Trying to walk squeeze by Simon when he’s standing is hard enough, but when he’s sitting? It’s like a Herculean task. He manages to take up just as much room as he always does, if not more—legs spread wide, feet kicked out in front of him. He's like a human-sized boulder, and it's impossible to get to where you need to go if he's in your path.
"Christ—" you kicked at his foot, "Close your fucking legs, LT."
He grumbled something unintelligible, glaring blankly into the middle distance and making no effort to ease up in his seat or grant you the space you needed to pass.
"I’m serious," you huffed, "There’s no way your balls are so big that you can’t spare a few inches of legroom for me."
It sort of just slipped out; a low-effort joke you hoped might get him to empathize with your struggle—or maybe embarrass him into closing his fucking legs.
"Might be."
Simon didn’t bother looking up at you when he spoke. He remained statuesque, thick arms crossed over his wide chest.
"What?"
"Balls might be ‘at fuckin big," now he looked up, that deep glare finding your face. "Try findin' time for a wank in 'is line o’work."
"I find plenty of time," you shot back quickly, trying to keep up with his odd brand of humor—was it humor? "What? Shower's too good for you? Can’t jerk off in bed like a normal person?"
"Tired." He shrugged.
His eyes were half-lidded, frustrated, but not angry, and when he tilted his head to the side, an almost imperceptible gesture, you thought the conversation was done. You thought you might be able to kick your way past his legs; be able to storm off, knowing you had lost this battle, and allow yourself the time to stew over it.
But then he dropped his forearms to his thighs with a quiet huff—whether it was one of amusement or not, you could never tell with him.
"'Nd the mess ain't worth it."
You swallowed, almost taking a step back out of sheer surprise that he was being so direct. Granted, Simon's only method of communication was to speak candidly, or not at all.
“Maybe you just need someone to…help you out,” there was no hesitancy to your words, though you couldn't hide the slight waver in your voice. “Somewhere pretty to…for—for easy clean up...”
And that’s how you wound up face down on Simon's bed, bent over yourself on shaky hands and trembling knees. A calloused palm pressed against your back, forcing you to arch, squirming while he fucked his previous load back into you.
"Pretty li’l cumslut," his voice was almost jovial, despite the gravelly baritone he maintained, as he watched the messy combination of slick and cum drip down the backs of your thighs. "S'at what you are, sweetheart?"
"I—mmh…Ye-es—"
Groaning at your easy submission, the quiver in your voice as you confirmed his query, he slid his hand down from your upper back, maneuvering between your shoulder blades and pressing down on the side of your head in a gentle but apparent show of control. You arched further, unable to stop yourself from chasing that perfect angle—the one that let you feel him between your ribs, that pushed the air from your lungs while he pulled another orgasm from you.
"Yeah, s’right," his free hand came down to rest on the curve of your ass, spreading you further—wider—for his own enjoyment. "’Nd whose fuckin’ cum dumpster are ya?"
"Please—Simon!"
Your cry of his name inadvertently answered his question, and he growled in recognition, bringing his hand down hard over the flesh of your ass before squeezing.
"Yeah, s’fuckin’ right—" another squeeze, "Mine."
His grip on your ass faltered slightly, just enough to let his palm sweep inwards, his thumb brushing against the tight rim of your asshole while you gasped beneath him.
"Think when I’ve pumped your pretty cunt full, you’ll let me fill ya ‘ere?" He pressed lightly, watching your eyelids flutter as you drooled onto his bedspread.
You moaned wantonly, keening at his words; his filthy promises and desperate touches. The lazy arch of your back against the pressure of his thumb and silent mouthing of his name—that was answer enough for him.
"Yeah—fuck, gonna give it to ya, sweetheart," he practically crooned it, determined to provide what you both wanted again, and again, and again. "Give ya every fuckin’ drop..."
It was so much easier for him to avoid getting cum on his sheets like this, with you so desperate to take everything he mercilessly fucked into you.
simon riley as a sugar daddy…. but he’s just. quite bad at it.
he’s always gone on mission, barely has time to form “actual relationships” but he finds a sweet thing in you, sitting in one of the offices on base, trying to understand how and why you’ve been taken here, after being rushed into the country.
then the army unceremoniously dumps you in this foreign country, with nothing but a useless passport and no job. you had a life back home, you were studying to become a doctor for fucks sake, now you have nothing.
so simon pays for your first few days, giving you fat wads of cash whilst you spend it all on your house. thing is, youre also quite bad at the sugar baby thing, wanting to spend time making the shithole of his flat, as nice as possible.
it’s good having someone to come home to, he thinks, is this what price was trying to tell him? he always comes back to a warm meal, from any cuisine. he’s given you enough money to buy takeout and yet you insist on buying cookbooks.
it’s only supposed to be a transactional thing, he supposes, money for company, but he’s given you house and board in return for a domestic life.
then he starts paying for you to go to university again, medical school. less time at home, but he still comes home to see the rooms all sweet and cozy, and a homemade meal for him.
Hey idk who needs this but helpful reminder that "virgin blood" in any witchcraft shit that requires that means "virgin" in the same sense as "virgin hair" means hair that hasn't been dyed or processed in any way, natural in the default sense. So no, "virgin blood" doesn't mean blood from a virgin, just blood that hasn't been used for any other kind of witchy shit earlier.
Whether nor not someone has fucked before is completely irrelevant. Any act of fucking doesn't instantly make someone contaminated or un-magic any of their shit. You're just not supposed to re-use blood for blood magic. That's just not. Just do not. Like that's just weird who does that.
Hii, can you write reader & Simon making out, but they’re rudely interrupted & Simon is just soo saddd
hi lovely! of course, i hope you enjoy! thank you for the request as well, how exciting! 🤍
pt.2 right here, love! ⟢
simon’s heart thuds, heartbeat crisp as his pulse races down the shell of his ear, blood flow running too quickly through his thin veins. its dizzying, mind struggling to keep up, struggling to keep up with the pace you’ve set.
your smooth tongue cascades into his mouth, coaxing his teeth apart until it’s gliding over the wetness hiding behind the pearls. simon breathes heavy, panting into your mouth as the pink muscle of his tongue stretches over yours, curling and circling yours as if on the battlefield.
