𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤

Worth Getting Soaked For

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → Fluff, rain, kissing, mild language, dorky Peter Parker energy.

Summary → A sudden rainstorm traps Peter and Y/N outside. Soaked, shivering, and standing in the middle of a moment they didn’t expect.   

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You should’ve checked the forecast.

But no, someone (ahem-you) insisted the sky looked “too pretty to rain.” And now here you are, in the middle of Brooklyn, soaked to the skin, standing under a half-dead tree that’s doing absolutely nothing to help.

Peter exhales a shuddery breath beside you, water dripping off his hair in little rivulets. “I-I think my socks are soup.”

You burst out laughing, breathless and wheezing as rain continues to pelt your jacket. “Soup?”

“Yeah.” He lifts one foot and it squelches pathetically. “This one’s minestrone, and the other’s probably chicken noodle.”

You snort, wiping your face with your sleeve. “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s honesty.”

“It's soggy honesty.”

You both stand in silence for a beat. Rain drums on Peter’s backpack. You glance around, there’s a bus stop with a little glass shelter about a block away, but you’re already drenched and Peter’s shivering like a wind-up toy.

He catches your eye. “Want to run for it?”

You hesitate. Then your gaze shifts-just a fraction-watching the way his curls cling to his forehead, how his lashes are dark, long and dripping, how his lips look cold but pink.

Maybe it’s the moment. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, even through all the ridiculous wet misery.

Maybe you’ve watched too many movies.

“Just one kiss, please?” You whisper, your voice soft and almost lost in the rain.

Peter freezes like you just short-circuited his brain.

“Wh-what?”

You shrug lightly, pretending to be chill, even though your heart’s going a hundred miles per hour. “Just… one. Because it’s raining. Because it’s a moment. Y-You know?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. His teeth chatter a little. His eyes flick to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“Okay,” he says finally, breathless. “But just so you know-I’m freezing and shaking, and my nose might bump yours and also I’m like, ninety-eight percent sure I look like a wet rodent right now.”

You grin. “I like rodents.”

Peter narrows his eyes playfully. “Wow. That’s so flattering.”

You step closer, your soaked shoes squeaking faintly. “Shut up and kiss me, Parker.”

He does.

It’s soft at first, cautious, like he’s not sure you really meant it until your hands slide up to rest on his shoulders. His lips are cold but warm at the same time, if that makes any sense. He tilts his head just slightly, finding the right angle, and then-

Boom.

Your heart practically flips. It’s not a movie kiss. There’s no swelling music. It’s wet and messy and your noses definitely bump, but it’s real. Warm. Everything.

You pull back after a second, smiling against his lips.

Peter’s eyes are half-lidded. “Okay,” he says quietly, grinning. “Maybe that was worth getting soaked for.”

You laugh, still breathless. “You think?”

“Absolutely. Although…” He shivers violently. “I can’t feel my toes. Or my legs. Or possibly my soul.”

You roll your eyes fondly and grab his wrist. “Come on, sock soup boy. Bus shelter. Let’s go.”

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You finally make it to the little glass enclosure, where it’s at least not raining directly on your heads. You both slump onto the bench, dripping and panting.

Peter pulls off his hoodie and wrings it out with both hands. “That was a bad idea.”

“The hoodie?”

“No. The date.”

You blink. “This is a date?”

He freezes. “Wait-no-I didn’t mean-like, not that it wasn’t-I just meant like-hypothetically -”

You smirk. “You’re digging a hole.”

“I’m already buried in puddles. May as well keep going.”

You nudge his knee. “I didn’t say it was a bad date.”

He peeks over at you, hope flickering behind his wet glasses. “You didn’t?”

You shake your head slowly, smiling. “Pretty sure it’s my favorite date so far.”

He stares at you.

Then he lets out this bashful little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Man. That’s such a win. And I look like a drowned raccoon.”

“A very cute raccoon,” you tease.

He laughs harder. “That’s going in my obituary.”

You nudge his shoulder with yours and let the quiet settle for a moment.

Outside the glass, the rain comes down steady. Traffic whooshes by. A little dog trots past in a tiny raincoat. It’s peaceful in a chaotic, rainy New York kind of way.

Peter shifts beside you. “You know I really like you, right?”

You glance at him, a little surprised by the sudden sincerity.

He swallows. “I mean… not just movie kiss rainstorm like you. Like actually like you.”

You look at him, dripping wet, cheeks pink, hoodie wrinkled in his lap, and your heart swells.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.”

He exhales, relieved.

You lean your head on his shoulder. “Also, I like you even when you don’t bring me to dramatic weather-themed makeout sessions. Just for the record.”

“Duly noted,” he says, grinning.

You sit like that for a while, drenched and half-frozen but somehow warm where it matters.

Peter lets out a sigh. “You think we’ll get sick from this?”

“Probably.”

“Cool. Let’s have soup together.”

“Minestrone socks?”

He laughs again, leaning his head against yours. “You’re the worst.”

“And you kissed me anyway.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I did.”

And even though your hair’s sticking to your face, and your clothes are clinging weirdly to your skin, and your shoes make squish-squash noises when you walk, but everything still feels kind of perfect.

Because sometimes, the best kind of love story starts with a little bad weather.

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