one was special and deserved proper attention.

You cared for them because he cared enough to get them. But you never quite understood why it was so consistent. Did other girls want this many flowers?

"What were you working on?" Peter asked as he flipped through one of your textbooks. You watched his eyes skim the page.

"Philosophy," you answered, but it wasn’t like you had to. "I have a midterm coming up."

"Oh, yeah, we’re at that time of the year," he sighed. "Do you want me to quiz you on anything tonight?"

You shook your head and gently pulled the book from his hands. You closed the cover and shut your notebooks all while still coddling the bouquet of daisies. "Peter, can I ask you something?"

"Sure," he responded, his voice very level. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, of course," you assured him, "I just wanted to ask about the flowers."

He frowned. "The flowers?"

You nodded as you fiddled with the stems of the daisies. "They’re really beautiful and so thoughtful of you, it’s just…"

"What?" Peter gulped. "Do you not like them?"

"No," you insisted, "no, that’s not it at all. I love them so much. But I’m just curious… Why? Why do you bring me flowers every night?"

Your sweet boyfriend let out a sigh of relief at your question. "That’s what that big build-up was for?" He teased.

Your cheeks grew warm. "My apartment is drowning in flowers, Peter."

"There’s still room," he said with a shrug. "But to answer your question I… I guess it gives me something to focus on, a goal to have at the end of the night. It’s not always crazy out there but there’s been some things that have gotten to me and it’s just part of what keeps me going. I gotta protect the great people of this city and I gotta bring you flowers." Peter sighed. "I love you so much, sweetheart, and you deserve all the flowers."

An ache stabbed its way through your chest. Your grip on the flowers tightened as a tear threatened to spill out. Your reaction felt a little dramatic but your boyfriend’s words were just what you needed to hear.

"Oh, honey…" You nearly cried as you leaned over to place a kiss on his lips. He was also almost crying but still happily reciprocated the affection.

Peter sniffled. "I’m sorry I’ve been drowning you in flowers."

You shook your head and let out a breathy laugh. "I don’t mind anymore. Please drown me in flowers forever, babe."

"Forever," Peter repeated with a smile. "Absolutely. Forever. I can do forever."