“eh, not too cocky now…” you trail off, the soft pillows of your lips suddenly closing in on his outstretched tongue. you suck, bobbing your head ever so slightly, letting your own drool run down til it’s pooling in the back of his throat, the crevices of his teeth.
simon’s whimpering, hips thrusting up lazily, subconsciously. you’re hovering right over him, applying no pressure to the rough hardness beneath you. he can feel the underside of his cock dig against his zipper, thickening by the second til the metal begins to hurt, begins to imprint into his sensitive skin.
“god, please, love,” his voice curls around the words, accent thick and heady with the impending desperation that shadows him. his fingers, once settled on your thighs slide to your hips, forcing you down.
the warmth of your sweet cunt on top of him is painful, has his cock kicking up, and he can feel the way it spurts sticky pre. his boxers are surely a mess, glued to his skin with the mess he’s creating of himself. but he can’t help his humps, hips tilting till he finds the right angle, jutting himself against you till youre moaning into his mouth.
“you’re so desperate, baby, why don’t i-“ and as your fingers fall to his belt, you freeze, both jumping out of your skin when heavy knocks shake the front door. simon’s eyes flash open, staring up at you in a angry mix of desperation and disappointment.
“no, baby, no, i need you. jus- jus’ ignore whoever it is,” he pleads, big brown eyes drowning in something so heavy, so much desperation its sweating from his pores. he holds you tighter, fingertips crushing your hips as you begin to stand.
“can ‘ear ya’ bastard ass ‘n t’ere, open up!” johnnys voice rings out rough, accent cutting through the thick atmosphere, lust oozing off the two of you. you press a quick kiss to simon’s lips before raising and skipping over to the door, johnny was a sweetheart, presence always welcome.
though simon could beg to differ, whimpering out under his breath. he can feel the tears bead along his lower lash line, he’s so worked up. the warmth your body left behind already beginning to fade, and he can’t help but squeeze his cock tight, relishing in what could be around him, on top of him, sliding down onto him.
a tear falls at the same moment his angry tip cries out, he’s sticky in the face and beneath the belt. but as johnny comes stomping inside he wipes his face. his shoulders curl in defeat, lower lip trembling slightly. he’s going to be stuck here, long drawn out hours, with a twitching cock and nothing to do about it.
when the bloke falls beside him, feet already kicked up on the coffee table, is when he turns. johnny looks over simon, eyebrow raised curiously at his curled in personality, not even a glance towards the scottish fella.
As you know, counting sheeps is perfect for sleep. Sheeps take that job very seriously. But some are still learning. It’s fine, I don’t think Wolf Hunter minds. 🐑🐑🐑
pairing: peter parker x fem!reader, set after brand new day
summary: it's been a long time coming and you want nothing more than to jump peter parker's bones. or in other words, as charlotte york from sex and the city once said, damn it! I just really wanna be fucked, you know? just really fucked!
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, no use of y/n, sweet (and spicy) lil. drabble, established relationship, fingering, light dom/sub undertones, leaving marks, peter fingers you from behind, cum eating, pussy slapping, peter being so gosh darn tooth rottingly cute ugh, not beta read
"This is what you wanted, isn't it? Just wanted to make a mess on my couch, get my fingers all filthy? For me to take it?"
You're gonna be in serious trouble, you think. Peter's fingers curl upwards, and your whines break off, broken and wanton and so delightfully needed. You can feel stray tears dripping down your cheeks, lashes wet from all the different sensations Peter's taking out of your body. "I–I think I'm gonna come."
"Yeah?" He leans back in, not quite kissing her, eyes dilated in the dark of his apartment. "You think you deserve it?"
Nodding, head shaking up and down frantically. Why yes, absolutely, Peter Parker, you do deserve it.
You had been on a total of three dates with one Peter Parker so far. Far too impatient for your own good, so you'd suggested his place this time, low-key, no pressure, you'll bring the wine, and he'd said yes fast, too fast, in a way you'd have found suspicious from anyone else. But not Peter.
You wanted, so badly, horrifically, to get your hands on him. You had wanted this since date one, technically, possibly since before date one, and you had spent the intervening weeks channeling that want into research and preparation, the same way you channeled everything, because if you were going to lose your mind over a boy you were at least going to do it efficiently.
First, you wore kitten heels for the occasion even though this is definitely not the right occasion, but you couldn't help yourself. They were the ones that made your ass perk up just-so and led to three seconds of Peter eyeing your legs up and down as you passed him into the elevator, and you even wore perfume that a very reputable and frankly life-changing article on The Cut described as the closest thing to a pharmaceutical aphrodisiac you can legally buy at Sephora. He had leaned over in the cramped elevator car and looked at you, wonderstruck and in that low, boyish voice of his, "You smell really good."
And you were, as of nine-forty-two p.m., extremely fucking frustrated, because none of it, not one single thing you've done, had resulted in the guy making a move.
The movie's some spin-off Star Wars movie that Peter had frantically explained before chucking it into his bootleg streaming site, laptop flickering slightly as he plopped next to you on his couch. God yeah, Rogue One was just so severely underrated, he says as one hand brushes against your shoulder, and you'd nodded along like you had any context for what he was talking about, and you'd had to press your knees together like that would help. You've already decided you're going to watch the other seven (eight? nine? you should probably know this) before you see him again, so that next time you can argue back instead of just making the interested noise you've been perfecting for the last twenty minutes.
You end up abandoning the heels.
That was his idea, technically, a stammered offer somewhere around minute fifteen—you can, um, if your feet hurt, I don't know if they hurt, forget I said anything—that you'd accepted with a swiftness that surprised you both, unbuckling the little metal straps and easing your feet into his lap like you'd been waiting all night for permission.
Now his hand's on your ankle. His thumb does this thing, tracing little spiderwebs around your lateral malleolus, and you're so fine. So okay with this progression, totally.
"You can talk during it," he says ten minutes later when your feet, have decidedly fallen asleep, not looking away from the screen. "I know people say you're not supposed to talk during movies, but I like—I mean, only if you want. You don't have to. I just talk during movies, but not in like, a mean, dickish way like some people do in theaters, not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just a little disrespectful, but not in my apartment, so if you were gonna say something you don't have to feel—"
His thumb then drags one slow line up along your instep, absent, unthinking, entirely unaware of what it's doing to the rest of you, and something in your chest pulls taut like a wire about to snap.
