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chrystening · 5 years

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Coming To Terms - Peter Parker/Male Reader

Title: Coming To Terms Fandom: Spider-Man Homecoming (2017), MCU Rating: T Words: 3.7k Summary: Peter brings you closer until your foreheads touch, and his hands are dangerously settled on your waist. To anyone else—literally anyone else in the world—it’s beyond a friendly gesture. Or, in other words, what you thought was naiveté was just… not knowing. Warnings: coming out, jealousy, teens being teens, Peter is a Bi

a/n: reupload from my ao3 :^0 i think it’s my fave fic i’ve written lololol

also my commissions are open!

Iron Man — the Iron Man — is dropping you off at your house.

In fact, the sentence bears repeating.

Iron Man is dropping you off at your house right now.

He lowered you onto your roof, the propulsion from his boots causing the shingles of your roof to rattle, dangerously close to becoming loose altogether. He had one arm wrapped around you as the other helped him steer through air. You gripped the hand on your side tighter, titanium almost cutting into your skin.

“Easy, kid,” came billionaire Tony Stark’s voice, slightly tinny. “Easy,” he basically cooed, as he settled finally. You both released your hold on each other. Breathing deeply, you were pleased to meet solid ground – or rather, solid roof.

Spider-Man was here as well; you saw him pacing back and forth prior to your descent. He stood tensely. His ‘eyes’, wide white lenses, widened with relief as he let out a choked sigh. You couldn’t see his face, but you could feel that he was looking at you in disbelief.

Spider-Man tore his mask from his face, and you were graced with Peter’s painfully worried face. His eyes glisten. You smiled, eyes wet as well, as happy to see him as he was you.

Iron Man was slightly taken aback, looking from you to him. “Um, kid, I don’t think you get the whole secret identity thing–” His complaints fell on deaf ears as Peter crushed you into a hug. You returned it with just as much fervor immediately, trying to ignore his very skin tight suit and the body under it, instead trying to focus on platonic things like his soft hair, his sweet scent.

Peter let you go only after he had his fill, but even then kept hold of you at arm’s length, looking you up and down for damage. You shook your head, still a bit too choked to speak. I’m okay, the gesture said.

Suddenly remembering you two aren’t alone, Peter whipped to his mentor and started stumbling over his words. “Oh, God– thank you, Mr. Stark, seriously– I won’t let it happen again–” Stark held a hand up, his iron mask sliding away like a visor, revealing the face you’d only ever seen on a screen or in a magazine.

He looked stern, eyebrows furrowed. “I–” he started, but sighed when he saw you both hold each other protectively. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just—God—look out for him next time, okay?” Peter nodded so fast you feared his head would fall off as Stark pointed an accusatory finger at his protégé. “It’s your job to keep track of civilians.”

Mr. Stark’s attempt to turn the weak scolding into a lesson worked like a charm. Peter stored the lesson retentively in his mind. “I’m not always going to be around to find your friend in the aftermath.” Then Stark turned his attention to you, and you flinched.

“And you,” he jabbed a finger, “need to stop snooping around where you shouldn’t.” You looked away bashfully, scratching your head.

“Yeah, yeah, I know...” you muttered, blushing. In your defense, you didn’t know you were going to stumble across super villains in that alley. You had just been trying to test out your new powers—powers still a secret from Peter.

Satisfied, Mr. Stark’s visor mechanically snapped into place.

“See you sometime, kid.”

He stepped off the roof, and you waited to hear the thud of a landing, but there wasn’t one. Instead, you heard the roar of his thrusters, and in an instant Iron Man was ripping through the night sky.

You stood there gawking after him, eyes following the faint blue trail he left behind, star struck. You blinked dumbly, turning to your friend.

He turned to you at the same time, eyes flickering with exhaustion, relief. He placed his hands gently on your shoulder, eyes furrowed at how subtly you’re shaking. You still feel the crippling fear of being caught by men you’d never want to be caught by, chased down and hunted just for having walked by at the wrong time.

“I was so scared,” he said lowly, the weight of his fatigue clear in his voice.

Peter brought you closer until your foreheads touched, and his hands were dangerously settled on your waist. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. To anyone else—literally anyone else in the world—it was beyond a friendly gesture. It was too intimate, the air too quiet, you both too close – but you doubt Peter even noticed. In fact, when had he ever noticed?

After all, we’re just friends, you thought spitefully. Just friends that hold hands together, sleep on each other’s beds together, take turns feeding each other together, lay on each other together, stare into each other’s eyes together–do everything short of bathing together.

“Thank God you’re okay,” he rushed out, bringing you out of your thoughts with the sincerity flooding his tone.

“Thank Mr. Stark I’m okay, technically,” you said cheekily. “Though, he kind of is your god, huh?”

