Work Text:
He listened to the jingle of your keys clutched in your unsteady hand. A graceless windchime, a temporary distraction from the heat of your skin through your clothes on his palm. And maybe even worse– from the smell of your perfume, sweet and fresh, mixed dangerously with the alcohol on your breath.
You were drunk. Past buzzed, past tipsy, you’d downed probably two or three too many drinks from the open bar at the company party, but that’s okay. You deserved to have fun.
Peter had his eye on you all night anyways, turned just the right angle in every conversation he half-assed his way through to keep you in his peripheral vision.
Normally Peter didn’t attend work events like this one. He was busy enough, tired enough to generally not care about his day job’s extracurriculars, but this evening was different— mostly because he overheard you chattering to a coworker about it last Tuesday.
You hemmed and hawed about whether you’d be attending or not: your first Bugle event, someone’s retirement party, some higher up whom you’d never met. “But there’s always free booze and fancy finger food,” your coworker had promised, which made you pause and hum to yourself.
“Eh… I might go. We’ll see.”
And despite himself, he hoped you would. It’d be the perfect loophole to this dilemma he’d put himself in a handful of months ago when you first started at the Bugle, when he first met you.
So, he went. And, thank the stars, so did you.
He didn’t know where you lived before that night, but he found it a little funny, standing in the hallway while you finally pushed your front door open. He’d swung over your building often during his nights out in his suit, and now, you were clumsily pulling him into the cool air of your dark, quiet living room. Peter tried not to trip over his own feet (or yours, for that matter), and reminded himself that you were the intoxicated one, and he needed to get it together, for both of your sakes.
He couldn’t help the grin on his face. “Careful,” his hand caught your arm in the darkness, steadying you. “I think your new limit of vodka cranberries has dropped to… hm, three? I think that’s pretty reasonable.”
You gave him a little scoff, attempting to peel off your shoes while hanging onto the wall. “Shut up— it’s just dark,” you replied. And it was, but you knew that wasn’t the only reason, nor was the alcohol in your system.
It wasn’t hard to notice Peter’s eyes on you earlier in the evening. Plenty of your coworkers had shown up to the rented venue, but the place wasn’t packed. You spotted Peter leaning by a pillar, chatting with someone that worked on a different floor than the both of you. There was a moment of eye-contact, a soft smile from you, then him, but then your attention was drawn away by your friend at your side.
As far as you knew, Peter Parker was a bit elusive around the office and often made himself scarce, but the few times you’d been caught in the elevator together or had to collaborate on some project or another were always pleasant. He was polite, with a nice smile and warm brown eyes.
… and really, really nice hands, you realized once you flipped the hallway light on. His fingers were long and slender and your eyes followed the prominent veins raised up under his skin.
He was just about to pull away when your hold slipped on the wall, jostling you forward a bit. “Woah— alright, maybe two vodka cranberries,” he chuckled, and it did more to you than you’d ever admit while sober.
“Stop making fun of me,” you lamented, laughing despite yourself, “you’re supposed to be helping me.”
“I am helping you.”
“Does your help always come with sassy commentary?”
Peter made a sound halfway between surprise and amusement. “Sassy? I prefer witty, or maybe charming.”
You plopped yourself down on the bench in the entryway. A groan slipped out from your lips and you threw your head back, managing to not knock your head despite the dramatics. “I’d prefer if you got these damn shoes off of me before I lose it.”
He shook his head, but he was already kneeling down to the hardwood. The itty bitty buckled strap around your ankle gave him a hard time for a second, and a little huff of humor puffed out from his chest, “did you need me to make your bed, too? Check under your mattress for a pea?” Peter mused. With one shoe now slipped off, you lifted your other foot up. Automatically, his head lifted a bit, his gaze traveled up your shin, over the long stretch of smooth skin, all the way to the hem of your dress shifted above your knee.
Shit.
“I think I can tuck myself in,” you rolled your eyes, “unless you’re feeling extra generous.”
There was a clock ticking somewhere in your apartment— it was what Peter chose to focus his reeling brain on after he quickly looked away and back to the task at hand. He cleared his throat lightly and worked on freeing your other foot. You more than likely weren’t really aware of what you were saying, or how hard it made his heart thump in his chest. It was fine. He’d get your shoes off and bid you goodnight and leave.