"Peter, that's not it. That's not—it's just—I've never done this," you say, quieter now, and it costs you something to say it, you can feel it cost you something. "Any of it. I don't have a… single fucking clue. I don't know how this part goes."
"Neither do I."
"I know you don't, that's the problem, we're both just sitting here being—" You cut yourself off. Start over. "I'm not gonna say it. You have to do it."
"Do what?"
"Peter."
"I don't know what you—"
"Take what you want," you say, and it comes out low, and a little wrecked, and entirely unlike you. "For the love of God. Just—take it. Please. I'm not saying it again."
That's how he ends up fingering you over the arm of his couch, half-suspended and scrambling for purchase. A mean, relentless lover is most definitely not what you pegged Peter Parker to be. The boy who was flustered and uncertain just a mere ten minutes ago shouldn't be wrapping a stray arm around your waist to pull you closer, practically making you fuck yourself against his fingers. The boy who's now making embarrassing huffs of breath escape your lipgloss-stained lips and wrenching the oxygen out of you.
You know, for a fact, that Peter would never, ever let you drop, but the look on his face when you turn your head over your shoulder makes you think that the ground might be a bit safer for you.
God, you've never even been fingered from behind before but the angle of it, the relentlessness, it makes you feel so thoroughly used, dizzy from the speed and the sheer force of him taking you. Combined with him dipping his head down, sucking harsh love bites into the swell of your ass, and you think you may as well have just lost your mind.
The movie's still playing when his hands force your legs wider apart, his hushed "that's right, hips up for me," lining up at the same time as Vader chokes and dismisses Director Krennic, breath hitching. You're so proud of Peter, he had mentioned how cool this scene was, and he's so focused—your cunt squeezing tight like a vice grip on his fingers. Your whole world is spinning, just an endless cacophony of Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter—and oh, oh god, when his thumb swipes over your clit, you realize that that that's all you've been saying.
"What is it? What do you need, sweet girl?" He bites harder at your neck, filing the way you twitch and heartbeat flutters uselessly. You're gonna be all marked up tomorrow, but you couldn't care less. The pleasure and pain felt like an electric current through your body, sending phantom shocks down your spine.
"M–More, please—Peter, oh, Peter—"
"Pretty girl needed someone to take care of her, huh?" His brows furrow in mock concern, even though his hands make no move to slow down. Your thoughts trail off, wondering if Peter could take care of you just like this forever. You think he might, he could, he should. You wouldn't mind. You'd let him keep fucking you until your voice ran raw, keep his fingers wet and pretty for as long as he wanted, just one orgasm into another.
"Someone to spoil you," his tongue drags from your cheek, up to your lower back, "someone to give it to you every day," up, and up, and up your spine until his breath bears down on your neck. "I can be that for you, right, baby?"
Your whining hits a fever pitch, blissed out and on the edge of your orgasm. "Yes, of course, mmm—just don't stop."
Peter slaps your clit once, twice—fuck, and your cunt squeezes one final time around his fingers, and you're coming, your hand closing into a fist on the chenille fabric. It feels like the rest of the room is just pure nothingness, just static and buzzing and the feeling of Peter's hand coaxing you through each wave.
"You got my hand so wet, honey," He tuts, and oh. There was no reason for that to be as hot as it was, and you're sure he can feel it too, the way you clench down on his hand and pull him further into you. You've always been told you respond like a dream. "Such a good pussy. You're going to feel so good around my cock."
You turn onto your back when Peter gently pulls his fingers out of your cunt, still breathless and heaving from the attack on your senses and nothing ever could've prepared you from the sight before you. He examines his fingers in the light, the way they glisten–god, did you really get that wet—a small smile playing at his lips—and sucks those very fingers into his mouth.
Maybe it's only been seconds, or maybe it's an eternity, but you sit there like that, watching him in that entranced way of yours. He doesn't break eye contact with you once. It's filthy. You think you could be raring up to go again just from the way he looks at you.
Peter hums contentedly. The sound goes straight to your cunt. This boy's gonna be the death of you.
The laptop stirs back to life at some accidental brush of the trackpad many, many moments later, Rogue One resuming exactly where you left it, some spaceship still doing something important that neither of you had ever actually been watching.
"Oh man, we missed the ending," Peter says, squinting at the screen and dragging his mouse down to try and wind it back.
"Really, Peter? You just made me come and you'd rather I care about the ending?"
"You're gonna care. I'm gonna make you care. I have so many more things to explain to you."
"I'm sure you do."
"Is that—was that sarcastic? I can't always tell with you."
"Fine, we can watch the movie," you say, and press your smile into his shoulder so he can't see it, and he does, mostly, in between turning to look at you every ninety seconds like he still can't quite believe you're still there, and you let him check, again and again, all night, because you're checking too. "Go ahead, play it back."
+ from mara
this was short and sweet! i haven't written anything in over a year, but after seeing tom holland's rock hard abs grace my screen, i simply had to dip my toes back in. it's been hard getting back on the horse (that is, the metaphorical writing horse) and i fear you guys will most definitely be able to tell but i hope you guys like it! IM SO SCARED but okay stream audrey hobert and support your local nurses <3
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit sexual content — MDNI , graphic descriptions , excessive cum , kinda gentle to rough sex, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation , creampie, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), porn with little plot, needy peter parker , love confessions , touch starvation , college au , post nwh , smut , fem!reader , pussy drunk peter , first time together , confessions , the L word !!
𝐰𝐜: 4.9k (i think. might be more, might be less. idk.)
𝐚/𝐧: i may have gone overboard with this but it’s my first smut fic. LOL! no spoilers for brand new day! this is semi proofread, so sorry in advance for mistakes. enjoy!!
the thing about Peter Parker is that he doesn't realize how tactile he is.
or maybe he does now, after four years of forcing himself not to be.
you’re sprawled across his dorm room floor, textbooks and notes scattered around you like academic shrapnel. your Organic Chemistry problem set is due tomorrow, and Peter's trying to explain electron orbital hybridization for the third time while you're trying not to notice the way his hands move when he talks.
"okay, so—wait, are you even listening?" he glances up from the molecular model he's been gesturing at, catching you staring.
"yes," you lie. "orbitals. hybridization. very sexy stuff."
Peter's ears go pink. they always do. "it’s actually kind of cool if you think about it. like, the atoms are literally reshaping themselves to form stronger bonds—"
"Peter."
