#tasm!peter x reader

“Holy–”

“Fuck!” you say, throwing yourself backward with a shout. You bring your hand to your chest, pressing your heart back behind your ribs as the blur of colour comes to a stop on the edge of the roof. 

“Sorry!” Spider-Man says. “Jesus, you didn’t see me? I’m kind of, you know, brightly coloured?”

“You came out of nowhere! You’re going sixty miles an hour!”

Spider-Man rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I got places to be. Well, most of the time.”

You feel your heart jumping under your palm. Spider-Man shifts, his head tilting down as though he’s squinting at you assessingly. 

“Hey, are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You swallow your nerves. “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. You scared me, s’all. Sorry for cussing. And yelling.”

He giggles brightly, plonking down on a creaky lawn chair, unperturbed by its green moss. “Yeah, you should be sorry, potty-mouth. Kiss your ma with that mouth?”

You laugh without thinking. “Sometimes.”

Spider-Man lays back in the chair and folds his arms over his stomach. It strikes you that you wouldn’t know if his eyes were open or closed, he looks relaxed, like he could doze. He looks tired, actually. He gives a long sigh and sits up some. Eyes open, decidedly. 

“What are you doing up here?” he asks. 

“Oh, I’m reading.”

“Reading what?” 

You refuse to tell him that it’s a silky sweet romance with a besotted leading man and a beautiful girl, but struggle to think of a lie. The silence lingers until it’s awkward.

Finally, Spider-Man waves a hand at you, his voice genial as he says, “Keep your secrets.”

“Are you okay?” you ask. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

It might be more apt to ask him what it is that he’s doing up here. Surely Spider-Man has more important things to get too than sitting in a rinky-dink chair waiting to snap beneath any weight at all on your dreary rooftop in the cold weather. And more that he doesn’t know you, hasn’t ever spoken to you, no matter how many times you’ve seen him around the city. 

“You look tired,” you say softly. 

“I’m okay. But, hey, thanks for asking.”

“Sure.”

Awkward silence lingers again. Your blatant confusion as to his presence becomes obvious, and Spider-Man looks away, rubbing at his neck again with that same nervous hand. 

“You looked lonely,” he says. “I guess I wondered if you wanted company, or– or a shoulder to cry on, or something. Anything.”

“Is that something you do often?” 

“What good is looking after the neighbourhood if everybody in it goes home sad?” Spider-Man shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me anything, I’ll only sit here if that’s cool.” 

“Don’t let me stop you.”

You’re thinking about Peter again. It’s ridiculous, there’s a superhero on your roof and you’re thinking about Pete, but you can’t help it. Spider-Man reminds you of him, his height and build, even his voice, though Spider-Man is all bravado and gruffness where Peter’s a tiny bit shy. It’s what made becoming his friend possible—he’s shy and you’re worse, you’re immovable, you struggle to talk half the time. If Spider-Man hadn’t scared the fuck out of you scaling up the building, you wouldn’t have been able to open your mouth. 

“I have a friend,” you say, buckling under the pressure of the quiet. “And I like him. And I don’t know what to do, so. That’s why I’m all messed up.”

“You don’t look messed up,” he says, bringing a hand to his chin to hold like he’s pondering something deeply. “You like someone? That’s a good thing.”

“I don’t think he likes me back.”

“That sucks, but– okay, sorry if this is weird, but you’re beautiful.” Spider-Man straightens in his chair. “Like, you’re really beautiful. And your voice is so nice, I’ve barely heard it and I already know it’s addictive.”

You laugh again without meaning to, a sputter of sound. 

“You’re really pretty. If he doesn’t like you back, I’m sure you can find somebody else.”

“Thank you, Spider-Man, but I don’t want anybody else,” you say softly. “He’s really perfect. Have you ever–” You clear your throat, picking at a scagged thread on your pajama bottoms and avoiding his gaze. “It’s stupid.”

“I bet it’s not.”

Nobody’s ever called you beautiful before. Nobody’s ever… 

Peter makes you feel beautiful. Tips your chin up with his pinky finger to get your eyes, takes a good look at you when he’s seeing you for the first time in a while, but he never says anything about it. He smiles and he's sweet, but he doesn’t call you beautiful. 

“He makes me feel like the only person in the world,” you confess. “He’s not perfect, like I said. He lashes out, and he forgets all the time, he’s late constantly, but he always says sorry, and you know he really means it? He’s the most genuine person. And he’s–” pretty, you want to say, but you look sideways at Spider-Man and can’t bring yourself to say it. “I want more of him than he wants to give me, is all, but I don’t mind. I like being his friend.”

“You want more,” he says, as though turning the words over in his mouth. 

“That’s the hard part.”

“That’s a nice love story.” He exhales slowly. “Lucky guy.”

“It’s not a love story,” you say, trying for happy acceptance and sounding weak. 

“It could be. Have you told him how you feel? I don’t see how a guy could hear all that from a girl like you and not at least try to make it work?”

You bring your knee up and rest your nose on the fabric there. “I don’t usually talk to people like this. I find it really hard.”

“Oh, so I’m special?”

“You’re an exception.”

“You don’t talk to this guy?”

You press your face fully to your knee, thighs aching. 

“Peter doesn’t answer the phone,” you mumble, hoping Spider-Man won’t hear you. “Can’t talk to him about anything. And what would I even say? I know we’ve been friends for years and all but I like you now, and I’m prepared to make things awkward between us forever?” You whine quietly. “Everything’s so hard.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Spider-Man sounds flustered. Sounds like he took a long plunge from a tall skyscraper. You look up, perplexed, and he’s facing you completely still. It’s like he’s been turned to stone. 

“You–” He swallows. “This Peter guy, you really like him?”

“I’ve had a crush on him since forever! And he never notices me, ever!” You scrub at your face. “I know it’s stupid and childish and high school, I know I should tell him how I feel even if there’s not the slightest chance that he’d ever want me back–”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

You squint at him. “You don’t know Peter.”

He laughs, still sounding all flustered and weak. “Okay.”

“Sorry. I guess I’m being really corny, huh?” 

“No.” His voice is higher, too, almost like he’s holding his breath. “It’s not corny, it’s nice.”

“He’s really pretty,” you say, lamenting your sad lonely life without him. And now you’ve made a mess all over Spider-Man’s generous listening. If there was a chance he’d come to see you again, you have surely ruined it. 

Spider-Man squeaks. 

You stare at him. He’s pulling at the edge of his mask, fanning himself, giving you rare glimpses of his pale skin. 

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“I’m sorry, I’m– super warm.”

“Oh. Is the suit hot?”

“It can be, yeah.”

“I guess I don’t know how to move on,” you say, breaking your gaze to stare at the gravelly rooftop instead. “He’s a great friend, and I didn't always want it so badly. I don’t know why… why it got so much worse lately. I see him and I wish he’d grab me and– and kiss me–” You bite your tongue. “Sorry, Spider-Man. That’s too much information."

“Kiss you how?” he asks. 

You jolt a little. “Uh, you know. Just kiss me. A real kiss. He’s kind of affectionate, like, sometimes he tries to hold my hand before we cross the street, and one time he did kiss my cheek, but it was, like, a bit. I want a real kiss.” 

“Huh.”

“It’s lame.”

“Love is kinda lame. Corny and cheesy,” Spider-Man sounds oddly pleased. “But maybe he’s got all these lame feelings too, and didn’t want to push you. You seem kinda shy. Maybe he’s worried he’s not reading things right. If you’re the kind of girl who’s easily flustered, how can he know if it’s because of him or not?” 

“But what do I do?”

“I don’t know.”

You laugh. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry, but whatever you do, if he gets the signal, he’ll reciprocate.”

“How do you know?”

“Girl as pretty as you?” Spider-Man’s voice goes soft as butter. “He’d be an idiot not to.”

—

By the time you’d made it back inside that night, Peter had replied to your message. 

In fact, Peter had spammed you. Answered everything you said with detail and then launched into an apology for not responding, cos he had a bunch of stuff to do and Aunt May had the car and his phone died on the subway home, yada yada. 

He then asked you out. 

Alright, he didn’t. He asked if you wanted to come over and watch a movie the next day, which is pretty standard Peter friendship activity, but has you smiling like a loser at your phone. 

Yes, you’d texted him, would love to, I’ll bring dinner?

Do not!!!! I will order in for us when you get here :D 

You’re standing in your nicest skirt, a pretty pink thing that ends at the knees and, and your newest converse, which aren’t all that new. Your cardigan is charcoal wool and buttoned all the way up to fight the sudden chill. It’s later than you realised; you spent an hour panic-changing your clothes and lamenting your response Spider-Man’s advice. You have to give Peter a signal, right? 

You are dressed very cute for a movie at his place, and you smell delicious. You’re gonna give him a wide-eyed flirty stare and who knows, maybe he’ll finally get the message. 

Or he’ll wonder why you’re so overdressed. 

The door finally opens, and Peter’s already smiling. His cheeks are red like spring cherries with a flush that crawls down his neck and probably stains his broad chest, too, his hair in order for once, his usual hoodie and jacket traded in for a plain white t-shirt that’s a little tight. Shows the indents of his chest, the lines of firm muscle there. 

“Hey, beautiful,” he says. 

You want him to call you beautiful forever. “Don’t,” you say instead. He should know better. You fluster at anything. 

Peter stands aside to let you in. You’ve been to the Parker house a ton of times, but it’s noticeably clean, and dimly lit. There are a couple of candles lit in the living room and a bowl of popcorn stands on the coffee table, filling the room with the smells of toffee and butter. 

“Was it cold?” he asks. 

You nod hurriedly. “So cold. I thought it was supposed to be summer.”

“We’re not that lucky. Make yourself comfy, okay? I gotta grab your drink.”

You unlace your shoes and leave them by the doorway, padding into the living room in your socks. The couch is fitted with enough throw pillows to turn a three-seater into a two-seater. You’re forced to plop yourself somewhat in the middle, but you’re too tempted by the popcorn to worry. You sneak a piece while Peter’s gone, humming as the sweetness breaks out across your tongue. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he calls. 

“For what?”

“For not answering you!” His voice echoes nearer, and he grimaces his way through the hall into the living room, two glasses of your favourite in his hands. “I’m awful. I’m an idiot, and I never check my phone. I’m sorry.”

“Peter, it’s fine.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes widen of their own accord as he sits down next to you, thigh to thigh, so close you can see the little bits of amber that swim in his irises, all that brown fragmented by shards of sunlight.

“I–” You nod oddly. “Am sure. Of course. I don’t expect you to drop everything–”

“I know you don’t, but still. I have my phone with me. I can answer you more, and you’re important to me. I get distracted.”

“Did you get all your errands done?” 

“Sure.” He hands you your glass and puts his own on the coffee table. “Thanks. You’re an angel.”

“You’re not so bad,” you say. 

You relax. Peter lets you choose the movie, and you feel warm sitting there pointing his remote at the TV, flicking unsurely through everything, but he’s Peter. You put on Cado Lake and hand him the remote, sure he’ll enjoy a sc-fi flick, and are instantly gratified when the movie hooks his attention. Not too much, though. He’s clear of mind enough to put the popcorn bowl in your lap and nip you with little questions. Who’s that again? Hey, she looks like May. Wow, you smell good, what is that? 

You’re about an hour into the movie when Peter’s hand sews itself behind your back. 

It’s warm, and big. His fingertips skate over the mall of your back until he’s found your side, where it curls, and he pulls you gently toward him. Your head drops into the space between his shoulder and head, the TV a colourful blur in front of you, your hand paused dead in the nearly empty popcorn like you’ve been frozen. 

“Okay?” he murmurs. 

“Yeah,” you say. You’re fine. 

He’s warm. He’s solid beside you. 

“You’re letting me eat all the popcorn…”

His laugh is a huff against your head. “I’ll make some more.”

“No.” You rest your cheek on his arm. Bliss flits through your entire body like a wave. “It’s okay. I won’t eat your share.”

“You do what you want,” he says, and you wonder if he’s relaxing beneath you, too, heat of his body seeping through his clothes and into your skin as his fingers rub gently into your side. “Get you a sack of popcorn, if you want me to.”