Peter’s cheeks were pink. His hands on your waist pinched you in protest. “He is totally not God to me.”

“He totally is,” you snickered. You shove Peter playfully, and he feigned injury. “Please,” you snorted. “That did not hurt.”

“Things like that hurt me emotionally,” he returned, clutching his heart.

“I’ve seen you stop trains with your bare hands. You’ll live.” You stepped closer into Peter’s chest and linked your arms around his neck. “Now get me down from here.” Peter wrapped his arms around you and hopped down effortlessly to the ground, dark grass crushed under his feet.

As soon as you could, you slipped out of his grip before you could get lost in it. You smiled at him, hoping you didn’t look as sad as you felt.

“Thanks, Pete.” He nodded and took a step forward, opening his mouth to speak. You knew he was about to ask to sleep over, but you just couldn’t. You couldn’t deal with another night of him so close yet so far, couldn’t deal with another night of pretending. And you definitely couldn’t deal with another night of seeing him strip in front of you to change into pajamas.

“See you tomorrow?” you asked, effectively shutting it down.

Sheepish, Peter nodded. “Err, yeah, okay. Yeah, you should… get some rest. See you.” You nodded and waved weakly before entering your home without a second look.

Shaking your head, you thought about how you also couldn’t deal with the crestfallen look on his face.

You heard the rustle of grass, the thwip of a web, the whistle of air, and you knew he was gone.

“… Bro, no—“ you begin, about to firmly but gently fucking school Peter on just who exactly was the strongest character in the comics you both were reading. Peter’s brow furrows, and he’s about to interrupt you when someone else does.

“Are you two… dating?” a classmate asks, clear apprehension and disgust on his face.

You both turn around.

It’s the passing period before second period. Students file out their classrooms and into the halls, and the air is alive with conversations overlapping over each other. You and Peter’s lockers are right next to each other, contrasting with his filled with books and science notes and yours with your favorite bands, but both containing the same copy of a picture of you two from a photo booth.

You shift your weight onto your other leg, smirking. You knew it was only a matter of time before someone asked.

You say coyly, “And if we are? So what?” You turn to Peter, whose eyes look at you with approval. You smile widely, enamored with him.

You snorted mentally. Was this dude blind? Of course you two were dating. It had happened seamlessly—neither of you truly said the words, but neither of you had to. You both were just on the same wavelength.

Your cheeks heated and you hoped it didn’t show as you bit your lip, looking at Peter. You wondered what he was doing tonight…

“… Gross,” your peer utters, walking away.

“Fuck off,” you spit after him. You turn to Peter, “Who cares about his shitty opinion?” Beside you, Peter is nodding fervently, seemingly empowered.

You grin as Peter turns to where your classmate had walked, shouting after him, “Yeah, what he said!” Then in words that made you freeze, he added:

“Besides, we’re just friends!”

You blinked, looking down at your book but not seeing. The words are little more than alphabet soup before your eyes. Your mind reeled back from the memory of last week. It seethed, whined, whimpered – just friends?

“… just friends! … just friends! … just friends!” It played on repeat in your head.

You shook your head, turning a bit to the right.

At his desk, Peter was tinkering with the Lego Death Star that Ned had dropped. His eyebrows were furrowed in deep focus as you marveled at the tendons and muscles that shifted under his skin. He bit his lip at one part, pausing to see where it would fit best. He looked great like that, hair in a casual quiff. Realizing you were staring, you huffed. Only Peter could make assembling Legos look good.

Suddenly, an idea niggled its evil way into your head.

There was no way Peter doesn’t feel anything for you, you mentally resolved. At least, there had to be no way, because the alternative was something you didn’t think you were mentally strong enough to consider.

You raised your book up to your face, bringing your knees to your chest as you sit on his bed.

“Mr. Stark’s pretty hot, right?”

Peter looks befuddled, first at the silence being broken, and then in registry of what you actually just said.

“I… What?” You smirked, hiding it behind the book you pretend to be invested in.

“I’m just saying,” you began nonchalantly. “After last night—I just realized he was kind of attractive, is all.” You didn’t hear anything but silence, so you spared Peter a glance. He was still looking at you in abhorrence, but ducked his head down, back to his toy.

“Well, not to me,” he said, clipped and bothered. Was that the slightest hint of bitterness? You wondered if it was wrong to feel giddy. You hated to play with Peter like this, but you had to. You couldn’t handle things continuing the way they had.

“Really?”

Peter let out a breath, trying to squeeze a Lego block where it clearly didn’t belong. “I—yeah, I just don’t think he’s like, all that.”