"—which is sort of romantic in a way? no? okay, yeah, I hear how that sounds."
you grin, nudging his knee with your foot. "you’re such a nerd."
the contact makes him freeze for just a second—so brief you almost miss it. but you've been Peter's best friend since freshman orientation, when you found him eating lunch alone in the dining hall, and you've gotten good at reading him. the way his breath catches. how his eyes track the movement of your leg as you pull it back.
"takes one to know one," he manages, but his voice is slightly rough.
you’ve been noticing things like this more lately. the way he leans into your touch when you grab his arm. how he finds excuses to be close—sitting next to you even when there's a whole empty couch, walking you home when your dorm is barely three buildings away. the looks that last a fraction too long.
at first, you thought you were imagining it. Peter Parker, who spent freshman year obviously pining after someone he wouldn't talk about, who kept a careful distance from everyone like he was afraid of breaking something. but somewhere between late-night study sessions and 2 AM bodega runs and him falling asleep on your shoulder during movie nights, something shifted.
now he's watching you chew on your pen cap, and there's heat in his gaze that makes your stomach flip.
"we should take a break," you suggest. "my brain is melting."
"yeah, okay." Peter runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up adorably. "i’ve got—uh, i think there's some leftover pizza? and definitely Red Bull, which is probably not great to mix with the coffee we already had, but—"
"Peter."
"hmm?"
you’re not sure what you were going to say. something about how he's rambling, maybe, or how cute he looks when he's nervous. but you're sitting close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, and the words dissolve on your tongue.
he swallows hard. "you’re looking at me weird."
"weird how?"
"i don't know! like..." he trails off, and you watch his gaze drop to your mouth before snapping back up. "never mind."
the air feels thick suddenly, charged with something that's been building for months. you think about all the almost-moments—hands brushing when passing coffee cups, the time he caught you when you slipped on ice and held on longer than necessary, the way he said your name last week, soft and wondering, like he was testing how it felt.
"Peter," you say again, and this time his name sounds different. heavier.
"yes?" it comes out barely above a whisper.
you lean in slowly, giving him time to pull away. he doesn't. instead, he tilts forward like you're gravity and he's been in orbit too long, and when your lips finally meet, the small sound he makes goes straight through you.
the kiss is soft for maybe two seconds before Peter's hand comes up to cup your face and it turns desperate. he kisses like he's starving, like you're air and he's been underwater for years. his other hand finds your waist, gripping tight enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers.
"sorry," he gasps against your mouth. "sorry, i just—"
"don’t apologize." you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently. the noise he makes is almost pained.
"i’ve wanted—" he breaks off, kissing you again, harder. "god, i’ve wanted this for so long."
you end up in his lap somehow, textbooks scattering as he pulls you closer. Peter's hands are everywhere—your hips, your back, sliding under the hem of your shirt to touch bare skin. when you roll your hips experimentally, he actually whimpers.
"fuck," he breathes. "fuck, you can't—i’m trying to—"
"trying to what?" you do it again, feeling him harden beneath you.
his head falls back against the bed frame. "be good. go slow. not just—" his hips buck up involuntarily. "not just maul you like some kind of—oh fuck, are you taking off your shirt?"
you are, in fact, pulling your shirt over your head. "is that okay?"
Peter's eyes go wide and dark. "is that—are you seriously asking if—yeah. yeah, it’s okay. are you kidding?" he reaches for you with shaking hands, then stops himself. "i need you to tell me this is real."
"it’s real." you guide his hands to your waist. "i’m real. touch me, Peter."
he surges up to kiss you, lifting you and gently laying you back against the bed, he follows you down—his weight pressing you into the mattress. he’s kissing the spot behind your ear now, your neck, your jawline, your collarbone, working his way down with single-minded focus. all he can think about is you. you, you you you you.
"you’re so soft," he murmurs against your skin. "so fucking soft, i can't get enough. so soft, and smooth.”
his hands shake as he reaches for your bra clasp. it takes him two tries, and he laughs breathlessly against your shoulder. "sorry, i’m—it's been a while.”
your heart clenches. you know Peter has secrets—everyone does—but sometimes he lets things slip that make you wonder what he's been through. "we can slow down if you want."
"no." it comes out fierce. "no, i don't want slow. i want—" he drags his hands down your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "i want to touch every part of you. want to taste you. want to—fuck, i want so many things."
he gets your bra off and just stares for a moment, reverent. when’s the last time he’s seen tits up close? then he's ducking his head to take your nipple in his mouth, and the feeling shoots straight between your legs. his tongue works in circles while his hand palms your other breast, and you arch into him with a gasp.
"Peter—"
he’s grinding against your thigh now, seemingly unconscious of it, completely focused on mapping your body with his mouth. when he kisses down your stomach, just above your navel, your muscles jump under his lips.
"can i?" his fingers are on the button of your shorts. "please. pleasepleaseplease."
"yes." you lift your hips to help him, and he drags your shorts and underwear down in one motion like he can't wait another second.
Peter sits back on his heels, just looking, and the expression on his face makes you feel like the most beautiful thing in the world. "holy shit," he breathes. "you’re so—i can't believe you're letting me—fuck.”
"Peter." you reach for him. "come here."
but he shakes his head, lowering himself between your thighs instead. "i need to taste you first. i’ve been thinking about this for months—i felt like a pervert but.. i just couldn’t stop thinking about you. shit, baby.”
the first broad lick of his tongue through your folds makes you both moan. Peter grips your thighs hard enough to bruise, spreading you open obscenely as he buries his face between your legs like a man starving. there’s no technique to it at first, just raw desperate hunger—he's licking and sucking messily, his tongue exploring every fold, every inch of you like he needs to memorize the taste.
"oh my god," you manage, watching him devour you. watching his messy curls between your legs. “Peter, that's—fuuuuck!”
he moans against your cunt, the vibration making your legs shake. his tongue finds your clit and circles it sloppily before dipping lower, the tip of his tongue pushing into your entrance. "fuck," he gasps, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin already shiny with your arousal. "jesus, you're so wet. you’re dripping—all for me?” he dives back in, licking into you deeper, his nose pressed against your clit as he tries to fuck you with his tongue.
you can feel how soaked you are, can hear the obscene wet sounds as he works you over. Peter's completely lost in it, grinding his hard cock against the mattress as he eats you out like it's the best thing he's ever tasted. because you are. if he knew, he would’ve confessed long ago.