A soft sigh from you broke the thick blanket of quiet once the other shoe was off. Your feet hurt and you swore to yourself you wouldn’t wear them again for a while… even if they were cute. Reaching, your hand smoothed down your calf to your ankle, to the irritation mark from a couple hours of wear. You sucked a little hiss in through your teeth.
“You okay?” Peter’s voice was soft, softer than before, when he was teasing you.
“Yeah— I hate those things, they’re so uncomfortable. I wish they didn’t look so good.”
He found himself agreeing begrudgingly in his head.
You always looked good at the office. A pretty blouse usually tucked into some slacks, your hair effortlessly laid, your smile bright. Beautiful.
But sometimes you’d wear one of those skirts that made your legs look a mile long. You always looked good. At your desk, in the elevator, in the break room, at some old man’s retirement party, and now, sitting in your entryway, gazing down at him with a hazy sort of warmth in your expression.
His eyes settled on your fingers, the way they nursed over the little pinch point left by the tiny silver buckle. Peter gently held your ankle in his hand and a soft, feather light touch smoothed across your skin— you were so soft, like silk, he realized, with his gaze locked onto where his fingertips grazed.
Beautiful.
At some point earlier in the night, your friend skittered off in the pursuit of avoiding some guy from IT that she’d had a messy sort of fling with— you’d already heard all the drama, and didn’t blame her for leaving early, though you couldn’t resist ribbing her a bit before she left. “Maybe this is why we don’t sleep with our coworkers?” You mused, watching her down the last of her drink and stand up.
She shot you a glare with a toss of her hair over her shoulder. “Slut shaming now?”
“No, never,” you replied honestly, but still grinned at her. “Just curious about your selection. There’s not exactly a limited market of available, less complicated men to sleep with, y’know.”
Purse strap hooked over her shoulder, she let out a breath, a familiar and somewhat devious smile growing on her lips. “Oh, come on, like you’ve never thought about it before. Makes it more interesting, more exciting,” she said, and nudged your shoulder, “don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” And with that, she scampered off, leaving you with your drink and your thoughts.
Peter had noticed when your friend left— mostly because of the distinct lack of your laughter now from across the room. The shift was intriguing, to say the least. Not ten minutes prior were you giggling up a storm and bantering and sharing little stories, but when he looked over at you again, you were quiet, idly sipping from your glass while scrolling through your phone. Peter couldn’t help but chuckle a little, hiding it under a strategic nose scratch. The conversation he was barely a part of continued around him without missing a beat.
He didn’t come to stare at you from a distance all night, but he couldn’t exactly see himself actually approaching you with anything interesting enough to say. Every scenario that passed through his head while he watched your lips nurse the black plastic straw felt so cheesy, so cringe-worthy.
Hey, I noticed you when I walked in, not because I specifically looked for you, or anything. Now that you’re sitting here alone, I’m sure you appreciate some guy coming up and trying to talk to you out of nowhere. I’m Peter, by the way, because I honestly don’t expect you to remember my name, even though you’ve worked a few desks away from mine for three months now. And, yes, I’ve been keeping track.
Yeah, right. He had an hour so far to think of some sort of game plan, but he couldn’t bring himself to focus. It was probably a lost cause anyways. You were way out of his league.
He was just about to shift back to the group of men he stood with, but then, you looked up. Right to him, like you knew he was already there, already looking at you.
And you smiled again, a radiant sort of smile that twisted his insides.
“I’m gonna grab a refill,” he muttered out loud, as if anyone around him would notice if he slipped away, before his legs started working on their own.
You couldn’t take your eyes off of him now, knelt down before you, his calloused hands ghosting almost reverently on your leg. Your sweet, polite, somewhat aloof coworker Peter Parker, making goosebumps raise so easily with just a few simple touches. The swirl of tingly heat that tickled your insides almost sent a shiver down your spine.
Slowly, you pulled your own hand back to rest on your knee, and Peter’s fingers traced up to the sore spot you were just worrying over.
It was suddenly so quiet— you figured he could hear your heartbeat, after accepting the fact that he probably heard the way your breath caught in your throat, too.
Peter gently pressed his thumb into the little indented line that encircled you from the ankle strap. He lightly began to knead around the area, massaging, all in the faith of aiding blood flow, of course. Just because he was helpful, of course. He swallowed quietly.
“Does, ah… how’s that?” Peter asked, his voice low, and you sucked in a breath through your nose when he looked up at you. “Feel… better, at all?”
