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callofdiva · 5 years

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it all works out in the end - ☀️ 🌙

warnings: a little bit of angstttt, some tears and a sad peter

happy valentines day everyone!! to celebrate you get some quality angst-and-fluff!

this is my submission for two things:

1. for @dtftomholland ‘s dollar valentine writing thing!

2. for @urbanhaz ‘s 1K writing challenge! ( congrats! )

this is dedicated to @euphoricholland , who was my assigned valentine! happy Valentine’s Day! I hope you enjoy!

“Please don’t walk out of that door.” —With Peter Parker

buckle up ladies and gentlemen

When Peter Parker had asked you to be his, he vowed to come through, to be the one person you could rely on to answer texts instantly, the one who could prove to you that not all guys your age went back on promises and ‘forgot’ about movie nights and split the check on dates at fancy restaurants.

But here you are, slumped against the headboard of your bed as the city of Queens grows ever darker outside your window. You’ve been waiting for a text all evening, waiting for a response to that message you sent Peter three hours ago, when you’d given up on your algebra homework and texted him asking if he’d be up for a movie marathon, keeping with the Friday-night tradition the pair of you had started long before he’d ever asked you out, long before you’d even stopped thinking that boys had cooties.

And you fell in love with him through one of those sacred movie nights, or, at least, you realized that you had fallen head over heels for the baby-faced boy with the contagious laugh and dumb-but-actually-adorable obsession with the Star Wars films.

And here you were, practically pulling your hair out over a stupid text you sent just a few hours ago. It’s probably dumb, you know, but with every minute that passes, the concern, tinged with annoyance, builds inside you until you’re nearly having a breakdown. You’re absolutely pissed, because, however unlike anything the Peter you fell in love with it was, you’ve grown accustomed to having your texts left unread, and dates cancelled at the last second, as it’s all he’s been doing lately.

You want to throw your phone at the wall, chuck it out the window and watch it fall five stories into the six o’clock rush traffic, let it shatter to pieces under the wheel of a taxicab.

Instead, you hurl it into your pillow, watch it hit the mattress and promptly slide between the headboard and the mattress itself, dropping onto the wooden floor below.

“Dammit,” you mutter, reaching down to retrieve it, flinching as the buildup of cobwebs and dust brush against your fingers. Gritting your teeth, you pull your arm back, phone now in hand, and wipe it against your sheets, to clear it of the dusty residue.

And somehow, that’s it for you. Without fully comprehending what your body is doing, you’re suddenly aware that your feet are now planted on the ground, phone in your pocket, and hand grasping the fabric of your jacket, which is hung across the back of your desk chair. So you let this sudden burst of frustration and anger carry you, letting your bedroom door slam behind you on your way to the front door of the apartment you share with your mom and sister.

The laces of your sneakers are untied, flopping everywhere as you storm down through the lobby of the building, off-white strings becoming more and more muddled as they’re trampled under your shoes, the New York sidewalks taking their toll, and you should care but you really don’t. You just want to walk the two blocks to May Parker’s apartment and get this over with.

On the way, you rehearse what you’re going to say to him. You’re only seeing red, yet every time you imagine yelling at him, it feels wrong. It feels wrong because you know you physically can’t. You know that you’d feel sick if you ever screamed at him like you sometimes wish you could. Because you knew that being screamed at by someone you loved hurt like hell, and you were nowhere near cruel enough to do that to Peter, no matter how badly he’s been screwing up lately.

You’re still muttering under your breath when you get to the building that May and Peter live in, still completely unsure of what you could do, what you could say, to fix this whole wreck. You take the stairs up, instead of the elevator, just so you have the time to feebly attempt to calm yourself, to take a deep breath and clear your head.

The anger has subsided by the time you stand at the door, fist raised to rap against the door. The rage has turned to doubt, in yourself and Peter, and the relationship, and you’re not sure that this is even an improvement. Because suddenly you feel vulnerable, like your relationship has been sinking for a while now, and Peter’s finally decided that it was time to jump ship.

Suddenly the door in front of you is pulled open, and Aunt May crashes full-on into you. She grabs your shoulder before you go crashing down, steadying you.

“Y/N! It’s been a while, huh?”

You nod weakly, suddenly becoming less sure of yourself, what you’re here to do.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart! I was just going to pick up the mail. Peter’s in his room, though!”

Ushering you inside, she steps back out the door.

“I’ll be back in a minute!”

And then you’re left standing in the entry of the small apartment, on the verge of a mental and emotional breakdown. It’s quiet, and you think Peter’s probably studying, although for what, you don’t know. As far as you know, there’s no upcoming tests that need to be studied for, let alone for Peter, who’s practically a genius.

But then you hear a creaking sound and you gather all the courage you have left and start toward his room. Almost exactly as you reach the door, which had been cracked open the tiniest bit, it suddenly clicks closed.

You knock softly on it, lower lip caught between your teeth. You can hear mumbled curses and scuffling, and then, “Give me a second, May! I-!”

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. His voice washes over every nerve in your body, and suddenly you’re not nearly as upset as you were. Terrified? Yes. Frustrated? Not so much.

“It’s not May, Peter. Can I-can I come in? Please?”

He’s shocked that it’s you, taken completely by surprise, you know that simply by hearing the way the scrambling suddenly stops, then resumes, more frantic than before.

“Pete, I’m opening the door, alright?” You say it only partially as a warning, but more so as a promise to yourself, to keep yourself from turning the other way and sprinting out of the building.

And then you’re opening the door, and you see a half-naked Peter standing, red-faced, in the center of the room, hangers in the closet still swinging from... something he’d thrown in there less than a second before the door had opened.

