Tom Holland & Peter Parker Imagines & Preferences (book 2)

Bratty b**** (smut)

"Are you out of your fucking mind, Parker? Put me the fuck down right NOW!"

Peter complied, letting go of you so suddenly you ended in a heap on the floor. The indignant look you threw his way reminded him of an angry kitten, and he had to suppress a smile. Even drunk and disheveled you were god damn adorable. And that was part of the problem: you had everyone wrapped around your finger and were perfectly aware of it.

No wonder you weren't afraid of any punishment, none of them ever stuck long enough for you to regret your actions, consequences always swept under the rug before they could sully you or your reputation. Even the press, so merciless with lower socialites, was so happy to have the Stark heiress back, that every new misadventure was portrayed in an indulgent light, words like "enfant terrible", "little hellion" or "New York's favorite troublemaker" decorating headlines everywhere he turned.

But that ended tonight.

He watched you stand up, fixing your way-too-short-dress so it would cover the top of your thighs, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Where are we?"

"My apartment" Peter replied, simply. You knew the penthouse was just on the next floor, but there, in that darkened kitchen along with him, it seemed incredibly far. You hadn't been alone with him since Titan, and you didn't quite know how to deal with this Peter, so different from the awkward, wide-eyed boy who used to trail behind you like a puppy. This grown-up, confident Peter that was older than you, that had been an Avenger for six years, intimidating enough to clear a party all by himself, without needing his Spider-man persona.

But then again, you didn't know how to deal with much of anything these days. Going to sleep in 2018 and waking up in 2023 would do that to you.

"Why did you bring me to your apartment?" Your voice came out a little unsteady, as you tried to get a grip on your heart, beating wildly inside your chest, tried to squash that little sliver of hope down before it managed to cut you and bleed you dry. Because you knew what you wanted from Peter was something you could never have. And it wasn't just caused by that awesome girlfriend of his.

He leaned casually on the kitchen island, arms crossed in front of his chest and you couldn't help but notice how solid and powerful they looked clad in black leather.

"To have a little talk" he met your eyes, concern clear in his, "about your behavior..."

Your stomach drops with the weight of a thousand dead butterflies. Of course. This was an intervention. He was being big brother Peter, that was how he saw you, a little sister, just like Morgan, another Sparkling for him to guide, to nurture and protect.

And maybe your own little sister preferred his bedtime stories over yours. Maybe your own father called him son, and your -technically stepmother sent him to chaperone you whenever you went out to party, but he was never ever going to be your brother.

"And exactly who do you think you are to have a talk with me?" You sneered, voice like sugar venom, sweet and cruel. Lethal. "You are no one, you're not my boyfriend, you're not my friend, and I know you like to pretend you're a Stark, but you are not my brother. You are nothing."

You watched the air get knocked out of his lungs as if your words had physically hit him as they hit their mark. Satisfied with the stunned, devastated look on his face, you turned to leave. But only made it a couple of steps before feeling his fingers wrap around your wrist in a vice-like grip, spinning you around and pulling you to him.

You stumbled, falling against his chest, and he kept you there, arm snaking around your back, pressing you to close. Dangerously close.

"And you" he whispered, nose pressed against your cheek, breath hot against your face. You realized you weren't the only one that had been drinking. "are a bratty little bitch. Do you think I wanna be any of those things? That I'd be satisfied with any of those things?"