He had those big brown eyes and those stupid long eyelashes that some guys were needlessly blessed with. Casually, helplessly good looking.
Your legs shifted just slightly as you held his gaze, thighs pressed together. “Mhm,” you breathed out, “yeah, that feels nice.” There was probably more to be said, but you couldn’t bring yourself to find the words with a brain like mush and your tongue so suddenly heavy in your mouth.
It was his turn to suck in a breath. “Yeah?”
Warmth radiated from your face. Booze, hormones, whatever— your pulse was giddy, an ache quickly creeping up between your thighs. His voice was so soft, just a little rasp to it. Slowly, you nodded, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.
Alcohol rarely had any sort of desired effect on Peter, and that night was no different, but he ordered another anyway, because he couldn’t just turn around and high-tail it out of there now. Not when he watched you watch him walk over and lean his forearms onto the bartop so casually, as if he knew what he was doing.
Your gaze flickered over him without trying much to hide it— he looked good, though he usually did day to day in the office, too. But tonight his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his hair was a little bit messy and you caught the subtle shift of his eyes over to you once he was given his drink.
“Fancy seeing you here,” you mused without thinking, the little plastic straw sitting between your lips.
Peter turned to you as if he hadn’t been acutely aware of your presence the entire night. “Likewise,” a light grin grew on his face, “are you having fun yet?”
The way your eyes settled on him, hedged by such long, curled lashes— something kicked around in his chest. “Are you kidding? I entered the raffle and everything. Here’s hoping I go home with that bluetooth toaster,” you hummed.
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “What, so you can preheat from your garage?”
“A win’s a win, isn’t it, Parker?”
Despite your friendly demeanor, a sense of slight surprise washed over him when you said his name. Surprise and, embarrassingly enough, a sense of warmth. “Yeah, s’pose so. Can’t say I wouldn’t be at least a little jealous,” he sipped his drink just to busy his awkward mouth.
Your amusement sparkled in your eyes. “Yeah? Jealous of me and my thousand dollar toaster?” The giggle that slipped from your lips was enough to make his heart thump against his ribcage. Hearing it up close was infinitely better than picking it out from a crowd. “Maybe I’ll let you borrow it some time,” you said.
“How humble and gracious of you,” his smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“I’m nothing if not humble and gracious.”
You kept your eyes on him as you sipped from your straw, and he couldn’t look away if he tried. “I dunno, I think there’s at least a few more words to describe you. Like, ah… funny, charismatic,” Peter paused, watching you swallow, “and, um, pretty— ah, beautiful. Just to… just to name a few.”
He looked down to where his fingers gently rubbed slow little circles into your skin, just above your ankle. There wasn’t enough air in your entryway anymore. Not in a claustrophobic sort of way— more like he was suddenly aware of how close you were, how heavy your gaze was on him from your perch on the bench, how hot his breath fanned over your bare skin.
It’d be so easy. So, so easy to just… lean down, press his lips to your shin, pepper a trail up to your knee, gently ease your legs apart… he could smell you, in the moment, not just in his imagination. The light musk of arousal mixed so dangerously with your sweet aroma.
Fuck. He shouldn’t be doing this.
Up, up, his hand smoothed up the back of your calf just slightly, before he gave a gentle squeeze and pulled his hands away. “Right,” Peter stood and straightened, clearing his throat again. He had to avoid eye contact. He wasn’t sure he could handle whatever expression you were giving him at the moment. “You’re home safe, heels are off… it’s getting pretty late, so… you should probably head to bed and prepare for the worst hangover ever tomorrow,” he said, trying to keep his voice light, punctuated with an airy chuckle.
Your eyes followed him as he stood. One hand shoved into his pocket, the other ran through his messy hair. A twinge of something like disappointment clenched at your stomach. “Right,” you mirrored him, both of your bare feet on the ground now.
And you both just looked at each other like that for what felt like forever. You, gazing up at him, and Peter, with his head tilted down at you.
There was so much he wanted to say, but none of it would leave his throat, so he settled for a smile and a little nod. “Yeah… um, goodnight. I’ll… see you at work, yeah?”
God. Way to go. Completely fumbled everything.
But, after a beat or two of quiet, you smiled back. Soft, warm. Your eyes flitted over his face, the stubble along his jaw and the little secret worry line between his brows.
“Yeah.” Your heart pattered in your chest. “Goodnight, Peter.”