But your eyes are fixated on the boy in front of you, and you wonder when, exactly, your boyfriend had bulked up like this. But you remember that the last time you saw him shirtless was months ago, even though you see him without a top nearly every time either of you sleeps over at the other’s. Guess that just goes to show how long it had been since he’d actually come through on his promises.

And he looks good, too. He has a six-pack now, and his biceps are giant. You swear, if you weren’t angry at him, you’d be all over him, no doubt. It takes everything in you not to throw yourself at him, to kiss him senseless, because, quite frankly, he’s hot. And it’s making you angry in the oddest way.

“Wha-what’re you doing here?” His eyes are everywhere but on you, his face red as he shifts uncomfortably.

“Pete, we need to talk. Badly.”

His eyes shoot upwards, finally looking you in the eye. Both of you know that conversations that are prompted by ‘we need to talk,” never end well. You’d be lying if you said you yourself weren’t terrified.

“Oh... What about?” He acts like he doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t, but if that’s the case, he’s the most oblivious person you’ve ever met. It’s obvious. Something’s been going very wrong and it needs to be fixed before the two of you start falling apart beyond repair.

“Peter, you... I— can you please put a shirt on first? I really can’t focus with you looking like that.” It slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, and your face heats up.

He grunts in response, pulling a sweatshirt over his head before turning back to you.

“Tonight was supposed to be movie night, Peter, like every Friday. Wh-why didn’t you answer? Or at least tell me that you were busy, or whatever?”

Peter’s heart drops. Shit, shit, shit.

He was out on patrol, and he swears he was just about to head back to his apartment when he’d seen a group of older guys trailing a group of teenage girls. He’d made quick work of them, but the girls, terribly grateful for the hero who’d saved them from god-knows-what, had kept him, trapped in conversation, occasionally taking selfies and hugging him, for what was definitely too long.

“Babe, I... I’m so sorry, I lost track of what ti—.” He starts, only to be cut off by you.

“Peter, this is what’s been going on for weeks! Sorry just isn’t cutting it at this point, okay? You’d better have a goshdarn good explanation for ditching me like this, because I’m getting really goddamn tired of it, okay?”

He’s silent, thinking for a minute. “I...”

You sigh, looking down at your hands, picking at your cuticles to distract yourself from the tears prickling the corners of your eyes.

“Nothing?” Your voice wavers, and you know he picks up on it. “Not even a lousy excuse? Wow. I thought you’d be better than this, Peter Parker. Really did. But turns out you’re like every other guy. The same ones you promised that you’d never be.”

“No, please! Y/N, I-I can’t tell you but trust me, I wish I could!” His own voice cracks in the middle, his eyes pink as he struggles to hold back tears.

“If you really wanted to all that badly, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” You look up at him once more before turning, reaching for the door handle. Forget watching movies, you’re ready to curl up in bed and cry for the rest of the night.

“Please don’t walk out of that door.”

His words are mumbled, but you hear them. You hear the sobs that are building inside his throat, knowing they’ll jump out at any second. He’s choking on his tears, his breathing heavy and thick.

It breaks you.

“I have to, Peter,” you sniff, wiping your eyes on the sleeve of your shirt, turning back to him. “I have to or I’m worried that one of us will say something stupid and ruin everything.”

He takes a deep breath, looking up at you. Red eyes meet red eyes and it’s nearly too much. And you feel guilty now, guilty for being the cause of this breakdown he’s having.

“I’m... I’m Spider-Man.” It’s dead silent suddenly, aside from Peter’s sniff as he suddenly glances at the door. “Oh crap, Aunt May—!”

“She was on her way for the mail, you’re fine.”

“Oh.” There’s a long pause. And then: “Aren’t you going to yell at me? For... for not telling you? About me being—.”

“I’m not going to yell at you. I’m not mad, Peter. And before you ask, I’m not disappointed, either.” You let out a watery laugh, and so does the boy across the room. “Yeah, I’d have loved if you’d... told me. But it’s your business, and you don’t have to share that with me, if you feel it’s the best option.”

“God, I knew I loved you for a reason.” He chuckles to himself, the tear-tracks on his cheeks contrasting starkly to his smile-wrinkled eyes. You don’t hear it all, but you definitely catch the word ‘love,’ and at first, you’re scared that he’s about to break up with you.

“What?”

He looks up wide-eyed, face dropping a bit. “Crap... that wasn’t a good time to say that, was it? That I-that I love you... when we’re talking about this serious stuff and—?”

“I love you, too,” you whisper, eyes meeting his again. “I love you so, so much. Can I... can I hug you?”

He nods, and his arms are wrapped around you in a second. He’s soft and warm and you missed this so much. You missed him.

“So, you said you’re actually Spider-Man? As in... the hot guy in the red suit?”

His face goes red, nodding gently, holding in a laugh. “Bu—! You didn’t-you didn’t know I was in the suit but you thought...it was hot? But I’m your boyfriend!? And—!”

You laugh, looking up at him teasingly. “Yeah, but it works out in the end doesn’t it?”

It works out in the end. Just like it always does for you two.

—

tagging for a signal boost:

@graciesmiles21 @hollandsosterfield @winter-soldatt @softscottlang @fratboievans @positiveparker @spideypeach (I think you said you wanted to be tagged in people’s writings whether they were mutuals or not) @philosopherofnothing @drunkpeach68 @sleepybesson @tbhhhhhhhhhh @mylovesweetpea @elizabethpaisley13 @euphoricholland @darlingxholland @marvelouspeterparker @spideyjlaw @badhollandfluff @underoos-tom @spidey-webbs @leiasfanaccount648 @hedwigthelegend @pleasantlyparker @cartwheelandfaceplant @butwhyduh @bluelalal @cap-steve-rogers @toms-darling @multiversefangirl19 @littlebookbengal @musiclover1263 @musicgirl234 @starksparker

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