"you taste so fucking good," he mumbles against your pussy, words muffled and desperate. "could do this forever. could just live between your legs—fuck, you're getting wetter. fuck, honey."
he slides two fingers into you without warning, and you cry out at the stretch. your walls clench around the intrusion, and Peter whimpers at the feeling. "oh god, you're so tight. so fucking tight and warm. holy fuck.” he curls his fingers, searching, and when he finds that spot inside you, your back arches off the bed.
“there!" you gasp. "right there, Peter, don't stop—"
"here?" he does it again, his fingers pumping in and out while his mouth seals around your clit. he sucks hard, tongue flicking rapidly, and the dual sensation has you climbing fast. you can see him grinding desperately against the mattress, seeking friction, his hips rolling in time with his fingers fucking into you.
"Peter, i’m gonna—"
"please," he begs against your clit, the word vibrating through you. "please cum for me, wanna feel your pussy squeeze my fingers, wanna taste you cumming on my tongue. please? will you cum for me, baby? please, i need it. i need you.”
his encouragements and the fullness combined with his mouth on your clit sends you over the edge. your orgasm crashes through you, and Peter moans like he's the one cumming as your walls clench rhythmically around his fingers. he works you through it, fingers still pumping, tongue still lapping at your clit until you're shaking and oversensitive and have to physically push his head away.
when he lifts his head, his face is a mess—lips swollen and shiny, chin glistening with your arousal, eyes absolutely blown black with lust. he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “that was the hottest thing i’ve ever done," he says, voice completely wrecked. he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, moaning at the taste. "you’re the hottest thing i’ve ever seen. i can’t—i need to be inside you right now or i’m gonna lose my mind."
you reach for his shirt with shaking hands. "off. please."
he strips so fast he nearly falls over, hopping on one foot as he shoves his jeans and boxers down. it’s almost comical, if you weren’t so desperate right now. when he's finally naked, you take a moment to appreciate him—lean muscle, the cut of his hipbones, his cock hard and flushed, curving up toward his stomach. the head is already leaking precum, and as you watch, another bead forms at the tip.
"come here," you say, and he practically lunges back onto the bed.
the first touch of skin on skin makes him shudder violently. "oh shit," he breathes, his cock sliding against your wet pussy. "ah fuck, you feel so good. jesus. your skin. fuckfuckfuck.”
your wrap your hand around him, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily, fucking into your fist. he’s hot and hard and silky in your palm, and when you stroke him once, experimentally, precum leaks over your fingers. the sound he makes is almost pained. he bites his lip so hard, you’re afraid he’ll break skin.
"i’m not gonna last," he warns, voice breaking. "i’m already so close, i’ve been so close just from tasting you, from feeling you cum on my face.”
"it’s okay." you guide him to your entrance, notching the head of his cock against your opening. you’re so wet that he slides through your folds easily. "i want you inside me. want to feel you cum inside me.”
Peter’s hand shakes as he reaches between you, gripping his cock to line himself up properly. "i don't—do you have a—"
"pill," you manage. "i’m on the pill. clean. are you—
"of course i am. i—i mean. yes.”
you’d normally never do this raw. but right now, all you care about is the way he's looking at you like you're everything, as he slowly pushes inside.
the stretch is intense—he's thick and the angle is deep and you're so sensitive from your first orgasm that every inch feels like too much and not enough all at once. you both groan as he sinks in, and you can feel your walls fluttering around him, trying to accommodate the intrusion.
"oh my god," Peter gasps, his whole body trembling. "oh my god, you're so tight, i can feel—fuck, i can feel everything—" his arms are shaking with the effort of going slow, his face buried in your neck. "you’re squeezing me so tight, oh, fuuuuck.”
when he's fully seated, buried to the hilt inside you, he stops, breathing hard against your skin. you can feel him pulsing inside you, can feel how close he already is. "need a second," he pants. "just need a second or i’m gonna cum right now.”
you run your hands down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he's holding himself perfectly still. "it’s okay. take your time."
"don’t want it to be over." he lifts his head to look at you, and his eyes are almost desperate, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left. "feels too good. you feel too good. like—like you were made for me, like your pussy was made to take my cock.”
you rock your hips slightly, and his eyes nearly roll back. "Peter, you can move. please move. i need you to fuck me."
he does, pulling out slowly—agonizingly slowly—and you can feel everything. every ridge, every vein, the way his cock drags against your walls, the way you're stretched around him. the sensation is so intense it makes your toes curl, makes you whimper at the loss of fullness.
"oh, fuck," Peter breathes, watching where you're joined, watching himself slide out of you. "you look so good taking my cock. so fucking good.”
then he slides back in, just as slowly, and you both moan at the same time. the sound he makes is broken, almost pained, like it feels too good to bear. his whole body shudders as he bottoms out again, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. he does it again, pulling out painfully slow—before sliding back in. the feeling is so perfect. yet, your body craves more. he sets a rhythm that's deep and steady, but you can feel him holding back, trying to maintain control, his jaw clenched with the effort.
"can’t—" he gasps. "can’t believe how good you feel. so tight and wet and warm. how are you so tight, baby? god.”
he sets a rhythm that's deep and steady, his cock plunging deep inside of your pussy, over and over. each thrust is deliberate, controlled, like he's trying to memorize every sensation. but you can see the effort it's taking him—his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping, his arms trembling where they're braced on either side of you, sweat already beading on his forehead.
"ah—yes!" you encourage, running your hands up his back. "you feel so good inside me."
his hips stutter slightly at your words, the rhythm faltering for just a second before he regains control. "yeah? you like feeling me fuck you?"
"yes, pete! love it! love feeling you stretch me open—!”
"fuck—" his next thrust is slightly harder, slightly faster, and he immediately tries to slow down again. "sorry, sorry, i’m trying to—trying to go slow but you feel so fucking good.”
"let go," you tell him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "i want to feel you lose control. want you to fuck me like you've been dreaming about."
he groans as he feels your walls clench around him. “i’m sorry, honey. m’sorry. i’m too rough, aren’t i? m’so sorry.”
"don’t apologize." you roll your hips to meet his next thrust, and the angle makes him hit deeper. "want to feel you."
the pleasure is building steadily, a warm coil tightening in your belly with each stroke. Peter's breathing is getting heavier, his control visibly slipping. his thrusts are getting incrementally faster, harder, like his body is moving on instinct despite his attempts to hold back.
