#man italian commas are wild

[abibliophobiaa]

Perfect Places (Chapter Two) - tasm!peter parker x f! reader

a/n: thanks for all of the love on the first chapter. chapter three is already more than halfway done being edited and i am so excited to watch these two loons navigate their fake relationship out in the wild. 

summary: the little ruse gets an extra layer complicated - if that’s even possible. leah panics in italian. and you realize this charade might blur the lines you so desperately refuse to cross. 

t/w: mentions of death. loss of a parent. alcohol references.

cross posted on ao3. 

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

The next few days move slowly. Peter and you resume your normal friendly relationship, which is exactly how you prefer it, and try to never bring up the elephant in the room. You’ve yet to tell your best friend, Leah, for fear she might smack you upside the head and tell you how much of an idiot you are, but part of you also respects it might be best for you at the moment. 

Saturday dawns bright in the apartment. Or as brightly as it can for a February day in New York. It snowed last night, leaving a stark white dusting over everything. Moments like these, where the city is still only because the roads are mildly unsafe, remind you just how much you love living here. 

Your morning is spent in the quiet. Peter came in late last night; you could always tell because you recognized the three-beat thump of his feet from the window he always landed at, before moving to strip out of his suit at the closet. Fortunately, he didn’t come to knock on your door in need of makeshift medical attention. He’s likely sleeping well into the afternoon today, given there’s not much to do anyway. 

You pull out your stack of student papers and begin to grade them, marking the pages in red. Circling misplaced commas, inputting commentary, crossing out unneeded words, and the like. A methodical, practiced action at this point. 

You’ve been a ninth-grade teacher for a few years now in the always enjoyable English department. Kids hate reading these days, a fact which shows in the grades being slashed across the top of the pages. You enjoy it, though. Something about being a part of the future minds in society. To you, it would be worth it to potentially impact one life for the better. So, you try to do your best to be a guiding light for these kids. That, and your father had been an English professor himself. 

He died a few years ago now. A stroke victim. You brush away a stray tear at the memory, and mark another ‘C-’ on the top of the paper before you. You loved him—still love him. Could remember the day he passed so vividly. You were sitting in Peter’s dorm room at ESU when you got the call. A frantic mother crying down the other line. Her words didn’t make sense at the time. And you could barely hear them anyway before the ringing took over and the numbness followed.

Dad fell. Bedroom. Non-responsive. Hospital. Stroke. Gone. 

Gone. 

The finality of it sent you tumbling to the ground. Swept up in the rush of emotions oozing over onto every inch of your skin. Your head began to spin. And then there was black. 

You barely remember the rest of that day. A product of grief, you suppose. But you do remember Peter holding you against him on the train ride to Long Island after. The way his fingers had curled around yours at the funeral before you gave your speech. How he gave you an arm to lean on as they, at last, buried the greatest man you’d known in your life. 

You often wondered if your father was proud. If he could see you now, questioned what he would say to see you follow in his footsteps. It was the driving reason behind your career path and a lot of the reason why you were who you are now.

Your pen clatters onto the ground, breaking you from your stupor. Your fingers reach down to place it back on the countertop and your feet carry you to the coffee pot. iPhone in hand, you start scrolling through various social media posts mindlessly as the coffee pot serenades you with its gurgling. You ‘like’ four baby announcement photos, and then stumble upon two engagement photos before placing it down beside you. Yawn into your palm as you pour yourself a cup and stir some creamer within. 

Just when you exhale and think things are going back to some sort of normalcy, your personal—self-induced, of course—hell continues. You suppose it’s punishment for your sins committed. Or try to tell yourself that as a familiar phone number lights up on your phone, with the glaringly bright face of Eugene on full display. It’s been a year since you’ve last spoken with him. The last time was a friendly gathering of friends from his high school and some college acquaintances as well invited over for a Super Bowl party. 

Well, can’t avoid it forever, you think to yourself, before sliding the green bar to the right. “Hey, Flash.” 

“Y/n! Hey—how are you?” 

Peter steps into the living room. He’s fumbling with the neckline of his sweater with one hand and stretching the other arm above his head, revealing a chiseled strip of the abdomen. Stupid Peter and his stupid abs. Stupid arms, too. Stupid pair of plaid red plaid pants that dip low on his hips. 