“Really?” you said. “He’s totally attractive, and funny, and he’s a superhero, and he’s rich. That makes him even hotter.” You feigned gushing over Peter’s mentor, even though Peter was at least three of those four things and so much more. You looked at Peter, wishing he knew that, as he didn’t look at you. His shoulders tensed, bunched up near his ears. “It’s not wonder he has so many people falling at his feet. I don’t blame them.”

He didn’t respond. You put your book down in your lap, eyeing your frustrated friend. You had to fight a smug grin from your face in lieu of oblivious concern. “Pete? Why’re you so angry?”

He shrugged, not looking up. “I’m not… angry.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, whatever—upset.”

Peter raised his hands in defense. “I’m not upset either.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just…” Peter’s jaw shifted.

No, we’re having this breakthrough, damn it. “You just…?” You tried to bring him to speak.

“I just never knew you… liked him like that.” Peter looked… sad. A pang of guilt rushed your heart. Knocking over his self esteem was not in the plan.

“I mean, I don’t really,” you disclaimed, blurting it out before Peter could feel anymore sorry for himself. “I just… think he’s cool. You think he’s cool, too.”

Peter looked offended at the possible insinuations you hadn’t even made yet. “Yeah but not like that!”

“Like what?” You feigned ignorance.

“Like…” He gestured widely with his hands as if they’d do the talking for him. “Like a boyfriend—”

“I don’t want him to be my boyfriend,” you said truthfully, leaning so far towards his direction you’re about to fall off the bed. “I don’t want him to be my boyfriend,” you reasserted, hoping to send some telepathic message to Peter.

But like all the time you’ve known him, despite his intelligence and acute observational skills, he was utterly blind to the matter of your ‘friendship.’

Peter’s shoulders relaxed, and he no longer bristled. It seemed he no longer cared to finish the conversation, having gotten the confirmation he didn’t know he needed. You, on the other hand, were dissatisfied. You sighed and stood, knowing you couldn’t be subtle about it anymore.

You treaded to Peter in a steady pace, not too fast, not too slow. You didn’t want to scare him.

When you were a small distance away, he turned, looking up to you.

You stopped in front of him, frowning but eyes hard with iron resolve. You leaned down, and you could see the question form in his eyes. You put your hands lightly on his shoulders, hoping the contact would calm him down. You were an inch from his nose when you could see him finally realize what the fuck was going on.

Then you stopped thinking of all thoughts—all thoughts besides how soft his lips were, even though they were chapped. You didn’t think of how he stiffened under you, of how it was quite possible he really didn’t like you, or of how you’d have to face the consequences of this kiss in a few seconds. Instead, you just pressed harder against his lips. Your body felt hot and your tongue wanted to do nothing but slip past your lips and past his own. But you knew you had to keep it tame. It was no doubt his first time.

Just as it was yours, you thought with a blush.

After a time that was both seconds and years, you stopped. You didn’t stand to your full height, instead squatting to meet Peter eye to eye. Your leg muscles whined, but you ignored them. You opened your eyes, and had to stop yourself from laughing in his face.

Peter looked petrified.

You would’ve grinned, if not for the sudden bolt of fear that reduced all your resolve to ash. Oh god, what if he really doesn’t feel the same—I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined it—

You terror-fueled thoughts eased to a stop once you saw the telltale red darken his cheeks, ears, and spread down his neck. Your breath hitched and you dared to hope.

“I… like you, Peter,” you confessed. A bit belated, perhaps, but better than never. He gawked at you as if he was seeing you for the first time. “I like you a lot.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you shook your head.

“No—I have stayed silent for forever, so please let me speak.” You didn’t wait for a nod before continuing. “I… I kind of thought we were already together but—hey, do you remember last week that one guy walked up to us and asked if we were dating?” His eyes lowered as he tried to remember, but you kept going. “And then I told him to fuck off and you said ‘Yeah, what he said! But we’re just friends!’?” At your leg muscles' crying, you pulled up the chair right behind you. You felt only physical relief as you sat down.

“That…” You swallowed thickly, still not brave enough to tell him what it had felt like. Just at the thought, tears stung, warning you to not wander too closely to the topic. “That … really sucked,” you finished lamely.

You both stared at each other, silent.

You had thought of this moment forever, and everything you’d say and tell him so he’d know—but now, you realized you had little to say at all. Or rather, you wanted to listen. What was Peter thinking?

Peter wasn’t as shell-shocked as he had been moments before, but he was clearly just gathering his bearings. Once you saw gears turn in his head, he blinked rapidly and averted his eyes from the eye contact.

“I…” he started. “I… did just think we were just friends.” It should’ve discouraged you, but the uncertainty in his tone made you feel as if there was hope. He then looked confused with himself. “I mean… I think I did.”

You sat back in your seat, sighing.

