THE RED WIDOW// peter parker x reader

TWENTY NINE

The days went fast, steady, uninterrupted.

you focused on going back on track with your little small business.
Not even bothering declining Lily's offer to decorate the little bags.
You were done with it. Too tired to sell anymore. Not as motivated as you used to be.
You found yourself busy with other things too. Your mind full with stories from a certain brunette instead of worries about whether your thoughts would creep back into your mind again.

It was funny, really. How much your body reacted as if you have no control over it. As if you're seeing a boy for the first time.
No one pointed out a difference in your behavior, not yet at least but you could feel it. You could feel yourself paying more attention to the footsteps behind you, and not out of your usual instincts but from interest. Watching every step and move of him in a self excuse of suspension and worry for betrayal.

Yet with every quiet day, a stressful night followed. And you found yourself in a pair of familiar satin shoes, stained with dried blood and comfort.
You were feeling extra tonight for some reason, so a soft thin pink skirt was tried low in your hips, covering the rough material of your pants, tucking up where it meets your gun at your back.

You didn't need any music, no metronome.
You didn't need the quiet either.
Your head filled the rest.
The memory of sharp voices, scratchy yelling and insults took place.
A spit, a bite, a curse whenever you even thought of tripping. Of making a move that's not completely and utterly perfect to disgust.

In your mind, Tchaikovsky was playing in the background. Nostalgic 'Swan lake' you used to love to dance to.
Legs stretched tight, hands firm but graceful. You let your eyes fall shut as you moved around the training room, the flashy light painting shadows under your figure as you twirl on point, moving around the thick silence.
You were so focused. So in tune.
Mind empty, quiet, peaceful.
The positions coming together into a flawless number.
Yet somehow. A stray thought flashed in your brain.

A scream.
It was loud. It was cracked and chocked.
It was in your head.
It was your own.

A picture of bloody knives and masks covering your vision for the quickest of seconds.

Though it has enough effect to make you trip in the slightest.

'worthless.'

It was loud.
It was thick.
The accent, the word, the tone.
It would make anyone else fall down to their knees, shake, scream, cry even.
But not you. You were robbed. Robbed of the ability to feel. To react to those terrifying images.
No, you just pinched your thigh, hard enough to hurt even you, hard enough for a bruise to form a stay on your skin for the next day.
It was shameful, honestly.
How out of control you've been since the last mission. Since seeing him.

So instead of pitying yourself, you did as you were taught.
You bit down on your tongue- ignoring the iron-y taste that filled your mouth, stretched out your spine and straightened your shoulders.
Eyes fluttering shut as you gave yourself a moment before you'd move again, a chance to pull yourself together.

Only you didn't get to continue dancing, finish your imaginary play.
Tchaikovsky would be dissatisfied.

You recognized him before you opened the door.
The soft knock before the silence took over again.
A pair of puppy dog eyes and a small pout filled the darkness of the hall behind him.
He was disheveled, post- sleep or maybe pre-sleep. A soft shirt- the same one that covered your own body not do long ago and a pair of pink plaid shorts to match his pink socks.

His jaw flexed, fingers closed in tight fists.
He was stressed.
But when Peter Parker wasn't stressed around you?

You gave him a look. Not necessarily judgement, more of curiosity. You weren't known for empathy and especially when it came to comforting, you'd turn more lost than an elephant in a ceramic store.
Yet, a small part of you- a part you're still trying to figure out, pushed you to bite down on your lips and think twice before you speak.