In My Peter Parker Phase Again And I Think I'm Going To Use This As My Bedtime Story For The Next Week

In my peter parker phase again and I think I'm going to use this as my bedtime story for the next week xoxo

first date | tasm!peter parker x reader

“How can you think about kissing me right now?” you ask him, scrubbing your eyes with your hand.

“I think about kissing you all the time.”

<3

summary you take care of a sick Peter on your would be first date. later, he returns the favour and makes some promises. [3k]

warnings fluff, hurt/comfort, sickfic, vomit tw, friends to trying really hard to be lovers, fem!reader

<3

Peter stands in the doorway wearing a rumpled shirt and sweatpants and you know before he opens his mouth your plans are cancelled.

"Pete," you whine, in your prettiest dress and your best jewellery. "You couldn't have called me?"

"I'm sorry, dovey, I fell asleep." He sneezes into his elbow. "Your knock woke me up. Sorry.”

You shiver as a cold breeze whips past you. "It's okay."

He opens the door wider. "You look killer. And cold. Let me find you a jacket. "

You withhold the evil urge to step on his socks. Closer now you can see his clammy skin and dirty hair, the minute trembling of his hands.

"You know, Pete, maybe you should get back in bed. Or I could run you a bath," you say, knowing it's a little weird. He scrunches his eyes shut and opens them, blinking hard at you. "When did you last eat?" you ask, frowning at him.

"Last night."

"It's six o'clock," you say, sighing.

You look around him and see the living room sofa covered in tissues and a quilt. The TV's on mute. There's a hoodie on the back of the sofa. You pick it up and press it to your nose. It's clean, and you shrug it on over your silly sparkly dress. Peter offers his arm and you take it, using him for balance as you toe off your heels.

He's looking at you a little too despondently for your liking. You take him by the forearm and lead him back to sit on the sofa.

"I can't remember the last time you got sick," you say, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead.

He's not feverish. You straighten up and smile at him.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright," he says, the words sounding taffy sticky in his mouth.

"Are you hungry?" you ask.

He frowns. You want to stroke his cheek, smooth the line away. You get to work instead. In a flurry you collect all his dirty tissues and take his empty glass from the coffee table. You fill the glass up to the top with cold water and take it back in. He's already deflating, eyes closed.

"Will you drink this for me?" you ask, pushing the limp hair from his eyes. They flutter open. "I'll make you something to eat, too. It'll make you feel better."

He takes the glass and holds it to his chest.

"You don't have to take care of me," he says, voice scratchy.

"I can't go on our date alone, either."

"Date," he repeats. "Was it a date?"

"Yes, Peter," you say, not even slightly surprised by this. He goes to stand up. You push him back down. "Where are you going?"

"We had a date," he says, looking up at you.

You smile at him, you can't help it. He's a total sweetheart. "We can have another date."

"I didn't even know this one was a date," he says, frowning. "No wonder you're dressed so pretty. Oh my god."

"It's okay, Peter. I promise you can have a do over, so could you please just sit?"

"A date," he murmurs to himself, sinking into the cushions. "Are you sure it was a date?"

"I'm starting to think maybe it wasn't," you say under your breath. You pile your hair up out of your face and push up your sleeves.

"I'm sorry," he calls, voice all scratchy and croaky.

You feel bad, then, for the inkling of dejection curled up in your chest. It wasn't his fault he was sick, and maybe you hadn't made yourself clear enough that it was, in fact, a formal date.

Cutlery rattles as you pull open the first drawer next to the stove top. You fish out a can opener and shake your head. "It's really okay, Peter. Even if you'd known that I thought it was a real date, you couldn't have prevented yourself from getting sick."

You were familiar in his kitchen. Months of Peter bringing you home to tend your wounds and feed you. Last week he'd kissed your bandaged knees, so when he'd asked you to dinner, yes, you'd thought it was a date.

Pouring the newly opened can of soup into a pot over the stove top, you put the burner to simmer and stirred for good measure.

You wander back into the living room without really thinking. Peter looks positively miserable with the quilt pulled over him. You work your way into his side and tentatively pull his head into your chest, push your fingers into his hair to brush the tips of them against his scalp. He relaxes under your touch.

"You asked if I wanted to go to the new Thai place. I said, 'I'll meet you at six thirty,' and you said, 'it's a date,'" you tell him quietly, using your other hand to hold the hair from his face.

"I know I said that," he admits sheepishly.

"Then why are you surprised?"

"I didn't think you actually wanted that from me."

You feel your eyebrows pinch together. "You don't think I really like skateboarding that much, do you? I'm awful. My knees are more scar than skin."

His hand finds your thigh, fingers brushing over your tights. "I thought you were enthusiastic."

"I am, just not about skateboarding," you whisper, happy when he laughs at your teasing tone.

So what if you were a little reckless at the skatepark? Peter was always there to tape up your bleeding knees.