"you’re so—ah!—perfect," he pants against your neck, his hips snapping forward a little harder. "so fucking perfect, taking my cock so well—" another thrust, faster this time. "been dreaming about this, about being inside you, about feeling you on my cock.”
his rhythm is getting less controlled now, more erratic. you can feel him starting to lose it, his careful restraint crumbling with each thrust. he’s sweating more, his skin slick against yours, his breathing ragged and desperate.
"Peter—" you dig your nails into his back. "more. need more."
he shakes his head. “can’t—if i go harder i won't be able to stop—" but even as he says it, his hips are moving faster, driving into you with more force. "what are you doing to me? fuuuck, i can't—i’m trying to be gentle but you feel too good.”
“then don't be gentle." you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "want you to fuck me harder."
he makes a sound that's almost a whimper, his hips stuttering before he slams into you harder than before. "like that? you want it like that?"
"yes!—fuck, yes—"
his control is slipping faster now. each thrust is harder, faster, more desperate. he tries to slow down, you can feel him trying, but his body won't listen. his hips keep moving, keep driving into you with increasing intensity.
"can’t stop," he gasps, his voice breaking. "can’t fucking stop, you feel too good, your pussy is so tight—" he’s babbling now, his face pressed into the curve of your neck. "want to fuck you so hard, want to make you feel so good, want to hear you scream my name.”
"m’trying to—trying to hold back—" but his hips are moving faster, pounding into you with a force that makes the bed shake. "don’t want to hurt you—"
"you won't. please, Peter, i need it.”
his next thrust makes you both cry out. he’s completely losing it now, his rhythm getting faster and more erratic, his body taking over despite his attempts at control. you can feel him shaking, trembling with the effort of holding himself back even as his hips betray him.
"i’ll hurt you—i’m stronger than i look—“
"shut up, Peter." you pull him deeper with your legs, and the angle makes you both gasp. "stop—fucking—ah!, stop apologizing. i want all of you. want you to use me, fuck me as hard as you need.”
his eyes roll back at the depth and his fragile restraint snaps. he eyes go dark and feral, and suddenly he's pounding into you, his hips snapping against yours with force that would probably hurt if you weren't so turned on. the bed frame slams against the wall with each thrust, and Peter's completely gone, his filter destroyed.
"fuckfuck, shit, your pussy feels so good," he babbles against your neck, his voice broken and desperate. he reaches up, his hand palming your breast, squeezing the weight in his hand. his thumb circling over your nipple as he moans into your neck. "so tight and wet and perfect—can't believe i get to have this, have you. been wanting to fuck you for so long..” he changes the angle slightly and hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "there? can you feel me there? can you feel how deep i am?"
"yes!" you’re clinging to him, nails digging into his back. "Peter, oh my god!”
"shit—! wanted to bend you over the library table," he confesses, words tumbling out in a rush as he fucks into you relentlessly. "wanted to pull you into the bathroom at that party last month and fuck you against the sink. wanted to wake up with my face between your legs, wanted to fall asleep with my cock still inside you—" he’s rambling now, completely unfiltered, telling you every desperate fantasy as his hips piston. "used to jerk off thinking about this, about how you'd feel, how you'd sound, what your pussy would look like stretched around my cock.”
the world outside his dorm room falls away, all you can feel is his cock pumping in and out of you. you can barely think, he’s barely giving you time to think. all you can hear is his moans, your own desperate cries and the wet slap! of his skin against yours.
you can feel another orgasm building, the angle hitting perfectly with every brutal thrust. your walls are fluttering around him, and you know he can feel it because he moans and somehow speeds up even more. like he’s superhuman.
"Peter, i’m close—"
"i know, sweet girl. i can feel it." he reaches between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit. the touch is almost too much on your oversensitive flesh, but then he's rubbing tight circles and you're flying. "cum on my cock. please baby, need to feel it, need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock. just like you did on my fingers.”
tne combination of his thumb and the relentless thrust of his hips and his desperate words sends you over the edge. your second orgasm hits even harder than the first, your whole body seizing as pleasure whites out your vision. you clench around him rhythmically, and Peter makes a sound like he's been punched, his rhythm faltering.
“oh shit, shitshitshit, you're squeezing me so tight, i can't—i’m gonna cum—where? tell me where. please.”
"inside," you gasp, still riding the waves. "cum inside me, Peter, want to feel it.”
he buries himself as deep as possible and comes with a broken moan of your name.
you can feel it immediately—the first hot pulse of cum flooding into you, but it doesn't stop. it keeps coming, wave after wave, his cock jerking violently inside you as he empties himself. there’s so much—more than should be possible—each pulse filling you fuller, the warmth spreading deep inside as he shakes apart above you.
"oh god, oh god.” his voice is completely destroyed, words slurring together as another massive wave hits him. "i’m sorry, baby. i know it’s a lot—fuuuuck. imsorryimsorryimsorry.”
another pulse, his hips jerking involuntarily, grinding deeper like he's trying to fuck his cum even further inside you.
his arms are shaking so badly he can barely hold himself up. you can see tears gathering at the corners of his eyes from the overwhelming intensity, his face twisted in almost painful pleasure.
when his orgasm finally, finally starts to subside, he collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress because he literally cannot hold himself up anymore. he’s shaking like a leaf, gasping against your neck, and you can feel the obscene amount of cum leaking out of you.
"holy shit," he finally says, voice absolutely destroyed. "that was—i mean, i knew it would be good, but that was—i think i saw the heavens. god, i feel like i’m gonna pass out.”
"that was so hot," you manage, because words are hard right now and your limbs feel like jelly.
he lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is soft and wondering and a little hungry. "i love you," he says. "i know that's probably too soon to say, and we should probably talk about what this means, but i love you. i’ve been in love with you for months, maybe longer, and i thought i’d never get over—someone else—but then you smiled at me in the dining hall freshman year and i just.. i don’t know. you definitely don’t have to say it back, because i sound insane, but i just want you to know that—“
you kiss him, cutting off the ramble. "i know. i think i love you too.”
his answering smile is bright enough to power the sun. "yeah?"
"yeah.”
he kisses you again, soft and sweet this time, and you can feel him starting to harden inside you again, his cock thickening and lengthening where it's still buried in your pussy.