“This is nice.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. This is good.”

You struggle to pay attention to the movie for the next few minutes, wondering if this is really what you think. It’s not exactly friendship-level affection to wrap your arm around someone, is it? But Peter’s so lovely, it could be nothing. Why would it mean anything? What could Peter want with you? Of course you have a crush on him, he’s gorgeous, but Peter has no such motivations about you. Does he? 

He’s quiet for a while. You think the movie might’ve really snagged him, but then he turns to you with a shy smile that brightens exponentially when you sneak a glance at him and end up smiling back. 

He doesn’t look away. 

It gets so hot you wish you could peel out of your cardigan, but you don’t wanna move and displace the moment. 

“You’re missing the movie,” you whisper. 

“I’ve missed so much of it,” he says. 

“What?”

“Look.” He swallows. “Look, I don’t know if I’m– maybe I’m way off base here, and all, but,” —his hand climbs your side, folding over your, pulling you even closer— “maybe I’m not? I don’t know.”

“Off base about what?”

“You know.”

“Do I?” you ask. You can hardly speak above a breath, but Peter hears it. 

Peter’s gaze darts down. 

You lift your chin. Spider-Man, you think, watching as Peter’s brows knit like he’s in pain and his pupils turn to dimes, sunshot brown melding dark, this better work. 

Peter inches his face down until your noses are touching, your eyelashes forced shut in a flutter at his proximity. 

He lingers there, in the quiet, breathing the air your exhale and holding his tongue as he raises his hand to cup your cheek tenderly. His fingers slip beneath your ear and his thumb drags over your cheek, distending your lips, and his lips brush against yours so softly you aren’t sure if he really has kissed you, or if you want it bad enough to conjure the sensation. But then he presses in for a proper kiss, and the quiet in the room gets replaced by the pounding of your heart in your own ears. 

He tips your head a little and kisses upward, parting his lips to encourage you to let him in. You suck in a breath as he wades in for a real kiss, the heat of tongue and the soft plush give of his lips on yours. He encourages your head back quick, your eyes squinting ever so slightly, but he’s only moving you to wade in for the same kissing at a new angle. His nose tip scrunches into yours. 

Your thoughts are electric. Your hand vies for a place to anchor, grasping tightly at his shirt, screwing the fabric over his chest into a ball. 

“Holy crap,” he says, pulling back a touch. 

His eyes are shining. His mouth is damp with spit, but you aren’t certain if it’s yours or his.

“I can’t believe I had the willpower to wait this long for that,” he says, running his thumb over your bottom lip. “Shit, you're just as perfect as I thought.”

You laugh in a tangle. “What?” you ask breathlessly. 

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. Wow, you taste like toffee.”

“I’m sorry–”

Peter gets his thumb under your chin to tip your face up. “For what? For being perfect?” 

“For tasting like popcorn.”

“That is the least of my worries.” He does a one-eyed squint at you, stroking your chin and cheek with his thumb, a caress that makes your stomach ache as much as the kisses had. “Sorry it took me so long to kiss you. You’re a hard girl to read.”

“I know,” you mumble. 

He kisses your cheek and ducks his face into the side of your head, gathering you in for a hug that’s strong but careful, too, your thigh curving into his lap. He doesn’t seem to notice the way he’s dragging you onto him as he breathes in your hair. 

“Pete?”

“Yeah?” 

You struggle out of his arms. “Can you kiss me again?” you ask. 

“Yes. Yeah. Oh my god, absolutely.”

Your laugh as he bends your backwards into the mountain of throw cushions is ecstatic. Then smushed, quickly, but it’s fine. The kiss is worth getting cut off. 

—

(One month later.) 

“I was going to tell you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously, I was! But I didn’t want you to be embarrassed."

“Right.”

“And I didn’t want you to be mad.”

You stare at Spider-Man in your boyfriend’s bedroom, unmasked, Peter Parker with hair like a dandelion and eyes so sorry he’s almost winning you over, the mask clasped in hand. 

“You knew who I was talking about,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “and you still made me give you a signal? Do you know how hard that was for me?”

“You can do hard things!”

“Peter.”

“I wanted to be sure. I have a huge crush on you, you know that? It was just as scary for me as it was for you.”

You sniff indignantly. Spider-Man drags himself from his window to take your hands, pouting like a loser for your forgiveness. 

“Can you please forgive me?” he asks. “Don’t you think it would’ve given my secret away if I turned up at your door and planted one on you? You do not understand the strength it took to wait.”

“Peter, it wasn’t even twenty four hours.”

“You’re really pretty,” he mumbles. 

You forgive him already, not that he needs to know that. You have more important questions to ask. 

“So, what’s with the webs?”

“D’you like ‘em?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He whines. 

You plant a little kiss on his jaw and make for the bed you’d been planning on napping in before his impromptu return through the open window. “Come hold me while I nap,” you say, moving back his sheets, “please. And maybe I’ll think about forgiving you.” You’re too tired to think about this in depth. 

Peter throws himself into the mattress. You crawl into his arms. 

“You kinda smell like street,” you mumble, nuzzling his neck, a hint of forgiveness to settle his bad nerves. 

His head falls back as he lets out a relieved sigh. “You smell perfect,” he says. 

Two Months Earlier

“Hi,” Peter rushes into your apartment, breathless and flustered as always. You get a firm kiss to the cheek before he disappears into your bedroom. 

Laughing slightly, you peer around the corner and try to get a glimpse of him. “Everything okay, Petey?”

You get a slight hum of acknowledgment before he goes back to what sounds like rustling through papers. Shaking your head, you bring the popcorn bowl over to the couch and wait for him to reemerge. 

It doesn’t take longer than a few minutes until he’s strolling back toward you, a slightly cocky pep to his step. You narrow your eyes at him but fail miserably at holding back a grin. “Whatcha up to, Parker?”

“Who, me?” He shrugs, playing dumb as he jumps over the back of the couch, landing on the cushion beside you. You spot something folded in his hand before he tries to hide it. 

With little warning, you lunge forward, reaching for his hand. “Hey!” He jumps back, unable to hold in his laughter. “That’s cheating, you know?”

You don’t acknowledge him, grunting in frustration as he holds his hand further and further away from you. “Alright, well, what happened to no secrets?” You push, slightly embarrassed at how breathless you sound. 

“Oh, wow,” his hand comes up, cupping your jaw as he pulls your face closer to his. “That’s playing dirty,” he whispers. You can’t subdue your smile, inching closer until your noses are brushing. 

“You like it when I play dirty.” Peter’s eyes widen, a visible flush on his face as your lips just barely brush together. The whisper of a kiss. He was so focused on that, he failed to notice you ripping the paper from his hands. 

He groans as you lean back on the couch with a triumphant grin. “You’re too easy, Parker,” you tease. 

He props his chin on your knee, “Only for you.” 

“Oh God, you are so cheesy.” He opens his mouth, a stupid grin on his face. You pinch his lips together and laugh, “Don’t say it again. For the sake of our relationship, please.” 

You release him and he presses a quick kiss to your hand before leaning back. “Well,” he nods toward the paper in your hand. “Don’t you want to see what you’ve won?” 

Excitement bubbles inside you as you unfold the small piece of paper. The print’s slightly smudged from your wrestling match, but when you bring it closer, you can’t help the sharp gasp that escapes you. 

“Peter!” He’s smiling widely, posture relaxed and completely smug as you gush. “I can’t believe you managed to get tickets.”

“One of the guys in my lab knows someone at the museum. He owed me a favor,” he shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal. Like he didn’t just get you into one of the most exclusive exhibitions in Queens. 

He lets out a slight grunt when you toss yourself at him, arms wrapping like a vice around the back of his neck. You can feel the exhale of a laugh as he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, arms quick to wrap around your waist. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling back slightly to get a proper look at him. He keeps his grip firm, reluctant to let you get much further. 

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he tells you and he has all the conviction of a man who really believes it. 

“That’s a big promise,” you smile. “Sure you can keep it?”

“‘Course I can.” When you lean in to kiss him this time, you make sure it's real. Not the whisper of a touch, but something deeper as he pulls you into his lap completely. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how wonderful it is to be loved by Peter Parker. 

“Christ,” you blow into your gloved hands and hope some of the warmth bounces back to your face. You knew it was going to be cold today, but you hadn’t thought it would be a problem. Peter had said he was going to meet you outside the museum, but it’s already been fifteen minutes and you’re losing feeling in your nose. 

He does have a mind going 100MPH most days. Usually, you like to give him a leeway on timing. But it’s absolutely freezing today and snowflakes have just started falling. If you were with your boyfriend, this would be like a scene out of a romcom. 

Instead, it’s about to be a nature documentary on wild stood-up girlfriends freezing in Queens tundra. 

Pulling out your phone again, you bite the thumb of your glove and tug it off. You’ve sent Peter about twenty messages, none of which have even so much as gotten a ‘read.’ You try calling him this time, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear as you hurriedly tug your glove back on. 

“Hey, this is Peter, you know what to do.” 

You roll your eyes at his voicemail. “It’s your girlfriend, Pete. But, I swear, if you make me wait any longer in this damn snow, I’m going to be your ex.”

“Good thing you don’t have to wait.” With a squeak, you whip around to find Peter standing behind you. You slap his shoulder and he bounces back with a laugh. The tip of his nose has been nipped red by the cold and his cheeks aren’t much better. 

“You’re lucky I like you,” you snap. 

“Extremely,” he agrees, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. It softens you slightly. When you can feel your fingers again, you’ll consider forgiving him. He throws his arm over your shoulder, struggling slightly with the scarf triple-wrapped around you. 

Glancing down to hang up the call, you see a little news notification pop up. 

Spider-Man & Molten Man Spotted in Times Square

“What’re you looking at?”

You shake your head, tucking your phone away. “Nothing.”

You send him a smile that he returns eagerly. He passes the staff your tickets and opens the door for you as you step into the museum. You’d like for the first thing you appreciate to be the gorgeous mural on the wall in front of you. But you are far more interested in the blast of heat coming from the vents above. 

“Oh, thank God,” you grumble, blocking the door as you greedily soak up all the warmth you can. 

“Come on, bug,” Peter laughs, tugging you along so the line of people can get by. “We’ll get you an overpriced coffee at the cafe.”

“You’re paying,” you tell him sternly. “I still can’t feel my nose.” 

“Deal.” Peter doesn’t hesitate, just leans down and presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. It’s the type of thing you used to see others do in public and gag. 

You’d think about how you would never be one of those touchy-feely couples. Peter makes it feel so natural, though. As if you’ve been together all your life and this is just another one of your daily routines. 

The giddy smile on your face is wide and can’t even be hidden behind your scarf as you lean into him. He chuckles as he pulls you closer, taking you toward the cafe. “What do you want to see first?”

“I read online that they’ve got a bunch of Monets by the south entrance, we’ll go there and then circle back to the front.”

“You’ve had this planned since you saw the tickets, haven’t you?”

You laugh and shake your head. “Since I read about the exhibit. Remind me to thank you again when we get home.”

Peter glances down, brows raised with a cheeky look on his face. You snort and push his face away. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did,” you tease. Peter laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you get in line for a coffee. You don’t even feel like you need it anymore. You’ve been warmed inside-out just by Peter’s presence. 

God, when did I become such a cliche?

9:50

where the hell are you

they keep talking about distillation columns and thermo-something

you know I don’t understand nerd

Checking the time on your phone for the nth time, you feel your leg begin to bounce. Something uncomfortable has tied itself around your stomach, squeezing until you can’t stand one more sip of your beer. 

Peter’s labmates celebrate around you. They keep jostling each other’s shoulders, talking in technobabble. You have never felt as stupid as you did when Marcy asked you what your thoughts were on a plug flow reactor. Whatever the hell that is. 

You’d just said, “Oh, yeah, they’re great.” She’d smiled and slowly backed away, eagerly jumping into the next conversation. 

It’s not that they’re not nice people, but this clearly isn’t where you’re meant to be. Not without Peter, at least. You’d promised to come thinking, oh, you know, that your damn boyfriend would be here. 