Stupid genetically enhanced spider. 

You curse in your mind and watch his groggy eyes trailing your face as you mutter out a forced, “I’m great. How’s everything with you? Wedding coming up soon; that’s got to be stressful I’d imagine.” 

Peter mouthes ‘put it on speaker’ and you acquiesce to his wishes. Stick your tongue out at him as he walks closer to the kitchen island. It should be illegal to look like that this early—quick, someone call 911, you think, averting your gaze to not look like a complete creep for ogling him. The fantastic moment of seeing Peter right out of bed is marred when he reaches over to fluff your hair, dodging your hand as you shove at him to make his coffee.

“It’s funny you ask that because that’s kind of why I’m calling,” he says, sounding a bit too excited. 

You chew your bottom lip. “I’m listening.”

There’s a beat. “Jeremy told me about you and Parker. I just knew that would happen at some point. The guy always trailed you like a puppy”—Peter groans out a quiet ‘I did not’ in your ear—“and I just wanted to first say I’m so happy for you two. And I also wanted you to invite you both to the couples competition.” 

“Couples competition?” Your voice cracks on the word, and noticing this you clear your throat. 

Composure is hard to come by these days, it seems. Peter rolls his expert thumbs across the back of your neck as if he knows there’s already a twinge traveling up to your skull from the mounting stress in your life thanks to this whole mess. 

If there’s a heaven, you’re sure Peter Parker has a first-class ticket right up there, and have to swallow down the moan of pleasure that bubbles at your lips. 

“Yeah…so the plan is next Friday we are all going to get together at this rock climbing gym Rachelle loves. And then we were going to follow that up with a friendly game of basketball. Followed by a dinner party and some couples trivia.”

“Wow…” You giggle, gulping. “Hey—uh, Flash, Peter’s also here so…what are you thinking, babe?”

Peter’s forehead lowers against your shoulder miserably. You can feel him breathing against your skin, shaking his head ever so slowly. Naturally not a fan of you throwing him to the literal wolves like that. With an exhale, he grips the phone and takes it from your hand, leaning against the countertop. Flash’s voice is removed from the speaker and you pout. 

“Hey, so that sounds great. Nothing like a little old competition. Yup, just like in high school.” Peter shoots you a glare and says, “We’re so excited. The both of us. It’ll be fun. Yeah, yeah. Look forward to it. See you soon.”

Peter and Eugene had never really been friends at all in high school. You remembered Peter telling you he’d bullied your best friend while they were teenagers. But somewhere along the way in college, the two managed to put aside their differences long enough to form some sort of relationship. You wouldn’t exactly call them best friends, but they respected one another more than enough to spend time together. Which was fortunate, seeing as you’re now taking part in a competition with him and his future bride. Alongside your fake boyfriend. This was great. 

Peter hangs up the phone and you swallow, stepping backward slowly as he approaches you with calculated steps. “Should I run?”

There’s a moment, however brief, where Peter pauses, and it’s the moment you take off toward the living room and snatch a pillow from the couch. You wave it around like it’s a sword, shouting ‘get back.’ 

Peter launches himself over the top of the couch and, in your shock, snatches a pillow of his own. There’s a thwack and you’re skidding backward. You lash your pillow out in attack, still momentarily blinded by the surprise of being bested. Peter cackles like a maniac, thoroughly enjoying your struggle to keep up with his enhanced reflexes. 

You lash out and try to hit him, but he ducks the onslaught and hits you in the hip. 

“This isn’t fair. I didn’t get bit by some science-y spider.”

“You started this war,” he muses, waving the pillow out toward you. You smack it back on the offense. “Also, didn’t know you knew how to rock climb. Thanks for volunteering as tribute.”

“I don’t…but you have those nice sticky hands of yours.” You point out, whacking him in the back of the head. 

“Which I cannot use. Wouldn’t be fair, so you, babe, will be the one climbing.”

You laugh, head jolting as he hits you again. “Couples call each other pet names; I wanted to sound natural. Also, I will definitely not be.”