"Peter," you say, mock-stern even as your body responds.
he grins, sheepish and hungry all at once, and rolls his hips experimentally. the slide is easy, slick with cum and arousal. "i have months to make up for. hope you didn't have plans tomorrow."
you definitely don't have plans. and when he starts moving again—slow and deep and perfect, his cum making obscene wet sounds as he fucks it back into you—you can't think of anywhere else you'd rather be than here, in his messy dorm room, with the boy who's been touch-starved for too long finally letting himself feel everything.
the Organic Chemistry homework can wait.
authors note: whewww.. hi guys… yes.. yes.. i’ve been gone for a few weeks but IM HERE NOW! and here with a smut.. wooo!! baby’s first smutfic yum yum. i saw bnd on the 29th and holy fan service.. any who i have a love hate relationship with this. i’m SCARED to post this and i will delete if it doesn’t do well (kidding). i just get embarrassed writing smut so.. hope you love it.. and if you do, i might make more !! bye loves <3
— ✶ a collection of articles i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed of the spider-man all in one spot! read each warning before swinging in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ
call me if you get lost I @superbassbuck I F + H/C + A I You have been Spiderman’s communicator—his eyes for crime and the voice on the other end of a staticky little radio that took him less than an hour to build. He doesn’t know your name, or what you look like. And you don’t know a single thing about him. Peter tells himself it’s better this way, that keeping you at arm’s length is the only way he can keep you safe. But that promise slowly frays the longer he speaks to you.
mask on, fuck it, mask off I @dearwalker I S I You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
letters i can’t send I @fawnindawn I H/C I your cute upstairs neighbour holds many secrets. you're willing to close one eye to his secrecy or the way he looks at you as if you hung the stars, till you accidentally uncover letters upon letters nedpeter’s kept in his apartment—all addressed to you.
web me home I @/fawnindawn I F + C I peter’s new arachnid senses often leave him disoriented—hibernating and waking up in places he doesn’t recognise. it’s a small problem, one he's willing to deal with on his own, till he wakes in your apartment with his arms wrapped around you.
secrets for the sleepless I @moonstruckme I H/C + F I you’re an insomniac, and you can’t help but notice your new roommate's comings and goings at odd hours. Peter’s a not-very-good liar that gets worse as he falls in love
underneath the suit I @yasministration I F I peter isn't prepared to take his clothes off for a meeting with the white widow, and he's much less prepared to meet his best friend for the very first time since fate tore them apart in a cruel twist of memory.
love bites I @/yasministration I ~S + F I you're determined to leave love bites all over peter's neck, but unfortunately for you, his accelerated healing has other plans. peter has a couple of suggestions to lift your spirits.
spiderfire superduo I @/yasministration I H/C I many of your superhero memories are riddled with the presence of spider-man, so how come you can't recall a single thing about him? oddly enough, getting all your answers begins with a youtube video titled 'spider-man and starfire being best friends for 10 minutes'
heartbeat pt2 I @thought-you-knew I F I As a nurse, nothing really fazes you. You've seen it all, but seeing the Punisher carrying in an unconscious Spider-Man? Well, maybe you haven't seen everything. Or Peter thinks you're cute while you're concerned for his elevated heartbeat.
did you get your taste back? I @xreader1989 I C + F I will you, an ex widow, and Spiderman himself be able to get over your past traumas and let each other in?
the anchor I @fireinmoonshot I H/C I When Doctor Strange's spell made the whole world forget Peter Parker, something went wrong (or very right). Now, you're the only person who remembers him. But it doesn't stop the nightmares from invading Peter's mind about the day where he might wake up and you don't remember him.
swinging by! I @starkissedxav I F I peter swings you around the city for the first time!
the frequency of forgetting pt2 pt3 I @violetrainbow412-blog I H/C I after erasing herself from his memories to save him, she spends years silently yearning for his love, unaware that fate would also ensure Peter was forgotten by the rest of the world. But no spell can break a bond that always finds its way back.
someone new I @/violetrainbow412-blog I C I after all, Peter just needs a friend
nothing sweet about it I @strangelure I S I your ex-boyfriend peter sees a chance and he takes it
sensitive I @arachine I S I accidentally discovering one day that peter's wrists are (weirdly) sensitive after his enhancement, so you take it into consideration the next time you go down on him and his entire world shatters.
find my way to your tongue I @/arachine I A + F I it's been three years since dr. strange cast the spell—three years peter has spent thinking about you. his final promise to you was to keep you safe. let you go. but peter has never been good at making promises.
frat!peter I @webslingingslasher I H/C
lucky I @miserymorgue I F
the ways that you say my name I @kryptidfiles I S I The sound of being known after years being forgotten makes Peter lose every careful piece of himself
i’m not there yet I @hanasnx I A + S
the front door I @hearts4hughes I A + F
yandere!stalker peter I @/heart4hughes I ~A
brand new changes, same ol’ spidey I @heyaheyrinny I S I Peter’s body is changing and you take this as an opportunity to tease his overstimulated senses.
drabble I @vampyrsm I ~S + F
thank you, spiderman I @sluvaffair I S I Enhanced!Spidey has made a habit of visiting you. You don't know what he looks like, but you do know how he likes to be touched.
drabble I @starlord-s I A
in dreams, i meet you in a warm conversation pt2 I @everythingcollided I H/C I you're avoiding the party that mj and ned wanted to throw, but that doesn't stop you from being found by a stranger. why can't you shake the feeling that he's familiar?
affixing attachment I @kentcant I H/C I where peter didn’t come back to remind you what you’d lost, and you confront him for leaving you abandoned too (aka you’re MJ, and you end up remembering him… sorta)
no strings webs attached I @mypoisonedvine I S I you've been hooking up with peter for a few months, letting him use you and never asking for more. but after he goes through some... changes, you end up getting more after all; unfortunately, it might be more than you can handle.
a journalist’s (lack of) integrity I @80sfilmclub I F I desperate to make it ahead (and establish yourself as an actual journalist) at the daily bugle, you tell your boss that you scored an exclusive interview with spider-man when you definitely did not. while you scramble to make good on your lie, peter parker hears your plight.
the kindness of a stranger I @webslinger-holland I F I After a night of one too many drinks, the reader finds herself vulnerable and alone on a Brooklyn street corner. Her night takes an unexpected turn as New York's own Spider-Man swoops in to save her and get her home safely.