10:30

Peter

Please

I feel so stupid

Nausea is thick in your throat as you hunch over the bar. Peter’s friends have all moved to a table, but you didn’t feel like following. It’s not like they were talking to you anyway. They didn’t know how and you didn’t either. 

“This is so stupid,” you mutter, dragging your hand down your face. You push away your empty beer and find yourself drawn to the TV, looking for any sort of distraction. 

It’s the news and, of course, Spider-Man’s swinging around the city again. His suit is bright against the night sky, and there’s an odd shape on his head that’s catching the snow. Leaning forward slightly, you snort when you see he’s wearing a red beanie. 

“Of course, New York gets the weirdo for a hero,” you mutter. You grimace as you watch Spider-Man get punched down by a man who looks like he’s made himself a megazord. Pulling back the sleeve of your blouse, you sigh at the time. 

There’s a tight pinch in your chest as you slide off the barstool. 

11:02

I’m going home

You debate saying anything else but decide not to. Tugging on your winter attire, you stop by the others’ table and bid them all goodnight. They’re nice enough to say bye, but you’re pretty sure they thought you had already left. 

The wind pushes against the bar’s door as you make your way outside. Snowflakes are quick to whip at your cheeks, landing in your lashes and melting into your scarf. You pull the scarf tighter and trudge forward. 

The cold isn’t bothering you any more than your absentee boyfriend is. You’ve always been gracious with Peter about being late. It’s a chronic sickness for him at this point and you’ve been around it the majority of your life. 

But it feels different now that you’re dating. Waiting outside an arcade or a restaurant for a friend isn’t a big deal. But when you’re sitting on your own at a table in a crowded restaurant, that’s absolute humiliation. 

He’s been dropping the ball a lot more lately and that hurts. But he hasn’t given you any other reason to worry about the state of your relationship. So, despite the sting, you’ve resolved to just swallow down the embarrassment and keep on going. 

You hear a small thud behind you and your hand instinctively goes to your purse. Swallowing thickly, you keep walking, hoping it’s nothing more than your paranoia. Then you hear the crunch of snow behind you, the clear footsteps matching your pace. Your hand wraps around the mace Pete bought you and you whip around on them. 

To your absolute horror, Peter’s standing behind you. He throws his hands up and lets out a nervous laugh. “Okay, an hour late is really bad, but please don’t mace me.”

You tilt your head and give him a flat look. “Two hours, actually.”

His face screws up and you cross your arms. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry.”

You shake your head and turn back around. “Forget it, Pete. Just go celebrate with your friends.”

Peter jogs to catch up with you and darts in front of you, a frown on his face. “Wait, no, come on. Why don’t you head in with me?”

You let out what can only be described as a guffaw and push past him. “And suffer through more questions about plug flow-whatever’s? Pass.” 

“Plug flow reactors?”

You glare at him over your shoulder and he fails horribly at hiding the amused look on his face. “Trying to speak nerd with them was humiliating, Peter.” His face softens at that and he reaches forward to pull you closer. 

Out of pure stubbornness, you should resist. But standing outside in the cold is making you desperate for Peter’s insane body heat. “Come inside, just for a little while,” he brushes a hair off your cheek and smiles softly. “I swear, I’ll teach you all our science jargon.”

You roll your eyes, but he knows he’s won when you sink into him. “You’re way too persuasive,” you snap. Peter does his best to lace your mittened hands together as he turns you back toward the bar. 

“Yeah, but you love me.”

“Unfortunately,” you glare at him, but your smile gives you away. 

For once in your relationship, you’re the one running late. Something you know Peter is about to take far too much joy in. He’s already sent about fifteen texts. The majority of them bemoan being all alone and then asking if this is how you always feel. Those were followed by an influx of apologies. 

You’re not thinking about the texts, though, as you jog down the street. You spot Peter waiting outside the diner, leaning against the wall. He’s got his phone in his hands, fingers moving rapidly across the screen. 

Sure enough, you can hear your phone ding with yet another passive-aggressive text. “Would you quit it?” You demand, completely out of breath, as you stop in front of him. 

He tosses his head back dramatically and groans. “God, finally. I thought you were just going to leave me out here to freeze.”

“Would serve you right,” your brows furrow. “When’d you get this?” You flick the edge of the red beanie shoved over his hair. 

Peter shrugs and readjusts it. “I dunno, I’ve had it forever.” You frown, biting your lip as you think. You swear to god you know it from somewhere, but you must’ve just seen Peter in it before and forgot. 

He holds the door of the diner open for you and lets out a relieved breath as you both step into the warmth. You would feel bad for him if he hadn’t done this to you five times within two weeks. 

“How come you wanted to…” The go to this place so bad trails off into a laugh. You should have known when he kept badgering you about coming here. 

Plastered floor to ceiling are comic book characters, clips from the stories, and various forms of memorabilia. You’re absolutely surrounded by a hundred different fandoms, and you’re honestly surprised Peter hasn’t had a heart attack yet. 

“I really should have seen this coming.” 

Peter laughs and leads you over to an empty table. A busty woman with a purple leotard stares you down from where she’s painted on the wall. You give Peter a flat look and he flushes. 

“I mean… the name is Strips.”

“Oh, seriously, Parker. Why would my mind immediately go to comics? I was worried you were taking me to a strip club or something.”

Peter wrinkled his nose and frowned. “That’s way too on the nose. I’d take you somewhere classy like Jumbo’s Clown Room.”

Your lips part and you just shake your head. “I don’t want to know if that’s a real place. And if it is, I don’t want to know how you found out about it.”

“Blame Flash,” he mutters as a waitress comes over with a coffee pot. 

You smile and thank her as she walks away. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve gotten a chance to tell you about this, yet.” Peter perks with interest and a wide smile blooms on your face. “You know how I was trying forever to be Professor Beeter’s TA. The position never opened but,” you trail off slightly as the people behind you start getting loud. 

“Oh my god, he is wrecking this place!” Frowning, you glance over your shoulder and take a look at what they’re watching. Someone’s phone is propped in the middle of the table and you see yet another ridiculous villain punching through the Chrysler building. 

Rolling your eyes, you settle back in your seat. “What was I saying?”

“Um,” Peter’s leg bounces under the table and his gaze shoots toward the door. “I’m not sure.”

You frown, watching him warily as he grows more antsy. “Oh, it’s about Professor Beeter. He offered me a-”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupts you and jumps to his feet. “I’m so sorry, but I just remembered I promised I would help May today.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. 

“What? Peter! You wanted to come here!” He’s already running out the door. You watch, astounded, as he races past the window like hell’s nipping at his heels. You sink back into your seat with a stunned expression and your heart aching. 

Clearing your throat, you look up to find your waitress giving you a pitying look. She offers you a sympathetic smile that only makes you sick to your stomach. Grabbing your bag and coat, you jump out of the booth, rushing outside. 

What the hell is going on with him? You think, glaring down the street where Peter had gone. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you swallow down a lump in your throat and decide to just head back home. 

After his abrupt exit, you haven’t heard from Peter all day. You’ve sent him a few texts, checking in on him and asking about May, but you only got one answer before he went AWOL. 

You:

Everything good with May?

Petey:

Yeah

Her pilot was out had to make sure she had heat

After that, you’ve gotten nothing from him. Also, as far as you’re aware, May doesn’t use gas for heat. Peter hooked her up with better appliances forever ago. 

It’s as you’re dialing May’s number that you have to try and convince yourself you haven’t gone total psycho girlfriend. It’s perfectly normal to want to check on your boyfriend. Especially after how he was acting today. The line only rings a few times before she picks up. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, May.”

She says your name and you practically hear the smile in your voice. “Hey, sweetie. How are you?”

“Fine,” you answer quickly. “I just wanted to be see how Pete’s doing?”

She’s silent for a moment too long. She clears her throat and you frown at the pitch of her voice. “Oh, yeah, Pete’s fine. I’d let him talk to you, but he’s busy right now.”

You hum, fingers twisting your hoodie (Peter’s hoodie) strings as your stomach ties itself into a knot. “Right. Uh, what’d he say he was helping you with, again?”

“Cleaning out the gutters. Apparently, it can be a fire hazard or something, I’m not sure.”

Your body goes cold while something venomous rushes up your throat. “Okay,” you can barely hear your own voice. “I’ll let you go, then.” You hang up before she can respond, phone slipping from your hand and clattering to the ground. 

“Oh, my god,” you let out a panicked whisper, smoothing your hands over your hair as you try to think of a reasonable explanation. But there are no anniversaries, no birthdays, nothing special coming up that he might be lying about for a surprise. 

You’re honestly more shocked that May would lie to you. Growing up, she’d always seemed like the type of woman to protect a girl from sleaze-bag boyfriends. 

So maybe that means Pete isn’t doing anything bad. Maybe she’s covering for him for a good reason. 

So, why can't you think of one damn reason May would lie to you?

You don’t want to start spiraling for no reason. People lie, not just boyfriends, and not always for insidious reasons. Plucking your phone off the floor, you call Gwen. She’s usually good at pulling you out of your head when you start getting bad. 

The phone rings a few times before she finally answers. “Hey, what’s up?”

You frown and cross your arms across your stomach, trying to keep the nausea down. “Why do you sound so out of breath?”

“What?” She clears her throat but that only makes her sound worse. “No, I’m not. Did you need something?”

“Uh,” slightly taken aback by her tone, you struggle to find the right words. 

“Gwen!” Your heart beats ruthlessly against your ribs as your entire body stills. 

“Is that Peter?” You know it is. You could pick his voice out of a crowd if you were blindfolded. 

Gwen lets out a tense hum. “Yeah, it is. Uh, he was helping me with some chem stuff. So, I gotta go. Call me later, yeah?”

She’s hanging up before you can say anything else. Your hands are trembling as you set your phone on the table. Squeezing your throat to try and keep the lump back, you shake your head. 

There’s a reasonable explanation for everything. Right?

The nausea’s still coiled tight around you by the time Peter gets to your apartment. Your eyes are staring blankly at the wall, the only light coming from your window. You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there. Trying and failing to sleep as you consider all the reasons Peter might have lied to you. 

Why he would be with Gwen instead of you. 

You hear him padding through the hall and shut your eyes, tugging the blanket slightly over your head. 

“Bug?” He calls softly. He’s quiet as he approaches the bed. He brushes a hair off your cheek and leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “You awake?”

Part of you wants to tell the truth. She wants to spring up and start laying into him, demanding to know why he lied. And the other half, she’s a coward. So, you stay curled into a ball, eyes closed, and pretending like you’re not falling apart. 

Peter lets out a low groan as he settles in your bed behind you. It takes everything in you not to jerk away when he wraps his arm around your stomach, pulling you into his chest. The last thing you want right now is to have him touching you. But saying that requires being awake. 

And that’s more painful than a sleepless night. 

Peter wakes up slowly, his body aching after last night. He’s not sure who decided a “living robot” was a good idea. But his ribs are paying the price. 

Stretching, he ignores the twinge of pain along his side. His arm gropes blindly along the sheets, searching for you, for your warmth. When his fingers brush against the wall, he reluctantly opens his eyes. 

He frowns when he realizes you’re not in bed beside him. Turning toward the rest of the apartment, he doesn’t hear you. You’re not in the shower or humming in the kitchen. 

With something cold settling inside him, he gets out of bed. “Sweetheart?” He calls out, hoping to hear you answer. It’s Saturday, and while it’s never been something you’ve both spoken aloud, traditionally, you spend all day in bed together. Just crashing from stressful weeks and overloaded uni schedules. 

“Bug?” He tries again, wandering through your apartment. He already knows, deep down, that you’re not in here. But he doesn’t want to accept it. He’s barely had any time for you this week and he was really looking forward to just being lazy with you all day. 

In the kitchen, pinned to your fridge, he finds a pink note with his name on it. 

Prof. Beeter asked me to come in. Someone messed up last week’s research log

Should be home for lunch <3

The only thing stopping him from spiraling is the little heart at the bottom of the note. He knows it’s silly, but he’s slightly worried that you’re mad at him. He can’t explain where the feelings are coming from, but it's gnawing along the back of his mind. 

