Comfort
Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
Prompt (s): “I just want a hug” & “You’re like a giant cinnamon roll.”
Summary: After receiving a bad grade on a test you’d worked hard studying for, you are (naturally) upset, but thank god for your boyfriend, Peter, whom always comforts you.
a/n: I got two different requests that were very similar, so for the sake of not sounding like a broken record, I combined them :)
The cherry red letter ‘F’ had been staring you in the face, taunting your very subconscious, since early that morning. It was like one of those tacky neon signs that you see outside fast food joints and movie theatres. Insistent. Annoying. There. Like, all the time.
When you had walked into your first period history class, truth be told, you had been feeling pretty good. School in general- with the overwhelming expectations of your teachers to complete every assignment, essay, and worksheet handed to you – had been pretty stressful as of late, but other than that, you’d been alright. That morning, you hadn’t missed your train, hadn’t spilled any part of the breakfast you’d been forced to eat on the go while trying to get ready on your new dress, and the sun was beginning to make an appearance over the busy streets of Queens. It had all felt like a new horizon, as if a second wind was starting to bleed itself into your veins, mixing in with the caffeine you had streamlined into your system while waiting expectantly at the train stop that morning. Creating a cacophony of pleasant feelings in your soul, you had felt unstoppable, as if you were a superhuman on the verge of saving the world, just like the Avengers or even Queens’ very own hero, Spiderman.
In retrospect, you should have known the other shoe would drop at any moment. No one’s life could be that perfect.
A mere five minutes into the lesson, while you were still absentmindedly whispering to your best friend in the back row about how your respective weekends had been (though making sure to discretely avoid detection), your history teacher, Mr. Adams, had announced that he finished grading the bulk of last week’s quiz and would be handing them back that morning. You had felt confident enough- and why wouldn’t you have been? Though history and social studies had never been your strong suit, you had been working hard the past semester, clocking countless hours both at night and on weekends, desperately trying to hammer whatever information you could into your long term memory. Going into the quiz last week, you felt pleased that you were able to answer almost every question set to you with relative ease. There had been some multiple choice problems (which were always your favourite), short answer, and a small essay. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t faced before, so with a confident spring in your step, you had turned in your paper at the end of the class period with an almost giddy expectancy in your chest. You would do well on this, would make up for all the times you had submitted an assignment or paper at the last minute, after forcing yourself to stay up until inane hours to complete it, the scent of the much needed coffee heavy on your second day sweatshirt.
But it hadn’t been enough.
If for some reason you were having a bad day, or you were just too arrogant to see your shortcomings in studying, you didn’t know. All that you knew for sure was you had been expecting to see an almost perfect mark on the paper Mr. Adams placed before you, but instead, you were met with utter disappointment, for you received an F, which was far too low in the alphabet for the amount of work you had logged studying for the test. It was the absolute worst mark any student could garner.
Immediately, you could feel the early onset of tears burning the corner of your eyelids, but you had blinked quickly to avoid them falling on your ruined test, though perhaps it would have been cathartic to blot out the failure with salty tears. The hands that had grasped the paper with white knuckles shook and you had to place the test on the desk to force them to cease, flipping the paper over so your classmates couldn’t see your mark of shame. You wished the floor would have just opened up and swallowed you, because you didn’t know if you could have taken the invasive and prying questions of your peers. You knew they would all talk about the marks they got at lunch, as they always did. They would gush in high pitched voices of excitement about the A’s and A minuses they had received, all of them talking swiftly of how they might be the next Einstein or something.
Okay, you might have been exaggerating with that one, but whenever you got a bad grade, it always seemed that way at the time.
No, you couldn’t face them, you just couldn’t. So you skipped lunch, choosing to spend far too much time holed up in the corner stall of the girl’s bathroom, where you could be in peace and play with your phone, far away from the curious questions of the rest of the school. You didn’t even answer your best friend’s texts, the ones that were laced with concern, asking you where you went, were you okay? She probably knew quite well where you were, as she herself had found you here on other occasions when you had been upset about something, but you were infinitely grateful that she somehow sensed you needed to work things out on your own. You would thank her for this later, you reasoned, when it had all blown over.