Peter shoves you back onto the couch, raising the edge of the pillow to your neck. You concede defeat and make a grand gesture of pretending to die on the couch. As you dramatize the whole thing, Peter flops down beside you, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I’ll be a good spotter.” 

You whimper in reply. “Fine. If I fall, you better catch me or else, Parker.”

Your face warms at the realization of your words. The image of Gwen Stacy sitting prettily in a photo frame in Peter’s bedroom flashes behind your eyes, and you mentally berate yourself. How could you be so ignorant? 

“I didn’t mean that…like that. I know you’ll always catch me, Peter. I trust you. I’ll climb the wall,” you say, clasping his hand in your own.

“I know you didn’t mean it any which way.” 

He rubs a reassuring thumb across the back of your hand. To this day the very gesture makes every synapse in your body feel like it’s igniting with flames. You doubt that will ever change about the dynamic of your relationship; well, lack thereof of any romantic one. 

“How do you feel about the whole thing?” You ask quietly. 

He shrugs. “Sounds fun. Not that you gave me a choice.”

You wince. “You could have said no. I can call him back up and say we can’t make it.”

“No, I want to do it. It’ll be nice when we win,” he says, smirking. 

“You sound so sure of that.”

He squeezes your hand. “I just have full confidence in my partner.”

Your cheeks hurt at that and you awkwardly clear your throat to distract yourself from the way your heart kicks up in your chest. 

“I should go, I told Leah I would meet up with her. She still doesn’t know about what I did,” you say, moving to your feet. 

“Should I call the police if I don’t hear from you in a couple of hours?” He smirks. 

“You’re too good to me. Do you mind starting dinner at four? It’ll take about an hour. Cook it on four-fifty, okay?”

“Sure thing, girlfriend.”

You roll your eyes at his cheeky smile. “You’re so annoying.”

But you don’t mean the words. And a smile splits your face anyway, as you walk over to the hook mount near the door and grab your apartment key. 

“I feel like you’re marching to your funeral,” he teases from the couch. 

“Let’s hope not. Who else is going to fix you up every time you get your ass whooped?” 

“I do not get my ass whooped.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Oh, of course not. Never. Last week you only tripped into that car, that’s right. Goodbye, Pete.”

Fortunately, Leah and her husband live only a couple of blocks away in a nicer apartment building than the one you and Peter currently live in. 

This isn’t really saying much because anything is better than the ramshackle you share with him because of its location near to both of your jobs. It’s a compromise of aesthetics for convenience. Though you did wish for something just a little nicer. The idea, however, of moving out and potentially away from Peter makes your heart squeeze painfully in your chest. So your less than aesthetic apartment will do.  

You’re barely knocking on the door when Leah appears before you and tugs you inside. Her husband, Lukas, has a book open on his lap. Though you notice he’s not wearing his glasses, which he’s blind without, and roll your eyes at the fact he’s just as interested in your massive hell hole called life as his wife is. 

It’s like you’re in a reality TV show of your chaotic life, and everyone but you gets to enjoy it. At least someone is having fun in all of this. 

“I need a glass of wine,” you say, dropping down onto the couch. You emphasize this with grabby air hands, frowning. 

Leah immediately goes to grab a bottle opener. “I’ll start pouring, you start talking.” 

So, you do just that. Starting with the food war, despite the fact it has no bearing on your decision to shout Peter’s name as your boyfriend when your mom asked. But it does explain your mental state at the time, so you decide to leave it in. Once you enter the topic of asking Peter to fake date you, Leah starts pacing around the living room, wine sloshing in her glass, speaking in Italian. 

She always slips into Italian when she gets heated. This, however, is the first time you’re on the receiving end of it. 

You can’t understand a lick of it. But Lukas shudders, choking out a “Honey, your mouth!”

“What’s she saying?” You plead, watching as your best friend stops in her pacing and looks at you in a way you can only describe as absolutely wild. 

“Wait—wait,” Leah begins, snapping her fingers together in the air. Her eyes widen as if she’s seeing you for the first time again. “This is the best thing that could have happened.”

“What?!” 

“Just think: you’re going to have to be touchy-feely with one another. You’re going to have to hold hands…kiss—”

“I’m not kissing Peter.” You gag for emphasis. Because that would be the worst thing ever. 