Peter glances at the clock and groans. It’s only 9, and lunch to you is usually 2 O’Clock. He’s not sure if he’s patient enough to last that long. Peter glances at the note again and leaves it on the counter to go get dressed. 

He had Professor Beeter last semester and they got along pretty well. He’s sure the older man wouldn’t mind Peter bugging you for a little while. 

Still heavy with the feeling that he’s done something wrong, Peter brought along your favorite sweet treat from the cafe on campus. Hopefully, that will soothe his worries and give you a boost for the day. He knows you look forward to Saturdays just as much as he does. 

Peter’s heading toward the lecture hall when his brain finally catches up with the rest of your note. What research were you talking about? You hadn’t told him you were a part of any projects. 

He’s always yapping to you about his labs. He figured you would do the same. Maybe it’s new, he thinks. 

Pushing open the door, he spots you immediately. You’re at a desk, papers and books piling all around you. There are three other people with you, each of whom he has a vague recollection of. 

“I mean, I don’t even know how we’re supposed to salvage this.” Your voice sounds strained, completely pulled taut. Peter frowns, wishing he could just take your problems and shoulder them for you. 

“It’ll be okay,” one of the girls assures you. 

You finally lift your head from your hands. “Twelve pages with zero references, we’re going to be at this all damn day.” Peter draws back slightly, suddenly wondering if this is such a good idea. 

He knows how testy you can get about school. Especially major projects. Sometimes just leaving you alone seems to work better than smothering. But, then, before he can back out, one of the girls, he thinks her name’s Mila, catches sight of him. 

“Peter?” She calls out. Your eyes instantly snap to him. If he thought you were angry at him before, he does not feel any better now. Your gaze is sharp, lips in a flat line, and there’s absolutely nothing on your face except perpetual irritation. 

“What’re you doing here?” You snap and your voice is way sharper than he was expecting. Holding his hands up slightly, he approaches slowly. He doesn’t want to treat his girlfriend like a stray dog, but you look ready to go for someone’s jugular. 

“I thought you might want something to eat. Figured you didn’t have any time before you left to get something.”

Mila and the other girl both aw over him and it gives him the briefest amount of hope. But then you’re shoving out of your chair and storming toward him. Peter swallows roughly as you approach. He almost wishes he were fighting that living-fire guy right now. 

You snatch his sleeve in your hand and drag him back toward the door. “Peter, why are you here?” You demand, voice lowered so the others can't hear. 

He frowns and shrugs helplessly. “It’s Saturday, we always spend Saturday together.”

You cross your arms, a sharp, derisive look on your face. Okay, definitely mad. “Oh, so you can remember dates now? What’s next? Are you going to show up on time for once?”

“Hey,” he objects, hoping to lighten the mood. “I was on time yesterday.”

Your eyes narrow and something on your face goes blank. He can’t place it exactly, but it’s like there’s a wall where he can usually read you so well. “Yeah, doesn’t count if you ditch me ten minutes later, babe.”

The venom in your voice makes him take a step back. He looks down, knowing you’re right. But he doesn’t want you any more mad than you are, instead of addressing it, he nods toward your desk. 

“What’s going on here?”

“We’re working on the dementia research project with Professor Beeter.”

Peter wants to light up, to hug you, and congratulate you for finally getting an in with the professor you’ve been trying to work with since last year. But you deliver him the news so flatly he feels like you’d only get more mad.

“You didn’t tell me about that,” he says instead. Which is very clearly the wrong answer, by the way you back off with a sharp scoff. 

“I’m not sure when I would have, Peter. I got placed two weeks ago and I haven’t seen you for more than an hour since then. Besides, when I tried to tell you yesterday, you fucking bolted to May’s.” You pause, and your lips curl up into something cruel. “Or was it Gwen’s place? Sorry, I can’t remember which lie you bullshited your way through.”

Peter feels his heart drop to his feet. It’s like a film goes over his eyes as his mind scrambles for any explanation that isn’t ‘I was busy beating up a robot with a weird, creepy human brain in it.’ Because he’s pretty sure that would be grounds enough for you to dump him right now. 

You really don’t give him a chance, either way. You snatch the bag from his hand and the smile drops from your face. “Thanks for the visit. You can go now.” You turn back toward your teammates without another look at him. “Hungry?” You call out to Mila.

She gives a hesitant nod and you toss Peter’s pastry at her. “Dig in.” Even when you sit down, you don’t look up from your books. Not even a twitch as he opens the door. 

Peter walks out, still slightly numb from the whole… argument? Did that even count as an argument? Or was that just you finally calling him out?

You’ve let him get away with a lot and maybe he took advantage of that, but he’s worried you might have the wrong idea. He doesn’t know why you would bring up Gwen, but the tone of your voice was so accusatory that he feels sick to his stomach. 

Yes, he was at her house last night. But that’s because he needed to be stitched up. She’s known about Spider-Man since high school. It was either bleed out or have her use her beginner's sewing kit. 

Peter lets out a shaky breath and runs his hands through his hair restlessly. You’ve both gotten into worse fights before. It’s not like you were a perfect couple. Surely, you could find a way to get over this. He just needs a half-decent excuse for his lying.

Peter perks up as he hears you step into the apartment. He glances at the clock and grimaces. You’re going to be pissed that you had to stay there until 6, fixing someone else’s screwup. When you round the corner and see him, he hears you let out one of the most exhausted noises he’s ever heard from you. 

“Peter,” he finally turns to meet your eye. “Why are you here?”

His chest clenches as he forces a smile. “I figured you would be hungry.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Are you ever at your own place?”

Ouch. “I just wanted to make you dinner. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as it’s done, bug.”

You shrug off your jacket and take a seat at the kitchen island. Peter takes your silence as agreement and goes back to stirring the pasta. When you speak again, his ears practically touch his shoulders. This dreadful feeling in his stomach has just been mounting all day. He feels ready to vibrate out of his own skin.

“Peter, where were you last night? I want the truth.”

Peter’s hand clenches around the spoon and he keeps his back to you. “Went over to May’s to help around the house and then I saw Gwen.”

You let out a loud scoff and your hands slap against the counter. “Did you all get your stories straight? Am I hearing the right lie, now?” 

Peter drops the spoon and turns to face you. He expects anger, maybe sadness. But you’re not giving him anything. You’re just… cold and Peter hates it. He’s seen you use that look before. It’s always been directed at people you don’t care about. You don’t hate them, you don’t love them, you just… don’t care. He doesn’t want to be someone you don’t care about. He can’t be. 

“Look me in the eye,” you command. “Tell me the truth.”

Peter takes in a steadying breath, doing his best not to make it obvious. “Sweetheart, I swear, I went to help May with the heat and the gutters. Gwen called and she needed my help on her chemistry project. I’m sorry that I got home late-”

“I can’t,” you clear your throat and the way your voice cracks makes his heart ache. “I can’t believe that you’re just going to stand there and lie to me.”

He shakes his head and takes a desperate step forward. “No, bug, I’m-”

You hold your hand up and his jaw snaps shut. “You’ve talked Peter, now it’s my turn. I have put up with a lot from you. If anyone treated me the way you do, you know what you would tell me?”

He opens his mouth and you shoot him a look that makes him shrink into himself. “Do not answer that, I am still talking. You would tell me to cut them out. If someone doesn’t respect my time, my dates, if they lie straight to my fucking face, then that’s not someone who deserves to be in my life. You are never on time, if you even show up at all.”

He wants to object, he really does, but he knows you’re right. Still, you must sense his apprehension. “Scroll through our texts from the past two months. It’s just a block of me asking where you are and telling you how stupid I feel. Then you show up, make everything better, and I just let you get away with it. Because I have known and loved you for so long, I let you disrespect me. I can handle missing dates, I can handle not being on time, always being at my place and never letting me over at yours. But I can’t do this, I can’t just swallow down you lying straight to my face. Getting your aunt and my best friend involved in this is sick, Pete. What do you expect me to think when Gwen’s lying about why you’re at her place?”

“No, sweetheart,” he finally speaks, rushing toward you, voice breaking on something desperate. He reaches for you, but you jerk back and he swears something cracks open inside him. “I would never.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Why would I ever believe you?”

Peter flounders. He tries to think of anything. Anything that isn’t a lie and isn’t the truth about who he is. But his mind is blank. The panic flooding through him is overriding anything that might get you back, might get you in his arms again. 

You suck your teeth and give him a jerky nod. “Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” He whispers, afraid that if he speaks any louder, he might actually cry. 

“I think this has been happening for a long time, Peter. It’s just your first time realizing it.”

No, no, he can’t handle that. He can’t handle knowing that this awful, barbed feeling ripping through him is how he’s made you feel for so long. But he can’t just spill his guts and tell you everything. 

Right after Gwen had discovered him, it was like the bad guys had a missile lock on her. She kept getting thrown into danger, nearly dying, because of him. He can’t be the reason you get hurt. He can’t live with that. 

But he’s hurting you either way and for once, he can’t think of a way to make this all smooth over. 

You take in a sharp breath and turn away from him. You walk to the stove, turning off the burner as the food begins to smoke. “I think you should go, Peter.”

“Bug,” but he doesn’t have anything to say and you still won’t look at him. He just wants you to look at him. He feels as if you did, if you saw how sorry he was, something here might be fixed. 

“I’m going to take a shower. When I’m done, I expect you to be gone.” You toss the pot in the sink and head down the hall, not another word spared for him. And Peter…

He just spirals. Every mistake, every time he showed up late, just pummels into him as he realizes this is all his fault. 

You turned off your phone yesterday. The missed calls and texts from Peter were bordering on obnoxious and you couldn’t take it anymore. Even Gwen kept trying to call you. Kept texting you that it’s not what you think. 

But did they ever offer any other explanation?

No, they fucking didn’t.

So, not only did you lose your boyfriend, the man you’ve been in love with as long as you’ve known him. You also lost your best friend. 

Best. Week. Ever.

Sick of being sad in your bed, you decide to go be sad outside. Maybe just grab a pint of ice cream from the bodega and lock yourself inside your apartment for the rest of your life. That sounds like a decent plan. 

Leaving your phone, you grab your keys and some cash. It’s still cold outside, though the snow has calmed down a little bit. It soaks through your tennis shoes, now, seeps along the hem of your sweatpants. No part of you can be bothered to care about that as you trudge toward the shop. 

It’s unusually quiet as you walk inside. Usually it’s a lot busier this time of night. Maybe the universe decided to give you a break. 

Digging through the freezer section, you frown when you don’t see your favorite flavor. You turn toward the shop owner, Al, who has gotten used to you coming down here the past few days. “You guys don’t have any more Turtlesaurus Rex?”

Al’s silent and you frown, finally turning to fully face him. A man in a black jacket lingers by the counter, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Al gives you a tense smile, and your brows furrow as dread picks at you. 

“All out. Maurie down the street might have some.” There’s something about how wide his eyes are that’s making you think you probably should have brought your phone. Especially because you definitely just saw the handle of a gun in that man’s jacket and you really need to call the cops. (Even though they probably won’t do anything.)

“Yeah, I’ll go check over there.”

“Have a good night.”

You try not to sound stiff as you return the sentiment. But you’ve barely made it to the door when you hear the distinct sound of a hammer being pulled back. 

“You think I’m stupid?” What a wonderful time this would be for a freak in red and blue spandex to show up. 

You turn slowly and shake your head, absolutely zero idea how to defuse this. 

“I think the lady’s just being polite. Personally, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone encapsulate the term ‘mouth-breather’ so well.”

Your eyes widen, and you whip around to see Spider-Man standing at the entrance of the bodega. What the fuck is your life? 

“Hey, jackass,” you hiss, and his head whips toward you. “Who’s he pointing the gun at?”

Spider-Man shrugs, “What gun?” You barely have a second to blink before a thick white string is twhip-ing past you and jerking the gun out of the man’s hands. 

“Smartass,” you mutter under your breath. 