It wasn’t a complete truth that you wanted to be by yourself, however. To be quite honest, you wished your boyfriend, Peter, the one who had helped you study for the failed test (bless his soul, he tried, but you were a very frustrating person to aid) was here with you. He, even in his infinite awkwardness, would know exactly what to say to you. He always did, always knew what you needed to hear every time, which only made you love him more.
But he wasn’t, because even though both Peter and you lived in Queens, you went to school in Brooklyn, so you couldn’t see him as often as you would if the pair of you attended the same high school.
With a forlorn sigh, you pulled your legs in tighter around yourself and rested your chin on your knees. You had to handle this alone for now, you told yourself, and you would be okay in the end.
It might be helpful to mention that you didn’t often believe what you told yourself.
You didn’t see Peter until late that night. After you got home from school, you went straight to your room, trying to avoid the prying questions of your mother or older siblings. They knew you had a big history test that day, as it had been all you could talk about for a week. They were almost as anxious as you were to find out how you did, and when you had been preparing, your mother and older brother had tried their best to help you with the material.
It wasn’t until you finally got into your room and closed the door did you let the pent up tears fall. You tried not to make any noise lest you alert everyone in the house to your sorrow, so you flopped on the bed, forcing your pastel pink comforter to take the brunt of the abuse from your sadness. Every limb in your body felt heavy and bruised, as if your entire being was crumbling under the weight of all that had happened that day. You felt as if you could just curl up in a ball and sleep for weeks, you were that exhausted. The coffee you had slugged back that morning to stay awake after an all-nighter of studying for that blasted test was catching up with you, lulling you into a veritable coma. You didn’t want to fight. You were far too tired to stay awake, so you let your eyelids gently flutter close, allowing the river of sleep to overtake you in one powerful wave.
You awoke some time later to a peculiar scratching noise. Cracking your eyelids open- which took some effort given that they were sticky and swollen shut from your earlier crying spiel- you felt disoriented for half a second before the memory of everything came rushing back to you. You had almost forgotten (which was a mercy), but how could you blot out the shame, the humiliation, of your day? The true weight of it all hung heavy on your cranium, like a headache that wouldn’t cease no matter how many painkillers you took.
Lifting your head, the fabric of the pillow underneath you still damp with tears, you noticed that the weird noise was still persisting, now accompanied by gentle taps to the window pane, as if the perpetrator was trying to get your attention while still attempting to be discreet from the rest of your household’s occupants.
Furrowing your brow, you sat up and scooted over to the end of your bed, where the window in question was located. You steeled a breath, reaching out to pull up the burgandy curtain that covered the window. You didn’t know why your hand hesitated on the cord, perhaps something inside you wondered about what you would find on the other side. Like, who in their right mind would be at the window overlooking a five story drop to the ground? You hoped to god it wasn’t some creepy person who had perilously traversed your fire escape.
But it wasn’t, and when you truly got a look at who was at your window, you couldn’t contain the involuntary gasp that rose in your throat.
It was your boyfriend, Peter, holding onto the metal of the fire escape with white knuckles, his whole frame shivering from the cold air. You quickly unlatched the window, gesturing furiously for him to come inside.
“Oh my god, Peter,” you sighed, stepping aside as he awkwardly attempted to manoeuvre his lanky frame through your small window. “What the hell were you doing out there? Did you climb up?” You shot a look out the window to the substantial drop below onto the dimly lit concrete. If he had fallen….you didn’t know what you would have done.
Peter ran a hand through his dark brown hair, mussing it up into soft peaks all over his head. “I wanted to see you,” he quietly replied. “Your best friend told me that you wouldn’t answer her texts. She was worried.”