And you’re a complete and utter liar, you think to yourself. 

“You’ll have to.” 

Leah begins her pacing again. Lukas tries to take the wine glass from her, muttering breathlessly about her ruining their brand new carpet, but is swatted away. 

“This might be the way the two of you finally get out of the friend zone you’ve put each other in,” she says, waving her glass of wine in the air again. Lukas cringes. 

“I like my friend zone. It’s safe here, thank you very much.” You huff. 

“The two of you are dancing around an inevitable. Seven years of friendship between two people who conveniently enough live together?”

“We’ve lived together for two years and nothing has happened.” You point out, taking a sip of your drink. 

Leah plops down onto her husband’s lap, earning a grunt. “Yes, but before that, you haven’t been in a situation where the lines might be blurred; you’re going to be spending a weekend away with him.”

You snort. “You are delusional. If nothing has happened yet, nothing will happen now. Plus, I don’t even think he sees me like that.”

Lukas levels you with a stare. “My eyesight might suck, but I was Peter’s roommate in college…so I’d like to think I know the guy. He stares at you like you are the center of the universe. I mean, the man had girls asking him on dates whenever we’d go out and practically throwing phone numbers at him, and he always chucked them into the garbage after. Why else would he do that if not for pining after another woman?”

The mental image of Peter being fawned over by dozens of women enters your head. Of course, that’s the one thing your mind decides to fixate on. But you know it’s true even to this day. 

The man is attractive—disturbingly so. It’s a normal night out even with the two of you when a woman brushes shoulders with him at a bar and starts to flirt. You’ve seen it happen so many times before and always hated it. Yet you didn’t own him and always reminded yourself of that. 

The part of Peter not entertaining any of these women wasn’t lost on you. 

Heck, you’d even tried to set him up on blind dates here and there. He always seemed uninterested but would go out to appease you, and only come home at the end of the night and claim it just wasn’t the right person. Part of you wondered why that might be, though thinking of either of you moving on and marrying scared you. 

It would take an extraordinarily understanding person to not feel intimated by how close the two of you were, and the logical part of your mind understood you might have to back off him when the time came where he decided to settle down or vice versa. So, you didn’t mind he wasn’t in a rush to find his person any time soon. 

You were more than aware of how your relationship with him may be perceived by others. The two of you connected at the hip at all times. Spending Friday nights on the couch watching movies until you passed out. Ruthlessly teasing one another in an endless battle of wits. Always texting whenever you weren’t around one another—granted it was generally memes and gifs which made you laugh throughout the day—or calling each other while on your lunch breaks. 

You spoke in inside jokes and finished each other's sentences. You joked sometimes you were soulmates, and though you found yourself in the perpetual cycle of the ‘friend-zone’ with him, you knew your souls were matched in an unparalleled way. 

And you’d take that whichever way he would allow it for as long as he would. 

“I’m just saying this might be the perfect way to test the waters and see if anything develops organically,” Leah muses, turning to her husband. “Don’t you agree?”

Lukas, knowing better than to go against his doting wife, nods enthusiastically. “Absolutely, honey,” he says, rubbing his nose against hers. 

Bile rises in your throat, because that’s your best friend, and despite the fact they’ve been dating since freshman year of college when you introduced them to one another, seeing them get all lovey-dovey reminds you of the fact you’re stuck pining after your best friend. 

“Regardless of all of that, at the end of the day, I just don’t want to lose him. What if we test things out and realize we are better off as friends? Or worse…what if things change too much and we can’t stay friends. I would rather have him in my life like this than lose him,” you say, twirling your wine around in the glass. 

The red liquid sloshes against the walls of the glass; tumultuous, just like your mind these days. With a shaky sigh, you lean further into the couch, frowning at Leah. 

“But honey, you’ll never know unless you try.”

“Well, then it’s settled.”

And Leah and Lukas frown now, too, because you’ve already made up your mind.  

You’ll never know…because you’ll never try. 

NEXT CHAPTER

chapter three preview: it’s practice run day. it’s also couples night at leah and lukas’ bar. peter reminisces on the day you met, while also formulating a plan of his own. you and peter realize what actually goes into a fake relationship, and that you might need some tips on intimacy.

Tag List:

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