“I think you mean, ‘thank you, Spider-Man for saving my life,’” you shoot him a flat look and walk out of the bodega. Maybe it’s time to just accept that you’re not meant to be in the outside world. You’re better off cocooned in your bed. 

There are no robbers there. No cheating boyfriends and conniving best friends. 

About a minute later, you hear rapid footsteps approaching. “I don’t have a purse, phone, or wallet.”

“Wow, great mugger-deterrent. I totally don’t want to rob you now.”

You plant your feet in the snow and hear Spider-Man let out a sharp breath as he skids around you. “I thought you were the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Not the quippy, neighborhood pervert who follows girls around at night.”

Spider-Man lets out a noise that can only be described as a guffaw. “I’m making sure you get home safely. Since clearly you don’t care. I mean, who walks around this late at night without mace at least?”

“Me,” you tell him flatly. 

“Pretty girls shouldn’t be walking around here on their own.”

Your lips curl and you gag as you continue toward your apartment. “Okay, first of all, totally not helping with your creep angle.” He groans and you almost laugh at the defeated sound. “Also, I’m fresh off a break-up, so keep the compliments to yourself.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Spider-Man quickly jumps in front of you and you frown as he blocks your way. “Breakup,” his voice is pitched so high, you swear it almost sounds familiar. “You broke up with someone?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“R-really?” He tries to lean against a lamppost, slips, and then straightens awkwardly like he meant to do that. “Because you know sometimes people think that it’s just a break and not a breakup, you know? Big difference. Are you sure this isn’t just a break?”

He’s talking so rapidly you can barely understand him. It doesn’t help that he’s got that mask on, so you can’t try to catch the words on his lips to decipher them. You think you might have gotten half of that word-vomit.

“Well, I’m the one who did it. I feel like I should know.”

“Does he?” He holds up his hands, quick to correct himself. “Or she? Spider-Man doesn’t judge.”

“Oh, good to know, he’s a pervert, but at least he’s an ally.” You push past him. “Look, if he doesn’t know, then he’s a lot stupider than I gave him credit for.”

You hear a low, “Ouch,” behind you and figure you might be being a tad harsh about Peter. But what the hell would Spider-Man care?

“You know,” Spider-Man continues after you. 

Jesus, he’s like a damn dog.

“I’ve always believed that everyone deserves a second chance.”

You glare over at him and swear you see the eyes of his mask turn down. You’ve never seen a mask emote before; it’s incredibly bizarre. “Do they deserve a second chance after sleeping with your best friend?”

Spider-Man shrugs, throwing his hands in the air. “Do you have evidence that it happened, though?”

“Dude,” you snap. “What do you care? And what other evidence would I need besides the fact that he wouldn’t tell me the truth? If there was nothing to hide, why would he continue to hide shit?”

You hear his inhale of breath and shake your head, holding your hands up. “No, you know what, no. Alright? I didn’t get my Turtlesaurus Rex and I am not going to listen to some weirdo in a unitard give me relationship advice.”

“Unitard?” He scoffs. “I’m not a weirdo.”

“Oh, yeah?” You call over your shoulder. “Then stop following me home!” It takes a few minutes to believe he’s actually gone and you can finally breathe again. What weird ass fever dream was your life turning into?

You sit on the ledge of your roof’s building, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You’re scrolling through all the texts Peter’s sent you in the last three hours. There are at least fifty of them. But it’s the one at the end that really catches your eye. 

Is this really it? Are we done? Bug-

You stop reading at the nickname and put your phone down. Reluctantly, Spider-Man’s words from the other night pop into your head. Some people think it's a break, not a breakup.

How could Peter not have gotten the message by now?

“Fancy meeting you here.”

You let out a screech and jolt forward. Arms winding wildly as you try to regain your balance. The city tilts below you until something’s latched onto the back of your shirt and you’re suddenly being pulled into a firm chest. 

“Why would you sit on the edge?” Again, his voice gets an impressively shrill pitch. 

Shoving away from him, you whip around and slap his shoulder. “Why would you scare someone sitting on the edge?”

You can hear his sharp intake of breath before his argument fizzles out. “That’s what I thought Spider-Boy-”

“Man.”

“Whatever.” You walk back to the edge and rewrap yourself in your blanket. With a pointed glare over your shoulder, you hop right back on your perch. Spider-Man lets out a world-weary sigh before he jumps up beside you. 

“You know,” he drawls. “Most people say thank you when a superhero saves you.”

“Oh,” you laugh. “Is that what you are, now? A superhero?”

“Dude. What is your problem?” His voice goes so flat, all humor sucked out of it, that, for some weird reason, it’s the first thing he’s said to get a real laugh out of you. He seems just as confused as you are if the way he tosses his hands up means anything. 

“I cannot figure you out.”

You shake your head and brush a stray curl from your eyes. “It’s not you, Bugboy-”

“Rude.”

“It’s life,” you spread your palms out, gesturing to the sprawling city across from you. “Just broke up with the love of my life. Lost my bestie. The research project I’ve been trying to join for a year is falling apart at the seams. Oh, and I almost got shot yesterday.”

You point your face to the sky and let out a dramatic sigh. “God hates me.”

There’s a light nudge on your arm and you look over to see that Spider-Man’s moved closer to you. “God doesn’t hate you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Because I didn’t let you get shot. I’d say that’s pretty damn lucky.” You snort and from the mask, you think he’s… pleased? It’s really hard to tell. 

“I guess that’s fair.” 

Spider-Man lets out a satisfied hum as he turns to the city. “You gotta stop being so hard on yourself, bug.”

Your entire body goes still. Your eyes widen as they stare down at your lap, adrenaline rushing through your blood as you turn toward Spider-Man. “What’d you say?” You ask, voice so low you’re surprised he even registers it. 

He shrugs, “I said to stop being so hard on yourself.”

“No, you called me something. What’d you call me?”

“Bug,” Spider-Man drawls and you swear you’re going crazy because that voice is painfully familiar. “You called me Bugboy, I thought it would be fair.”

It’s too hard to distinguish whether this swooping feeling in your stomach is relief or disappointment. And you hate yourself for not knowing which one you want it to be. 

“Right,” you scoff and rub your eyes. “I’m going crazy, now.”

Spider-Man lets out a long sigh as he watches you. “You kind of seem like you’re having a mental breakdown. Maybe, I don’t know, get off the edge of the very tall building.”

“Oh, don’t tell me Bugboy’s got a crush.”

Your lips curl at his scoff. “You’re impossible.”

Feeling only slightly guilty for the hell you’ve given him, you slip off the edge and get your feet planted firmly on the ground. “Better?”

He surveys you suspiciously before nodding. You pick your phone up off the ledge and, for some reason, are compelled to open up the texts with Peter. You should have guessed how nosey Spider-Man was going to be about it. 

“That the ex?”

You shoot him a flat look as he kicks his legs over the ledge. “Yeah. That’s the ex.”

“So, what are you going to tell him?” He motions toward the last text. “Break or breakup?” Your mind snags on how Peter called you bug and Spider-Man’s weird slip-up before you force yourself to dispel the thoughts. 

“Breakup. I guess I should have made it more clear.” Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you shoot Spider-Man a look. His back has gone weirdly tense and you frown. “Hey, you’re a guy. How’s the nicest way to tell him it’s done.”

“Don’t.” His voice is clipped, almost angry. “He’ll get the hint. Trust me.” 

Your brows furrow as you eye him warily. “Are you okay?”

“Gotta go. Superhero business, you know?” You shrug, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s already leaping off the ledge, thwip-ing his way to the building across from yours. 

“Weirdo,” you scoff. 

You figured that after Spider-Man’s abrupt departure on the roof, that would be the end of it. But, no, it’s only gotten worse for you. He’s everywhere now. He’s somehow more consistent than your ex ever was. 

Walking home from late research sections, look who wants to be a walking buddy. 

Heading to the bodega for a midnight snack, somehow, Spider-Man had the same idea. 

Your life is now a Sunday comic strip in the paper. It’s like there’s some sadistic artist out there exploiting your misery for humor. It’s not just him, either. It’s the month. In all your drama with Peter, you’d failed to keep up with the dates. 

Now, freshly single for the first time in a couple of years, you sit alone preparing yourself for the next week. Valentine’s Day is Saturday, which means suffering through pink streamers all over campus and girls walking around with gift baskets lovingly curated by their boyfriends. 

“I don’t like how often I find you on this ledge.”

You spare a glance over your shoulder and smile. “I don’t like that you still haven’t learned not to scare me.”

“Touche,” Spider-Man breathes out, taking quick strides toward you. “You seem tense. Feel like sharing? I’m a great listener.”

“Nothing big, just Valentine’s Day. I’ve had a boyfriend for so long I forgot how bitter and annoying it is for single people.”

“Tell me about it,” he sighs. 

“Really? The Spider-Man is single?”

“I appreciate the surprise in your voice, no matter how forced it is.” You let out a wry chuckle and you swear you can hear a smile in his laugh. 

“Probably a good thing, though. I can’t imagine any girlfriend would be happy with the amount of time you spend on this ledge with me.”

“No,” he agrees,  “probably not.” The next noise he lets out is soft, tired in the kind of way that resonates with you. For the most part, your interactions are shallow. There’s banter, stupid quips, and then he’s off. You don’t usually hear something so real from him. 

“Freshly single?” You ask. His head whips toward you and you shrug. “I recognize the misery of your sigh. It resonates within my withered heart.”

Spider-Man swats your shoulder lightly and you grin. “Yeah, it’s fresh. I still don’t think I’ve accepted it.”

You prop your chin in your hand and smile at him. “What level of not accepted are we talking here? Stalking? Or just crying over Instagram posts?”

Spider-Man goes quiet and you pull back. He recognizes the suspicion on your face and waves his hands. “No, no, no, this doesn’t count as stalking. Not really. I mean, it’s consensual?”

He sounds more unsure of himself at the end than you did. “Let's just not talk about that,” you offer. “I don’t think I want to know what your idea of consensual stalking is.” Spider-Man snorts and you shake your head. 

A billboard across from you catches your eye. It’s Gwen’s favorite band, an announcement that they’ll be coming through soon. There’s a sharp ache in your chest when you remember you can’t just text her about stuff like that anymore. 

“Gwen would love that,” you say, almost without thinking. 

But what’s worse is when the man beside you doesn’t think either. “Oh, yeah, she would.”

Consensual

Stalking

Oh. My. God. 

Your entire body stiffens as you turn to Spider-Man/maybe your ex-boyfriend. He doesn’t seem to realize his slip-up and that just makes you freeze up. You don’t know what to do. You can’t just blindly accuse him of being Peter. If you start hinting at secret identities, he might stop talking to you. 

Loathe as you are to admit it, you’ve begun to enjoy his company. The main reason being he reminded you of how it was with Peter before you guys started dating. 

Oh, Jesus, you’re gonna throw up off the ledge of your building. When the pavement below seems to swim up to you, it’s time to slip off the ledge. Slowly, fighting off the vertigo of your discovery, you drop back to safety. 

Spider-Man watches you, head tilted in question. “Um, I have to go.” You search for an excuse, but none comes. “Yeah, I have to go.”

“Oh,” he seems taken aback, but doesn’t comment. “Alright. I’ll see you later?”

You let out a noise between a hum and a squeal as you rush back into your apartment building. Your mind is racing while you scramble through the door of your apartment. Like a detective, you flit through different memories, red string connecting each one as you start to line up Peter’s disappearances with Spider-Man's greatest hits.

Every missed date, every time he showed up late, it was all right there. But you never thought to connect it because… Well, why would you? Peter is Peter. He’s not a superhero. He definitely doesn’t have webs. Please, don’t let him have webs. 

Scrambling for your phone, you dial the first number you can think of. It’s barely ringing before it’s getting picked up. “Gwen,” your voice is incredibly shaky as you try to calm yourself down. “I’m going to ask you something and if you don’t tell me the truth, we’re never talking again.”

Spider-Man/Peter Parker/ex-boyfriend-

No, no, too many titles. Peter has not been around in the past week. Not as his alter ego, and not at his lectures. Unfortunately, a lot of your schedule seems to intersect and the majority of your day is spent hiding in a hoodie and trying not to make eye contact. 