You lean down and press a very short kiss into the skin where his hairline begins. "I want a real date, please," you say into his skin. "When you're feeling better."

"You'll get whatever you want," he says firmly. You would've found it romantic if he didn't sound so ragged.

"I'll hold you to it."

Sputtering from the kitchen. You push him off of you gently and tuck a pillow behind his head before attending to the soup, tights slipping over tile in your hurry. You giggle a little as you stir the soup, excited by this revelation in your relationship with Peter. You pour soup into a bowl and cut two slices of bread into smaller pieces.

He's back in a fugue by the time you return.

"Come on, Peter. Sit up. I made soup."

"You really don't have to do all this," he says, swallowing. You set the tray on his lap and sit on the floor by his legs, holding his drink in your hands. You offer it to him soundlessly as he sits up.

"How many times have you taken care of me, I wonder," you say, letting your head rest against his leg. You're startled when he reaches out to pet your hair.

"Eat your soup," you scold.

"I am," he says through a mouthful.

You watch TV with his hand in your hair, running your nails over your tights. Your heart beats loudly in your ears, overly aware of every shift, every slight movement. His hand trails down from the top of your head to rest on your shoulder, thumb massaging your trap muscle lightly.

He eats about half the bowl before he puts it aside and shuffles out from under you.

"I'm gonna go shower, dovey. Sorry you saw me so gross," he says, edging over your legs carefully.

"I see you everyday."

"Hilarious. Stay there looking pretty. I'll be back."

"Pretty," you repeat to yourself, listening as his footsteps fade away upstairs. You pick at the edge of your dress for a little while and then stand to clean up the mess you made in May's spotless kitchen.

Peter emerges freshly dressed and damp as you're putting the dirty dishes out on the draining board.

"You scrub up well. I wouldn't even guess you were sick," you say sweetly.

Peter does look better. His skin has a new flush of colour. He takes the tea towel out of your hands and puts it on the countertop. "Stop cleaning."

"It's not for you! Don't get it twisted, it's for May."

He looks a little worn still. You shuffle your feet, close enough to reach out and touch him. Like he can read your mind, his arm slides over your shoulder, bringing you into his side. You rub your face in his new shirt and melt under his touches, his fingers spreading out over your arm.

"I'm sorry for not calling."

"You were sleeping."

"I'm sorry for not knowing it was a date."

"It technically wasn't."

He squeezes your arm, groaning. "Let me be sorry for something, dove. You're in my house all dolled up taking care of me and I'm like, a pathetic little stepped on worm."

You laugh into his side. "I like taking care of you: you're a cute worm."

"Awful. I don't know how to make it up to you."

"You can take me somewhere really, really nice for our date."

"Done. You wanna watch Seinfeld reruns?"

-

You're sick. You feel at least a little better when you call Peter to tell him, smug.

"I'm sick," you announce down the phone, in your thickest pajamas with a tissue pressed to your face.

"Oh, dove."

"It's not your fault. My little cousins came over full of the flu. But I don't think I'll be able to go on our date tonight, I'm sorry."

"Well, don't be sorry. First one's a freebie."

You laugh and the laugh turns to a cough. You push the phone away from you and wheeze into your tissue, chest aching.

"Sorry," you say when you manage to pick the phone back up. It hurts to talk.

"Do you have someone taking care of you?"

"I'm a big girl."

"I can be there in twenty minutes."

"I'm fine, Pete. Really. I'm just, you know, hurting. And wheezy. It'll be gone in a day or two and then I'll be tip top shape. You can teach me how to heelflip."

"I don't think you could heelflip at the peak of health, dovey. No offense."

"How is that not offensive?"

"Let me come over. I'll make you soup. Please."

You cough again, loud and crackling. "I'll get you sick again. We'll be in a constant loop of sickness."

"It's a risk I'll take. What soup do you want? Chicken? Cream of mushroom?"

You sigh and dig the heel of your palm into the building throbbing in your head. "Can you get me tomato soup? With the basil?" you ask, and even to your own ears you sound sad. It's overwhelming to have someone care so much, you decide, though you like how it feels.

"Whatever you want," he says, mushy soft. "I'll be right over, okay?"

"Okay," you say. He hangs up. You try to stay awake and end up falling asleep bent over, face digging into the throw cushion in your lap.

-

You won't answer your phone and you won't come open the door. Peter has no choice but to assume you've fallen over in your state and smashed your head open, and so he only feels a little guilty when he lifts up your doormat and finds your spare key.

He unlocks the door, closes it safely behind him as he lets himself in. Your apartment is dark and quiet. He can hear the small beeping of your washing machine, the sound of a finished load. He sets his paper bag on the counter and approaches your bedroom on light footing.

He knocks. You don't answer. He pushes the door open a fraction and peeks in, and there you are, asleep on the bed and folded in half.

