Parker x Reader
As part of my request a prompt, 300 follower celebration.
@not-peterparker requested: 7,
53! Congrats btw!
Prompts: “I can’t do this without you.” and “I’m crazy about you.”
Thank you for your request and for following me! Ok, so you didn’t specify what you wanted, so I apologize if this isn’t what you had in mind (in fact, I’m sure it won’t be,) but this is kind of what fell out of my brain for those sentences. Words: 1.9K.
Peter is in his 20s. Peter and
reader have been together for a long time.
Warnings: This is a little gory. Or a lot. It’s a lot gory. Angsty fluff.
The tightly woven sheet of clouds outside your window blanketed the sliver of a moon hanging high in the sky, offering none of its luminance to the city below, making the already cold, rainy night seem even more dreary and off-putting in its darkness; darkness that made it difficult to see him in your equally blackened room. The masked form of him had practically fallen into your arms the moment you’d slid the window of your shared bedroom open at the sound of his panicked knocking, the entire weight of him supported by your chest; your back protesting the angle; his wet, sticky arms around your neck as he slumped against you.
When the bridge of his nose found the crook of your shoulder he released a soggy sigh into the skin there.
The dampness of his suit spread over the front of you, your borrowed t-shirt quickly soaking through and warming your skin. He groaned when you shifted, an arm pulling too tightly at his back to prevent him from sliding down your body, chests smashing together as you tried your best to support his drooping, lethargic form. “Hey, c’mon,” you encouraged as you started taking slow, measured steps towards your bed, his booted feet lagging and unintentionally smashing against your bare toes. “Peter, hun, you’re really heavy.”
He nodded, the corrugated material of his suit chaffing against your wet skin. You freed up an arm to pull his mask off, his wet hair sticking to the insides, lifting as you freed the strands and flopping back down onto his ears and forehead, dampened curls sticking to his skin as you dropped the fabric to the ground at your feet.
“Pete?” you adjusted your arms again, looping them underneath his, pulling his face from off of your shoulder, his chin bouncing off of a bony collar, to get a better look at him, “Peter, what’s wrong?” His hands hung limply at his sides, cascading pitifully over the tops of your own. When his eyes met yours, you were startled by how utterly exhausted he looked; the darkness in the room accentuating the bruised coloration beneath dull brown. It was the color of his skin that bothered you most, or really, the lack of; so pale that his skin was nearly glowing, rain water and sweat glistening, his clamminess casting its own ghastly light.
You furrowed your brows, voice escaping you in a whisper, “Peter?”