But there hasn’t been any of that at all this week. 

Maybe Gwen told him you know. He’s probably losing his mind right now. 

But, no, she swore she wouldn’t and you know she’s not going to risk hurting your friendship again. Though you did profusely apologize for ever thinking that she could do that to you. And then she berated you about thinking she would ever be attracted to Peter. 

Which… Ouch. 

It’s Saturday, which used to mean days spent with him. Instead, it now means watching people get all mushy on Valentine’s Day. That used to be you, disgustingly in love, kissing way more than you should in public. 

Now, you watch it all on the subway with that same old glare you used to have before Peter. You’re thinking about him a lot more than you want to. Especially given that he’s supposed to be an ex. 

After your long speech on respect and boundaries and honesty, you should be completely over him. But it sort of makes sense now. Especially after Gwen told you what happened to her when she found out about him. 

Peter wanted to protect you. You can understand that. But it doesn’t just erase all of the pain you felt while you were in the dark. You let out a low groan, ignoring the people around you as you walk home. You just keep going in circles over and over again. 

The streets around you begin to thin out the closer to home you get. You’re still so deep in thought, you don’t notice the man dangling in front of you until your forehead is smacking into his. 

“Ow,” you hiss, pressing your palm to the bruise that’s probably already forming. Backing up, Spider-Man, Peter, is dangling from the small overpass, upside down, as he waits for you. 

“Dude,” you drawl. “How long have you just been hanging out here?”

He shrugs, “An hour, maybe.” Only in Queens would people pass by a dangling man in spandex and not question a thing. 

One of his hands is tucked behind his back, and the other is holding onto his webbing. “Here,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.”

He untucks his free hand and passes you a bright pink, smothered in glitter, Valentine's Day card. You can hear his proud smile as he asks, “Be my Valentine?”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head with a low laugh. This is the dork you fell in love with. The boy you swore you would follow anywhere. It’s not his fault he’s such an idiot, not really. 

Something soothes the ever permanent ache in your heart as you imagine the smile he’s probably got plastered on face. God, you bet he’s so proud of himself for this silly little Valentine. 

A deep longing echoes through you and you reach up, going for the edge of his mask, when he reels back. “What’re you-”

“Relax, Parker,” you whisper. He goes completely still and you take hold of the mask. 

“Did Gwen tell you?”

“You did, dumbass. You know, you’re really bad at the whole secret identity thing when it comes to consensually stalking your ex.” He lets out a low groan as you peel down his mask, just enough for his lips to be visible. 

Pulling back, you take his face in your hands and smile. “Do you want me as your Valentine, or not?”

“What do you think, bug?” With a soft laugh, you lean forward and press your lips to his. It takes a second to get the angle right, what with his chin brushing your nose and all. But you don’t need perfect, you just need him. 

Pulling back, he’s got a goofy grin on his face and you smirk. “Parker?” He hums as you fix his mask. “If you ever lie to me again, I’ll cut a hole in the crotch of your unitard. Or, worse second option, I’ll tell Jonah Jameson where you live. Got it?”

He goes still and you raise a brow. “You’re not joking?” You shake your head, expression flat. “Yeah, I got it, sweetheart.”

Smiling, you press a kiss to his cheek and step back. “Be home by six,” you tell him. “And bring some takeout.” You walk around him as he swings himself back up to the top of the overpass. 

“I love you!” He calls after you. 

“I know you do, Bugboy!”

𝘞𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘜𝘱 𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                  ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 We've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow 💿

a/n: this was meant to be angstier but, well, I started writing him in the Spider-Man “voice” and folded like a wet paper towel

Subject: Freaks & Geeks Collaboration Proposal  From: [email protected] To: [email protected] CC: Clark Kent <[email protected]>, Peter Parker <[email protected]> Hi, We’re reaching out with a potential collaboration opportunity featuring you, Clark Kent, and Peter Parker. All three of you remain among the highest-ranking performers across many platforms, both individually and through your partnered content, and there has been continued audience interest surrounding the history between you. Viewers have consistently commented on never getting the chance to see either pairing film together while those relationships were public, with more recent requests asking for a scene featuring all three of you. With that in mind, Freaks & Geeks would like to offer you the opportunity to reunite for an exclusive video produced through our platform. The concept would lean into your shared past without requiring anything beyond what each performer is comfortable including. Compensation, testing, boundaries, scheduling, and final concept approval would all be discussed before filming. Please reply all to confirm whether you’re interested, and we’ll move forward once we’ve heard from everyone. - Freaks & Geeks Casting

Your eyes drifted back to the names copied beneath yours. Clark Kent and Peter Parker, sitting right there in the same email thread like someone hadn’t just casually suggested putting you and both of your exes in a video together.

You clicked reply all and started typing. Or, at least, you tried to. Every sentence made it halfway across the screen before you deleted it, caught between this being a horrible idea and one far too good to turn down. Answering too quickly felt desperate, but waiting too long would only make it seem like the proposal bothered you more than it did. And it did bother you, just not in a way to push you any closer to saying no.

The breakups hadn’t been messy. There hadn’t been any cheating, screaming, or catastrophic fallout that made working together impossible. It had only been bad timing with Peter and somehow worse timing with Clark, something you’d eventually made peace with in both cases, especially considering the kind of work you were in. Relationships were hard enough without schedules, travel, contracts, and thousands of strangers having opinions about who you fucked both on and off camera.

There had also been years of silence since then, enough that you couldn’t decide if it made the whole thing better or worse. Maybe the time apart meant there was nothing left to complicate. Maybe enough had changed that the three of you could walk onto a set, do the job, and leave without dragging anything old back up with it. Or maybe the distance just gave you enough of an excuse to say yes without looking too closely at why you wanted to.

You had just started another response when a notification dropped into the thread.

Clark Kent: I’m interested. Feel free to send over the proposed dates and additional details.

Professional, polite, and sent quickly enough that you found yourself checking the timestamp twice. Clark had barely taken five minutes to agree to filming with you and Peter, and before you could decide what that meant, another response came in beneath his.

Peter Parker: I’m in. Scheduling should be flexible on my end, so just let me know what works for everyone.

That left you staring at the thread with their answers sitting beneath the proposal. Neither of them had asked for more time. Neither had suggested talking privately first or added some careful little condition to make the idea sound less insane. They had simply agreed, one right after the other, leaving you as the only person in the thread still pretending the thought of finally getting both of them in the same bed required much more consideration.

Your hands returned to the keyboard before you could talk yourself out of it.

You: I’m interested too. Send over the details when you have them. Looking forward to working with you both.

You read it once, decided it sounded professional enough, and pressed send while you still had the nerve.

Even with the message sent and their replies coming back within seconds, your mind circled the last part of your email. It had sounded polite when you typed it, safe enough to pass as the kind of thing you could tack onto any booking without anyone reading too much into it, except you knew better. Your words had been more honest than polite, more than some little piece of professionalism added to keep the email clean. You meant it. You were looking forward to seeing Peter again, to seeing Clark again, to finding out whether all those years apart had actually changed anything once you were in front of either of them again.

And, yeah, maybe you were looking forward to the fucking part too.

Probably a little more than you should have.

When filming day finally rolled around, the pleasantries were quickly out of the way, both boys having greeted you with those soft, almost sheepish hi’s that had fooled everyone else into thinking they were far more timid than they actually were. Unfortunately, knowing exactly how misleading those little hi’s could be did nothing for your ability to keep yourself together around either of them. 

You’d made it through each introduction without embarrassing yourself, only to lose half a sentence when Peter stepped closer to hear you over something one of the crew members said, his smile pulling wider the second yours faltered under the attention. Clark wasn’t much easier. He asked whether you liked the set, a completely harmless question delivered while his gaze made one slow trip over you before settling back on your face, and you spent long enough staring at his mouth that he had to repeat himself.

It was awkward, sure, and there were nerves because there was simply too much history with each of them for there not to be, but none of it felt reluctant. If anything, the longer you stood around waiting for filming to actually start, the harder that became to believe. And slowly, somewhere between Clark trying not to stare and Peter very clearly enjoying the fact that you noticed, you started to realize that maybe you weren’t the only one with eagerness sitting just beneath every look and word.

By the time the camera pushed in, the skit was already done, the dumb little excuse for why three people were suddenly half naked having served its purpose, leaving you sitting between them on the edge of the bed in nothing but a skimpy bra and matching panties that seemed designed to hide as little as possible. Clark and Peter were shirtless beside you, close enough that their shoulders kept brushing yours while their hands started finding places to settle.

Clark had one hand on your chest, palm covering most of one breast while his mouth worked at your neck, sucking just hard enough to make your head tilt toward him. Peter was on your other side, kissing beneath your jaw while his hand ran up your thigh, fingers spreading over the inside of it before he tugged your leg toward him and hooked it over his. The movement opened you right up between them, and Peter didn’t waste the angle.

His hand went straight between your legs and under the lace, finding you wet enough that the first rub over your clit came slick. Your head fell back on instinct, mouth opening around a breath, and Clark took the invitation for what it was, dragging his mouth lower over your throat and chest while you reached for both belts like the scene called for. Your hand on Peter managed well enough, thumb catching the buckle and pulling the leather free, but the one working at Clark’s belt slipped the second his mouth closed around your nipple. He sucked through the lace first, wetting the fabric against you, while his hand came up to your other breast and squeezed before pinching your nipple hard enough to make your fingers lose the metal completely. You found the buckle again, fumbled it, finally got it loose, but Peter had already decided to make the whole thing harder.

Two fingers pushed inside you. 

That alone would’ve been manageable, except Peter didn’t fuck them in and out the way most guys did when the camera wanted something easy to see. He went straight for what he remembered worked on you—fingers curling up inside while his thumb stayed pressed to your clit, rubbing in tight little passes that made your thighs tense around his hand. You knew that move. Knew exactly how quickly it could wreck your concentration, which was probably why the moan that started in your throat came out sharper than you meant it to.

Peter caught it with his mouth before it got far. He kissed you open and messy, tongue already pushing against yours while his hand kept going between your legs. It looked sloppy from the outside, wet mouths and bad angles and too much tongue, but there was nothing careless about it. Peter knew when to curl his fingers. Knew when to press his thumb harder. Knew exactly how much pressure would make your hips roll into his hand without sending you over too soon, and you were still trying to keep up with his mouth when Clark decided he wanted yours.

His hand came up under your jaw and turned your face away from Peter mid-kiss, pulling you into him. Clark’s mouth covered yours before you could breathe, deeper and heavier, while Peter moved in behind your ear and started kissing the damp skin there, his fingers never stopping inside you. If anything, he got nastier with it once Clark had your mouth, curling harder while his thumb stayed planted against your clit, keeping the pressure constant enough that your body started tightening around him in little involuntary pulls.

A quiet “fuck” slipped against Clark’s mouth when Peter hit the right spot, then another when Clark’s hand closed around your breast again and rolled your nipple between his fingers. Neither of them eased off. Peter kept his hand buried in your panties, working you just enough to keep you soaked and twitching, while Clark kissed you like he’d forgotten the camera was six feet away. Your hands were still somewhere near their belts, technically, but whatever you’d been supposed to do with them had become a distant problem because there was suddenly too much happening at once. All of it was getting overwhelming much faster than you’d expected, and worse, the two of them seemed entirely too comfortable making sure it stayed that way.

Clark’s hand disappeared behind you a second later, fingers finding the clasp of your bra and popping it open with one easy motion. The band loosened against your ribs and the cups shifted away from your chest while Peter’s hand finally slowed between your thighs, then stopped altogether as his attention moved upward. His fingers withdrew, wet enough that you felt them drag along your inner thigh before his hand came up and caught the strap on his side. At the same time Clark pulled the other free, the bra falling down your arms until your breasts spilled free.

