𝐀/𝐍 - All credit goes to the writer luveline on Tumblr
https://www.tumblr.com/luveline/734638512315432960/i-am-begging-for-tasmpeter-with-his-clumsy
Parings → Peter Parker x Reader
Warnings → clumsyness
Summary → Peter with his clumsy girlfriend.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★
“What's that?”
You jump in surprise, the water in your cup lapping like an angry wave over the rim. Peter laughs, sounding vaguely sorry as he wraps his arms around your shoulders, locking you and your wet hands in tight. Water drips on your socks.
“It's not even the worst thing that's happened to me today,” you say, sighing.
“I believe you.”
Peter turns your face to his for a kiss. His fingertips on your jaw, he feels along the line of a new scratch, and asks into your lips, “How'd you get this?”
“Folded a jacket too eagerly. The zipper…” You know he's going to kiss you, though how you can tell is explained by a deeper level of intimacy. Maybe the way he breathes, or the slight movement of his fingertips. Whatever it is to clue you in, you close your eyes and kiss him softly.
“Sorry,” he says when he's left you suitably starstruck, “I'm kissing you and you're standing there in a puddle. Not cool.”
“I'm not very cool,” you say. You put your glass down and Peter lets you go, leaning down to wipe the puddle up as you take off your wet socks. You almost trip as you pull off the second and Peter puts his hand out to steady you without looking. “Thanks, Pete.”
“You're welcome.”
He bins the paper towel while you trek to the bedroom for new socks. You keep a bursting storage box of his and yours mixed under the bed, but when you pull it out the lid isn't on and all the socks at the top roll onto the bedroom floor. You can hear Peter giggling in the kitchen at your misfortune, because he can hear the plopping sound of the socks as they fall. Even if he's rooms away, he can pretty much always hear your accidents.
“Mean,” you whisper, knowing he can hear that too.
You shove all the socks back inside, realise you forgot to leave a pair out, and pull three pairs in an attempt to get just the ones. Peter does his boyfriend duty that time and pretends he doesn't hear it, though maybe he's not listening.
You're sitting on the end of the bed with your new socks finally equipped when he finds you. “Oh, there you are,” he says, like it wasn't obvious, “good. I got some antiseptic for you.”
The scratch is too small to need antiseptic, in your opinion, but you let him because it'll be nice to be cared for. Peter sits next to you and turns your face to his, smiling when your eyes catch, and frowning as the antiseptic lid pops off to reveal a foil seal.
“I hate these,” he says, needling at the side.
You take it from him and use your thumb nail to slice it open. The pressure in the tube must've been high, because a moment later pale ointment is bursting out of the spout and painting a curled line on your sweatpants.
You sigh in defeat. Peter starts laughing, big, shaking, awful pangs of laughter that rock the bed, his face dipping down to your shoulder as the strength leaves him. He finds your hands and squeezes your wrists, giggling and rubbing his thumb into your pulse. “Sorry,” he says weakly, “sweetheart, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I don't know why you have such bad luck, it must be hell.”
He sounds happy, and it's no big deal. None of this stuff is. You press your lips together to smother a smile as he raises his head. “It's not that bad,” you say, thinking of his nice laugh, the echoes of joy etched into his eyes and their smile lines. “I'll live.”
His laugh turns slow with affection. “You'll be fine,” he agrees, kissing the corner of your mouth sweetly.
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