He takes his shoes off and steps into the carpeted boundary of your room, feeling like a burglar. He doesn't want to scare you with any sudden movements, settling down at the top of your bed with care. You've slouched to one side with your face driven into a pillow, the waffle knit patterning your face with indents. He rubs the top of your thigh gently, whispering your name.

You stir and moan, stretching yourself out. He takes the opportunity to push his hand against your forehead. You're on fire.

He pulls the sheets off of your legs and helps you, still sleepy, into a more comfortable position for the meantime.

"Do you want to keep sleeping?" he murmurs.

You look at him through half closed eyes. "I think I'm burning."

"You're not, you're just hot. Do you have a different shirt you can put on? What's with the fleece, dovey? It's supposed to hit 78 today."

"They're soft. Um, in my top drawer. The left one."

He retrieves a t-shirt for you to change into and climbs up on your bed to open your window. Your bed is pushed up against an almost full length window. Boiling in the summer and freezing in the winter, he'd recently helped you reseal it with filler. You grabbed his leg to steady him, an unnecessary move that made his fondness for you triple. Quadruple. Maybe even heptuple.

"You get that new shirt on," he said, climbing down to go make some soup. "I'll be right back."

He is not right back. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to make soup. First your hob won't work and then it's too hot and he burns the grilled cheese. He rushes to open your front door as the smoke alarms starts screaming and you emerge in the kitchen with the new shirt on and no pants.

"You've misplaced your pants," he says, looking pointedly at the new grilled cheese he's making.

"They're shorts."

"Ah," he says. Man up, Parker, he thinks.

"What's burning?" you ask hoarsely.

"Grilled cheese."

"You're making grilled cheese?"

"I'm making grilled cheese."

"Say grilled cheese five times fast," you say, leaning your elbows on the countertop heavily.

"Why don't you sit down?" he asks.

You sit down on the kitchen floor and he has to reevaluate how sick you are, turning down the stove and crouching in front of you. He tilts your head up and looks between both eyes.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asks.

"You're pretty," you say.

"So are you," he says. He massages your cheeks with his thumbs until you're laughing and inching away from him, batting his hands with yours.

"You can't sit there. You're a safety hazard."

You try to stand up. "I'm dizzy. My head feels really heavy."

He puts his hands out and slides them under your armpits, lifting you up with ease. You wobble in his hold and search for grounding with your hands, fingers grabbing at his shirt. It feels natural to push his chin over your head and pull you in for a hug, letting you rest your weight against his chest.

"Poor girl, you're really out of it, huh?" he asks, running his hand over your hair, your back. "Alright, I'll put you on the sofa, how's that? You can watch a movie."

You nod. He's glad for that. Soon you're tucked up on the sofa with a plate in your lap that holds a bowl of soup and two triangles of grilled cheese. You force half the sandwich into his hands before you start eating, an expectant look on your face.

You mostly eat big spoonfuls of soup, pausing to cough. He winces at each one.

"What did your cousins have? Whooping cough?"

You laugh, cough, and nibble on the end of your grilled cheese. "Jungle fever."

He takes your plate when you're done and you sink into the sofa, listless as you watch TV. He doesn't mind, your legs in his lap. He even thinks to himself, hey, this isn't such a bad first date.

You sit up abruptly and pitch to the side, gasping. He looks on in horror as you heave bile onto the ground. He rushes to the kitchen, straight for the bucket you keep under the sink for washing dishes and employs a little spidey speed to push it under your face as you throw up. Your rug lives to die another day.

He catches your hair and pulls it out of the way, soothing and patting your back as you go.

You pant with tears in your eyes when you're done. It's just soup and bile and hardly bothers him, he's seen worse, but you push it away from you and cover your face with your hands.

"Oh my god," you moan.

He helps you sit up and hunts down a tea towel for you to wipe your face with, slotting himself thigh to thigh with you. He puts his hand on your back. “Here.”

“I didn’t think it was a sickness bug, Pete, I swear, I never would’ve let you come over here,” you say. Your voice is raw.

“I don’t care,” he says.

“You’ll be sick again. Endless sick loop. No first date,” you say, remorseful.

“No, I’m getting my first date. I don’t care how sick we get, I’m gonna take you out and you’re gonna have a really good time, and then I’m gonna give you the best kiss of your life.”

He wipes your face with the tea towel, flattening the edges of your small smile. You wrinkle your nose at him.

“How can you think about kissing me right now?” you ask him, scrubbing your eyes with your hand.

“I think about kissing you all the time.”

You smile at him weakly. “Maybe I’ll believe you when I don’t smell like puke.”

“You wanna shower?”

“Don’t think I can stand up right now.”

“I don’t mind helping,” he says, and he’s completely genuine. He doesn’t think of the double entendre until you’re laughing a wheezing laugh and sinking into his side, face buried in his chest. He wraps his arms around you.

“Take me out to dinner first,” you mumble. Well, it’s not like he hasn’t been trying.

<3

𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

thanks for reading ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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