Peter’s mouth was on you almost immediately, lips closing around one breast while Clark took the other, and whatever little room you’d had disappeared somewhere between them. The difference in the way they touched you made it impossible to settle into either one for long. Peter was rougher, teeth catching your nipple every time he pulled back before his tongue swept over the sting he’d left behind. Clark stayed on you, sucking until the pressure had your back arching before flattening his tongue over the sensitive tip, slow enough to make you feel every pass. Your body kept giving you away in stupid little jerks between them, hips shifting and shoulders twitching whenever one of them changed what he was doing, only for the other to make it worse before you could adjust.

Your head tipped back, another curse breaking loose as their hands joined in. One squeezed where a mouth had just been, the other dragging lower over your ribs and waist, both of them touching wherever they could reach like neither wanted to give the other much room. Their bodies kept crowding closer until the camera started losing you between them, the shot turning into flashes of bare shoulders, hands gripping skin, mouths pressed to you, belts coming loose, denim shoved down, and the last scraps of lace getting tugged away somewhere underneath all of it.

When the next shot finally cleared, there wasn’t anything left between any of you. You were on your knees between Peter’s thighs with Clark positioned behind you, one hand already locked around your hip while the other ran up your spine. He dropped lower without wasting time, both hands going to your ass as he spread you open and settled in close. Your fingers closed around Peter’s cock at the same time Clark’s slipped through your folds, collecting what was already there and dragging it back over you in long passes.

You gave Peter a few strokes, thumb brushing over the head, trying to stay focused on what was in front of you while Clark made that increasingly difficult from behind. His fingers left you and his mouth took their place, lips pressing right into your pussy before his tongue dragged through you. Wet, open, and hungry. You leaned forward to take Peter into your mouth and missed him completely when Clark sucked at you hard enough to pull a loud moan out instead. Another sound followed when Clark’s tongue pushed back over you, and then another, your mouth hovering uselessly near Peter while the man behind you kept eating you like getting you distracted had become the whole point.

Peter had always been good with his hands, way too good, and it wasn’t like either of them had ever left you wanting when it came to their mouths, but there was just something different about the way Clark ate you out. He didn’t rush through any of it. Every lick felt like he wanted the full taste before moving on, every suck drawn out just enough to make your thighs tense, and every time you shifted against his face he answered with one of those deep, rough sounds that vibrated through you. 

So when your hips bucked back into his mouth by accident, the gravelly noise that tore out of Clark was filthy—damn near obscene—as his hands tightened around your ass. A soft chuckle came a second later, his lips ghosting wetly over you as he murmured, “You miss that?”

It was quiet, something too low for the mics, but you heard every word. Before you could respond, Clark flattened his tongue against you and dragged it up in one firm press, hard enough to make your hips push back into his face again, this time very much on purpose. Another groan left him at that, warm against you, and apparently that was answer enough. He gave the back of your thigh one light kiss, almost sweet compared to everything he’d just been doing, then rose onto his knees behind you.

You finally leaned in and took Peter properly into your mouth, lips stretching around the flushed tip before you took him deeper, the effect on him almost immediate. His head tipped back, throat working around a sharp hiss while one hand found your hair, fingers tightening before he caught himself and moved them beneath your jaw instead. His thighs tensed beneath you, the slight draw of muscle across his stomach showing every time you took more, along with the effort it took to keep himself steady as his cock pushed farther toward your throat. He wanted to thrust. His hips kept threatening to follow you, his hand flexing against your face, but he held himself mostly still until one jerk got away from him, a stutter that pushed him all the way in and made his breath catch.

Behind you, Clark already had one hand wrapped around his length, guiding himself to your entrance. The thick head slid through the wetness his mouth had left behind, pressing in until your body gave around him—slow enough to feel every inch, hard enough that your body opened around him with a stretch that pulled a filthy groan from him. His hands locked around your hips while he fed more of himself into you, and the second he bottomed out, your moan spilled around Peter’s cock instead of into the room. 

You didn’t pull away. If anything, your grip tightened around Peter, both hands wrapping around the base while your mouth stayed on him, tongue circling the head before you sucked him back in.

Peter exhaled roughly. 

“Fuck.”

The scene kept building around that: Clark fucking you from behind while you worked Peter in your mouth, your body caught between two rhythms. Clark had one hand on your hip and the other spread over your lower back, holding you steady while he kept pushing deep enough to rock you forward. Peter kept catching that movement from the other side, hips jerking whenever your mouth pulled back, chasing your lips until the head of his cock knocked into the back of your throat and ruined whatever little breathing pattern you’d managed to find. He’d always done that when he got worked up, that involuntary little chase like his body got ahead of him, and apparently time hadn’t changed it.

Before long, there wasn’t much rhythm left for you to keep at all. Every thrust from Clark shoved you farther onto Peter, every push from Peter made your throat tighten around him, and the sounds coming out of you were mostly useless now, wet and broken around a mouthful of cock. It turned into this nasty back-and-forth where neither of them really had to do much more than keep going because your body was already taking the force from one and feeding it straight into the other.

The crew stayed close through all of it, catching spit slick around your mouth, Peter’s cock disappearing between your lips, Clark’s hand digging harder into your hip every time you clenched around him. Then someone behind the camera finally called for the switch, and Clark slowed just enough to pull out. Your hips followed him before you could stop them, pushing back into the empty space he’d left like your body was still expecting another thrust. You gave Peter one more pass before moving, taking him deep enough that his breath broke into a jagged sound above you, then dragged your mouth back up his length until the swollen head slipped free with a wet pop.

As the camera pulled wider, Peter shifted farther back against the mattress and took you with him, his hands settling at your waist while you climbed over him. Clark stayed right behind you, following the movement until one knee sank into the bed and his other leg came up beside you, foot planted firmly against the mattress. You barely had room to think about how close he still was before your thighs opened around Peter and you settled over him, knees bracketing his hips while your hands came down near his head.

Peter reached between your bodies and wrapped a hand around himself, dragging the wet head through your folds before lining up beneath you. You started lowering yourself, your body opening around him inch by inch while his hands returned to your waist. The burn had you struggling to catch air, but you kept sinking, watching his expression change the more you took him. One of your hands moved from the mattress to the side of his neck, fingers curling there, while the other cupped his jaw and tipped his face toward yours. Peter looked right back at you, lips parting on a rough breath while your own opened around a quiet sound as he filled you deeper and deeper between your thighs.

Clark started easing in from behind once you’d settled over Peter, one hand catching your hip while the other guided himself into the little space left between you. He pushed the head of his cock against where Peter was already buried in, trying to fit in beside him, and the second that thick pressure started forcing its way inside, your whole body jumped. The stretch hit mean and immediate, your thighs locking harder around Peter as your fingers clenched at his jaw.

“Wait—” You sucked in a breath, your forehead nearly dropping against Peter’s. “I need a warmup.” 

Clark stopped right there. 

He backed off just enough to take the pressure down, leaving only the head pressed against you. Peter’s hands shifted at the same time, one sliding up to your shoulder while the other held firm at your hip, and then he started fucking you from underneath. His hips lifted into you in short, steady thrusts at first, working you open around him while Clark stayed there behind you, waiting. Each push from Peter forced more air from your lungs, your body moving over him as the tightness started to give. The drag of him inside you felt different now with Clark pressed at the edge too, every lift making you more aware of just how full you were about to be.

Peter kept going, filling you, pulling back, then pushing up again while your body slowly gave around him. Little by little, your hips started meeting his on their own, following the movement instead of simply taking it. Clark’s hand stayed at your hip through all of it, steady but restless, the little flex of his fingers giving away how badly he wanted to try again.

“You okay?” Peter asked, voice low and already a little fucked up from the way you were tightening around him.

You let out a shaky sound, the answer coming as a soft, breathy hum while your hips kept moving with his. 

In the same second, both of Peter’s hands dropped to your thighs, palms sliding down until he had enough of a grip to start driving up into you harder, his hips snapping under yours in a quicker rhythm that made every stroke hit sharper. You leaned down with it, one hand bracing beside his head as your mouth found his, and the kiss turned messy almost immediately, your breathing too uneven for anything cleaner. Peter kissed you through it anyway, catching every little sound while his hands moved from your thighs to your ass, spreading you wider for Clark.

You felt Clark’s hand join his from behind, palm pressing into one cheek as he opened you up farther and started easing back in. He was slower than Peter, had to be, the thick head of his cock working into the same tight space Peter was already filling while Peter kept fucking up into you underneath. The stretch came back, only this time you didn’t stop them. Your mouth broke from Peter’s around a sharp moan as you tried to breathe through it, tried to work your body around both of them while Clark kept feeding himself in a little at a time.

The closer Clark got to being fully inside, the messier it became. Peter was still moving faster under you, hips snapping up in short, dirty strokes while Clark kept sinking farther from behind, and the difference in rhythm made your whole body work around them instead of with them. One thrust would make you gasp, the next would pull a curse out of you, and then both of them would move close enough together that you couldn’t tell whose cock had hit what, only that the fullness kept dragging higher and hotter until your thighs started shaking. You could feel Peter beneath you, Clark behind you, both buried in the same place and moving just differently enough to make every second hit twice.

“Oh, fuck—shit,” you breathed, except it came out broken because Peter thrust up again at the same time Clark pushed deeper.

That was what made you fold.

Your arm gave beneath you and you dropped forward onto Peter’s chest, the movement so sudden he caught you on instinct. His arms wrapped around you, one hand spreading wide across your back while the other settled high between your shoulder blades, holding you against him as they kept moving. Peter turned his mouth near your ear, breath hot against your skin, and the praise that came out of him was quieter, dirtier, more specific than anything rehearsed for a camera.

“Yeah, there you go,” Peter murmured, his hand pressing flat between your shoulders when he felt you tighten again, his voice slipping into that same low, familiar tone you remembered far too well. “You’re doing so fuckin' good. Knew you could take both of us.”

The words hit almost as hard as the next thrust. You moaned into the side of Peter’s neck, fingers curling into the mattress while your body stayed wedged between them, already too full to pretend any of this felt remotely manageable. 

A cameraman moved in closer for another angle, and Peter adjusted with him, catching your arm and folding it behind your back until your chest opened toward the lens. The second he did, Clark’s hands locked onto your hips from behind, palms spreading wide like he finally had the leverage he wanted. Peter planted himself beneath you, Clark used the hold at your hips to drag you harder into him, and whatever softness had been left in the pace disappeared instantly.

Peter started driving up into you while Clark pounded in from behind, the two of them picking up at nearly the same time until the room filled with the wet smack of skin, the bed creaking underneath it, your own voice getting dragged out louder with every hit. You felt them moving inside you, Peter’s hips meeting yours just as Clark drove forward, their cocks rubbing against each other inside you. Every thrust changed the pressure. Sometimes one pulled back while the other went deep, sometimes they both pressed in close. Clark made a rough sound behind you each time you clenched hard, fingers digging into your hips as he kept fucking into the same cramped, slick space Peter was already taking up.

You were a mess now, moaning too loudly to care what the mics picked up, breath hitching every time one of them reached somewhere sharper inside you. The pace had you slipping in and out of any rhythm of your own, just taking what they gave you and reacting to it, your pussy stretching around both of them while their movements kept grinding against each other.

“Yeah,” Peter murmured when another helpless sound choked out of you, his mouth close to yours while his hips kept snapping under you. “You like having both of us, huh?” 

You wanted to answer, but when Clark drove in harder, the only thing that came out was another snagged sound, your chest heaving while Peter watched you struggle to catch up.

“Hey,” he said against your mouth, lips brushing yours. “Breathe.”

You tried. You actually did, pulling in what little air you could, but Peter pushed up at the exact moment Clark managed another inch into you and the breath fell apart into a moan. Peter’s arm drew you closer, not pinning you, just keeping you from folding completely while his free hand came up over your chest. His palm closed around one breast, squeezing as his mouth went to the other, kissing and sucking at your nipple while Clark kept pounding into you from behind. The extra sensation made your whole body jump between them, and somehow Peter’s name finally made it out of you, choked and thin, barely recognizable under everything else.

“I know. I know,” he murmured against your chest, his hips easing just a little beneath you while his hand stayed firm at your back. 