“Hugging,” you said after a while. He looked to you, expecting elaboration. “Holding hands.” You let one of your hands trail down to his, fingers resting on his with a feather-light touch. “Wearing each other’s clothes all the time. Sharing beds. Hell, we cuddled to sleep once,” you finished, exasperated. “Do you do that with all your friends?”

“I—“ he started. You paled, a scary thought you hadn’t considered coming to mind.

“Do you do things like that with Ned?”

“What, no! I,” he sputtered. “No,” he admitted, looking down. Then his eyes whipped back up to you as he exclaimed, “I mean, he’s… Ned! He’s not you—and us…” He looked embarrassed, but as if he was trying to articulate something. He tried to make sense of it with his hands, gesturing anxiously.

“We’re just… like that.”

Like what? Your mind screamed, before you saw his expression. You recognized that look of bewilderment, having made it before. It had been years since, though.

His expression and last words connected a pair of threads in your head, and you felt a wave of what you could only call ‘… oh’ wash over you. You thought he was oblivious, that he was frustratingly naïve but… Peter didn’t even know. Hearing him explain, or rather, fail to, you smiled weakly. It was a tired one, but a smile nonetheless. Because after all this time, you had your answer, even if he didn’t know it himself yet.

“I think,” you started, slowly, “you like me, too.” He looked to you, eyes wide, confused, scared, and eager all at once. I do? His expression asked. You breathed deeply. “I think you’re just…confused.” He looked at you with an unamused expression, one you laughed at.

Laughter dying, you elaborated, “I mean, yeah, obviously. But like… confused about being g…” You chose your words carefully, not trying to scare him. “… liking guys.” He sat straight in his chair, as if the thought had never crossed his mind. Well, you were sure it hadn’t.

Between the demands of school, being an anxious teenager, and being a superhero, when did he have time to think about anything?

You felt any irritation at him ebb away. When did he have time to think about anything… especially something as confusing to come to terms with like this.

“… I like guys?” He looked to you for an answer. You smiled.

“That’s something only you could know the answer to.” But yeah, you probably do, you thought. “And sometimes,” you trailed, looking far away. “It takes a while to even know. Some people never do.”

You paused to let him think, patient.

His eyes then filled with surety, and you smiled even wider. Had he come to an answer?

“I… I don’t know.” You raised an eyebrow, spirits falling. Then he looked at you. “But I do know I like you.” Your heart filled to the brim with an emotion inexplicable. You could only describe it as light, warm, pink, and lifting.

“I like you, too,” you smiled, refusing to let your eyes glisten. You could’ve laughed at the pitiful croak of your voice if you didn’t see Peter lean in.

“I think… I want to date,” he said in a whisper. You nodded fervently, leaning closer to him like you were drawn by strings.

You two met in the middle, eyes closing and heads tilted so you both would fit perfectly. His newfound revelation was evident in his kiss. He was a bit hesitant, testing the waters. But he didn’t stop.

Not separating, you gave him an encouraging nod, lips curling into his own as your cheeks warmed. You allowed one eye to peek open, and you saw his hands were suspended in air, not knowing what to do with themselves. You took them and placed them on your waist and the small of your back. Though to do so, you had to hop from your seat onto a new one—his lap. You let out a muffled chuckle at his reddening face.

With movements a little clumsy, it dawned on you that neither of you knew what you were doing. But somehow, that was all the fun of it. You both could figure it out together. You could help Peter figure himself out as well. That is, if you were alive to. Peter wasn’t letting up at all, only growing more fevered as time went on.

You tried to draw the kiss to a close, but he only pressed further. You tapped on his shoulders, but he only tightened the grip he had on you. You stirred hotly and decided the moment needed to end before it got too far.

You ripped yourself from his lips, gasping deeply. Peter looked at you in confusion, oblivious.

Coughing, you asked, “Do spiders have extreme breath-holding skills?”

Peter’s chest heaved with deep breaths, mirroring your own. He looked winded, but by no means uneager to begin again.

“I... don't think so,” he panted. He huffed some more, his lip quirking. He looked at you like you were the sun. You beamed down at him, kicking your feet childishly. You both settled into a comfortable silence, your arms locked behind his neck and around his shoulders.

“But, I’ve got to ask this time,” you said slowly. Your expression grew soft. You wished you could sound more confident, or even be so confident to not even ask, but you were still fearful of being blindsided. “If … someone asks if we’re dating—“

“We’ll both say yes,” he finished, looking to you for confirmation.

You were more than happy to reassure him with a warm gaze.

His hands on your waist, his eyes meeting yours, the air still and quiet—you grinned, marinating in the moment.

Anyone—anyone in the world—would be able to tell you both were more than just friends.

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