So that explained why you hadn’t heard any more from your best friend since school. She must have sent Peter to check on you for the both of their sakes. You’d almost forgotten that you had given him her number in case of emergencies. It had always seemed like a good idea- you didn’t know what could happen and it would be reassuring to know that she could alert him if anything happened to you while at school- until now.
“So… how are you doing?” Peter asked. He precariously perched on the arm of the small, beat up easy chair smushed into the corner of your room. You sighed, flopping back onto your bed, your palms folded over each other on your stomach.
“Alright,” you lied smoothly, not making eye contact. The air in the room had suddenly grown tense- so thick you could cut it with a knife- and silence reigned supreme for a long moment.
“Are you sure?” he pressed. You realized that although he could see right through you (Peter always did, another thing you both loved and hated about your boyfriend), he was waiting for you to bring it up. He never wanted to pressure you or make you uncomfortable by forcing you to talk about something you weren’t quite ready to express in words yet. You sighed again, this time for longer, as you breathed out all the stress from earlier slowly through your nose, steeling yourself to spill it all. Perhaps it would be cathartic, you reasoned. This was what you thought you needed before, to rant to Peter about all that had happened that day.
You sat up suddenly in bed, your hair sticking out at all angles. Your eyes still felt swollen and you knew the were probably as red as the stripes on your comforter, so it was an extra reassurance that your boyfriend didn’t immediately comment or make a fuss over them when he entered. Slipping your legs slowly off of the mattress, you stood up.
“No,” you started, refusing to meet Peter’s dark brown eyes with your own. “No, I’m not sure. Today’s been horrible. I just want a hug.” You held your arms out in a welcoming gesture and Peter was all too happy to gather you into a tight embrace without a word. You closed your eyes as you leaned on his chest, relishing the soothing sound of his steady heartbeat as you did so, the gentle beating a true testament to all your boyfriend stood for. Steadiness. Love. Acceptance.
Because you did, you knew. You definitely loved him in a way that was hard to express in words. You adored every part of him, from his fondness for science (which he would often eagerly talk to you about for hours), to his inherently dorky nature (which made him one of the kindness and most caring people on the planet), to even the awkward demeanor he adopted on occasion (especially that first day, when he had finally mustered up the courage to ask you out).
“You’re like a giant cinnamon roll,” you murmured absentmindedly after a moment, nestling your head even deeper into his chest. He was still wearing the thick, black hoodie he had on when he entered, which made the hug that much warmer and more comforting. The fabric smelled like the outdoors, scents of smoke, smog, and a slight tinge of sweat from his delicate climb clinging to it. His chest was firm with lean muscle that betrayed his stereotypical geeky stature; all the hours of working out he had been doing were paying off.
“What?” he laughed, one hand lazily stroking your hair in that way he knew calmed you down.
“You’re like a cinnamon roll. You know, soft, and sweet….and always there for me when I’m feeling down.”
“Well, that’s an interesting analogy, but I’ll take it.”
You could feel his eyes on you then, concerned eyes that wanted to ask what thoughts were running through your mind, what was truly bothering you, but didn’t have the words to express it. It was no use, anyways. You suddenly didn’t have enough energy to stand anymore let alone explain the lengthy tale of what exactly was wrong. You only wanted to be right here in the moment, feeling your boyfriend’s strong arms around you.
“Can you lie with me for awhile?” you asked tentatively. You knew Peter would have to be getting back to his apartment soon- Aunt May would be distraught with worry if she somehow found out he was out on the streets this late at night- but you wanted to draw out the moment for a while longer.
He nodded silently, a genuine smile gracing his face. You grabbed his right hand, intertwining your fingers with his, Peter giving your palm a comforting squeeze as you led him backwards onto the bed. This was were you belonged, you decided. Peter was your person, the best friend masked in a lover’s disguise. With him, you felt at home.
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