Clark felt the difference from behind before you even managed a proper breath. The sudden pull of your body around them. The little shake that ran through your thighs. His hand came off your hip and found the arm folded behind your back, fingers closing around your forearm while Peter’s hands dropped to your waist instead. You tensed harder at the change, breath going thin in your throat, and Clark caught it instantly. “Slow, deep breaths,” he told you from behind, voice low but steady. “Come on. Nice and deep.” 

You listened, pulling one shaky breath all the way into your lungs, then another, forcing yourself to loosen around the two thick lengths already stretching you open.

Clark waited just long enough to feel you give before he started fucking you harder. His hand kept your arm pinned where it was while his hips drove forward with more force, each push feeding more of his cock in alongside Peter’s as Peter started thrusting up beneath you again. The rhythm got filthy fast, both of them moving through the same soaked, overfull space, their shafts dragging against each other while your pussy tried to hold around both.

Your careful breathing fell apart into moans, each one getting louder as Clark gave you more of himself and Peter kept meeting him from below, and then Clark hit you just right and his name tore out of you on a cry. It cracked halfway through, thin and fucked up, your body clenching hard enough around them that Peter cursed beneath you.

“Come here,” Clark said, rougher now, not stopping. He gave your arm a firm pull, just enough to lift you off Peter’s chest and bring your upper body higher while Peter kept both hands planted at your hips. 

Whatever rhythm you thought you'd found disappeared once they picked up again, Peter punching upward from the mattress while Clark pounded in from behind, your body caught between the two motions with nowhere for the pressure to go except straight through you. Clark’s free hand came up to your shoulder and brought you a little more upright, changing the angle enough that more of him disappeared inside you with every thrust. The next one landed with enough force to leave your mouth hanging open around a broken sound.

You started trying to move with them, hips working where they could, riding Peter while pushing back for Clark, your body chasing both at once even when it barely knew which rhythm to follow. It was getting too good too fast. You could feel it all building, every thrust feeding the pressure while you tried to fuck back into them through it, thighs shaking around Peter’s hips as Clark kept you lifted just enough to stay seated fully inside of you. 

“Feels so good,” you forced out, the words coming out breathless and ruined, more moan than sentence by the end. Neither of them needed much more than that. Peter’s fingers sank into the flesh at your hips, his thrusts getting rougher while Clark’s pace turned heavier as your body kept bearing down around them.

They could feel how close you were, and judging by the way Peter’s breathing had gone ragged and the rough sounds Clark kept letting out behind you, they weren’t far off either. Your pussy kept pulsing around both lengths, slick and stretched, catching harder whenever one pulled back as the other pushed in, and Clark felt every bit of it.

“That’s it, baby,” he said behind you, voice lower now, gravelly from how hard he was working. “Just like that.”

The name hit somewhere stupidly low in you, somewhere you hadn’t even realized was still there, and your body reacted before you could think too hard about why. 

Peter noticed it too, the way you cinched around them and the little sound that slipped out with it. 

“You still like being called that?” he asked, breath rough beneath you.

“Yes,” you managed, but the word faltered halfway out and turned into a soft, helpless hum when the pressure inside you shifted again.

Peter’s palms pressed harder into your hips. “You gonna come for us?”

You tried to answer. Really tried. But the words got tangled somewhere between the next thrust and the one after that, your mouth opening around something that sounded closer to a moan than anything useful. Clark kept you where he wanted you, his palm bearing down against your bare shoulder as another thrust knocked whatever was left of the answer right out of you.

“Can’t hear you,” Clark said from behind, voice strained and wrecked enough to crawl straight down your back.

“Me neither,” Peter added, and there was something almost sinful about how calm he sounded saying it while his hips kept snapping up into you. “Say it again, baby. You gonna come for us?”

“Yes,” you said again, louder this time, only for it to crack apart into another sound. Every little shift between them changed the pressure in some new awful, perfect way, and both of them seemed way too aware of what they were doing to you.

Peter’s focus stayed locked on you, intense enough that it made the words feel heavier than they were. “One more time,” he said. “Lemme hear you say it.”

Finally the word broke through, over and over. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” spilled out of you in a rush, each one harsher than the last as they kept working you between them. You were making a mess of everything. Breathing too fast, cussing under it, trying to ride Peter and push back for Clark at the same time.

“That’s it,” Clark said, his voice soft but heavy. “There you go. Keep going.”

Peter’s hand moved over your side, steadying you when your body started losing its own rhythm. “Come on, baby. You’re right there.”

That was the problem. You were so close it hurt, and they knew it. The angle had you stretched in a way that made every nerve feel lit up at once, Clark keeping you upright while Peter held you in place on top of him, and the praise only made it worse. Every soft little correction, every filthy bit of encouragement, every time one of them said baby now that they knew exactly what it did to you. Somewhere between another curse and whatever got dragged out of you next, your whole body gave up trying to keep any of it contained.

Your voice came out too loud, the sound followed immediately by a moan that turned into something dangerously close to a sob. Your thighs went rigid first, the rest of you locking around them before the tremors started rolling through. There was no holding any of it back after that, nothing graceful left in the way curses, moans, and breathless little cries kept escaping from of you. Each wave hit hard enough to leave you shaking, Peter and Clark having to keep you balanced as you clenched around them again and again, your body squeezing down so hard it pulled rougher sounds out of both of them.

They talked you through every ugly, helpless reaction your body gave them, but Peter was the first one to lose whatever restraint he still had underneath you. His eyes stayed fixed on you while you came apart over him, watching your face, your shaking body, the way your tits bounced with every movement, still flushed and marked from where his mouth and hands had been all over them earlier. That sight got him. You watched it happen in real time, his jaw going tight, breath breaking with one rough curse as his body tensed beneath yours.

The first hot spill of him landed deep while you were still coming around both of them, and the feeling ripped another cry out of you before you could swallow it. He kept filling you, thick and warm, your body squeezing around him through every pulse while Clark stayed buried behind you and felt all of it happening. Peter’s orgasm pushed you even further over the edge, the fullness turning obscene now, everything inside you slick and crowded and too fucking good.

Clark didn’t last much longer after that.

He finally let go of the arm he’d kept pinned behind your back, both hands dropping to your hips instead, and whatever control he’d managed to hold onto went with it. His hips lost the measured rhythm they’d kept all scene, each thrust turning more frantic as he dragged you back to meet him, Peter still underneath you, shuddering through the last of his own release. Clark kept chasing the feeling until even that started slipping, every movement less controlled than the one before until it finally broke apart completely.

Clark came with a guttural groan, driving himself in as far as your body would take him before filling you right behind Peter. The second load made the pressure inside you feel almost ridiculous, hot and heavy and way too much in the exact way the scene had been threatening to become from the second you agreed to it. Their final pulses kept coming against the same stretched, sensitive walls, one after the other, leaving you trembling around everything they’d given you.

The last of them had barely faded when Clark finally pulled out, Peter following as his hold loosened around your hips. Without either of them there to keep it inside, cum started leaking from you almost immediately, slow, heavy streaks gathering along your pussy before trailing down over the swollen skin. That was when the cameraman moved in. The lens dropped low between the three of you, close enough to catch the aftermath the wider shot couldn’t. 

You were still hovering above Peter with your knees spread and Clark close behind, too oversensitive to do much more than hold yourself there as more cum dripped from you and ran down over them. Some caught along Peter’s shaft where he lay beneath you, more streaked over Clark’s as he stayed close at your back, both of them still coated from being inside you.

Sweat, spit, slick, cum, all of it was there in the shot, mixed across skin and flushed bodies while the three of you tried to catch your breath. It was filthy, excessive, obscene in the best way, and exactly what everyone had asked for: you completely fucked out from both of your exes.

The camera pushed in for one last dirty close-up of the aftermath, of you still stuck in the middle, leaking over them until—

“Cut!”

The word came, meaning the shoot was over but between the three of you, nothing really changed even when it should’ve. Peter’s eyes met yours, his hands slowly tracing back up your thighs, while Clark’s breath warmed your shoulder, lips hovering so close to the skin there that one small shift would’ve turned it into a kiss. Neither seemed particularly interested in putting space back between you. 

Somewhere in the middle of it all, it finally hit you how little you’d wanted to hear that word. How little you wanted any of it to stop. The cameras cutting, the set resetting—everything going back to normal. And judging by the way Peter still hadn’t looked away, or the way Clark’s mouth brushed the spot near your shoulder anyway, you had a feeling you weren’t the only one thinking it.

You’d spent so long caught up in all the what-ifs of the shoot that you hadn’t really thought about what came after. And now that it was over, one video suddenly didn’t feel like enough.

© anon-188 - est. 2025 | all writing, layouts, and designs are my original content. please do not repost, copy, translate, or recreate my work in any form.

for more pornstar!clark content, visit @kentwiththegooddick!

a/n: it’s finally here!!! again, i’m sorry it took FOREVER (four months to be exact) but it’s here now. i’m still a little new to writing threesomes, so please bear with me. on that note, i hope you guys enjoy all the filth that went into this. please let me know if you like it!! <3 (also pornstar!peter au?? i think yes.)

• taglist (click here to join): @nnd-oma @floufli @yeonalie @sullyosully @l0singctrl @animegamerfox @mads3502 @jeanournal @cottagecorebaby @pastelpinkflowerlife @catsdenia @pinksplace @herejustforbuckybarnes @theworstwolvie @kryptidfiles @thceseus @sparklingsin @clarknsun @coffinlolz @angstylittleb1tch @noirecherie @nbhrhn @slowburndarling @enigmatic-muse @stanmarvelous @poptxrts @coolvoidfire @literallydo3eyed @httpstoyosi @daughter-of-the-sea-and-stars @read-and-wip @imsuperawkward @nothing-behindher-eyes @f1fan123 @tellybearryyyy @jejdidsj @shadeaave @everydaydreamer @oh-sheetcake @mayax2o07 @ravenzuni @archxve @eiaf4uwn @fetish-slut @becisreading @prettyflowerlily @shoutingcardinal

• links: masterlist | wattpad

You rouse enough to hiss when Peter brings a wet washcloth between your thighs. 

“Hey,” you say, almost scolding. It makes a laugh bubble up in Peter’s chest, which he generously swallows. 

“Sorry.” He tucks his grin inside your knee, kissing softly. “I’ll be quick.” 

He sweeps the cloth through your folds, and you hiss again, one leg coming up protectively as though you can’t help it. Now, Peter frowns. 

“Is it really that sensitive?” he asks you. 

He guesses he couldn’t blame you. You and Peter spent more time teasing each other tonight than you have in a while, and you weren’t exactly begging him to go easy on you. Your labia are as kiss-swollen as your mouth, maybe more.

The look you give him says you know he knows. “Yeah.” You heave a sigh, like speech is exhausting, your eyes drifting shut again. “I’m sore all over. Aren't you?” 

Peter is, but he also spends his free time doing acrobatics and heaving himself around by his arms. If he twinged a bit walking to the bathroom and back, he bets you’re feeling worse. 

He rubs over your hip consolingly. “Wanna take a bath?” 

You think on it for a while. You’re tempted, Peter can tell. “I don’t feel like getting up.” 

“I’ll carry you.” 

You hum somnolently. “Thanks, but you…” You fumble for Peter’s hand. When you find it, you squeeze his fingers, his sweetheart. Peter squeezes back. “You have to get up early for work.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t mind.” He catches his voice softening, as if he’s trying not to disturb your sleep when really he’s trying to keep you awake. He doesn’t do anything to correct it. “I’ll have coffee either way. Let me give you a bath, pretty girl.” 

It’s a visible effort to open your eyes. You look at Peter like he hung the moon. “Sure?” 

He grins. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“You’d do that?” 

Peter groans, his head dropping to your leg. He lets his voice buzz against your skin. “Are you serious? God, I know you’re tired, but let’s use our brains for a second.” 

He picks his head up to take yours between his hands. You look slightly more awake than you were a moment ago. 

“I would do anything for you,” he says. “Got it?” 

Peter watches your surprise meld into a more startled kind of pleasure. He kisses it right off your lips. 

“Dramatic,” you accuse, settling back into your pillow as Peter stands to start your bath.