sue me, i wanna be wanted I @rosesaints I F + S I it's been a long time coming and you want nothing more than to jump peter parker's bones
neighborly I @filmjules I S
sensory overload I @anon-188 I A + S I peter’s senses are spiraling out of control, and after an especially rough night, he decides staying away from you is the safest thing he can do. you, however, disagree.
gif @/zendadya I paper dividers @/dividers4u I notebook spiral and color dividers @/me
peter parker x f!reader | genre: angst + smut | wc: 8.2k
summary: peter’s senses are spiraling out of control, and after an especially rough night, he decides staying away from you is the safest thing he can do. you, however, disagree. **(contains spoilers!!!)**
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), enhanced!peter, arachnid!peter, porn with plot, established relationship, angst, sensory overload, blood and injury mentions (brief, patrol related), rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (p in v), creampie, peter puts reader in a chokehold (bc biceps, duh), nsfw themes + language. (i think that’s it!).
a/n: bnd has been haunting me, if you couldn’t tell, and tom’s biceps were no exception. also, this is my first peter smut!! sorry for the 8k, but not at all sorry for the 6k worth of smut ;) i hope you guys enjoy!! <3 🕷️(if you see any typos, no you didn't)
Peter had been avoiding you.
Had been for days now, though it wasn’t ever anything direct enough to make it obvious to anyone who didn’t know him the way you did. There was always some excuse ready when you asked him to come over, some patrol running late or something he had picked up, his answers coming quickly before he disappeared again. You knew it had something to do with his senses. Everything had been heightened lately, sounds and smells and every slight touch reaching him stronger than they should, and Peter had already begun keeping his distance whenever it became too much.
A few nights ago, whatever had been building finally came to a head.
Peter had stopped by late at night, landing on the fire escape outside your bedroom window the way he always did after patrol. The familiar scrape of metal pulled your attention from the television, followed by the muted thud of his feet meeting the platform. Usually, he tapped on the glass even though you both knew you left it unlocked for him. Sometimes he would crouch there with his mask pushed halfway up, waiting until you noticed him, wearing that tired, crooked smile that always made it impossible to stay annoyed about the hour.
This time, he didn’t knock.
Instead, he threw the window open hard enough to rattle the frame, climbing inside with none of his usual care, one hand hooked over the ledge while the other held his side. His mask was crushed in his fist, his suit torn near his ribs and across one thigh, the dark fabric slick where blood had soaked through. More streaked across his mouth and jaw, already drying along his upper lip, while a fresher line ran from somewhere near his hairline and into his curls.
From the look of him, it had been a very long night. His chest rose and fell too quickly, each breath pulled in through parted lips before leaving him rough and uneven. Even after he straightened, his shoulders stayed tense, his mask still clenched in one hand while his eyes moved around your room without settling anywhere for long, passing over the bed, the desk, the window behind him, then finally landing on you.
“Peter—”
“I’m fine,” he said before you could ask, though the blood running down the side of his face and the hand pressed tightly against his ribs said otherwise.
You looked him over for another second, taking in the bruising already beginning to darken along his cheek and the slight tremble in his fingers, then turned toward your nightstand. You kept everything he needed in the bottom drawer now—the gauze, antiseptic, butterfly bandages and the painkillers he always claimed didn’t do anything, yet took anyway.
But before you could reach it, Peter started talking, drawing your attention back to him. He paced back and forth in front of the window, his movements restless as though standing still would only make whatever was happening worse.
“Something’s wrong.”
You stopped near the nightstand, watching him make another pass across the room. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head, answering while the question was still leaving your mouth. “I don’t know, I just… something’s wrong.” The words poured from him jagged and loosely connected, each thought giving way to another. Scorpion. The fight. The cop. Peter stumbled over every piece as he tried to explain what happened, his breathing still too rough, his pacing growing quicker whenever a detail caught in his throat.
“I almost killed a cop.”
Peter stopped near your desk farther along the same wall as the window, staring down at his gloved hands, like he could still feel the force of what he had done sitting there.
“I almost killed a cop,” he repeated, softer this time, disbelief thinning his voice.
You tried to catch his eye, still struggling to piece together everything he had thrown at you. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Peter.”
“Just…” His face tightened before the rest could follow, a low grunt catching in his throat as his senses opened wider without warning.
The city crashed into him. Sirens several streets over, one set fading while another drew closer. Voices carried through the walls of the buildings surrounding yours, some clear enough to separate into words, others reduced to murmurs that still crowded together inside his skull. A couple argued half a block away. Pipes knocked behind the plaster while your neighbors shifted in bed, sheets dragging and old springs creaking beneath their weight.
All of it arrived with the same sharpness, every sound layered over another until there was nowhere for him to place any of it, including you.
Especially you.
Your heartbeat pulsed above everything else, each beat carrying through the few feet between you as clearly as though his ear were pressed to your chest. He could hear your breathing change while you watched him, the slight catch at the start of every inhale, the softer release through your nose. The clean scent of your shower still lingered on your skin, soap and warmth clinging close, but underneath it was something sharper, sweeter, something his body recognized before his mind could force itself away from it.
Peter pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, fingers spread across his forehead as pressure gathered behind them. He knew the feeling now, the warning that came just before they changed, before the world sharpened past what he could stand.
You called to him as you rounded the foot of your bed and moved into the narrow space beside the desk, but your voice folded into everything else instead of reaching him. Sirens swallowed the first syllable, pipes struck behind the wall, someone laughed in the apartment below, and your heartbeat climbed faster with every step that brought you closer.
He wanted to answer you, to tell you to wait, not to come any closer, but each attempt was swallowed by the next sensation tearing through him.
You lifted a hand toward his arm, trying to steady him, but Peter’s fingers closed around your wrist while yours were still inches from touching him. He moved so quickly that the sudden stop nearly pulled you off balance, your body tipping toward him until you caught yourself with a short stumble.
The grip wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but his fingers had already closed completely around your wrist, holding you there while every part of him strained against whatever had taken over.
“Don’t.”
His voice came out scraped thin and low, and when his gaze lifted to yours, black had already taken his eyes completely.
“Peter,” you said softly, his name carrying none of the fear he seemed to expect, only the worry that had brought you across the room in the first place.
The black pulled back almost as quickly as it had appeared, his eyes shifting into themselves until brown broke through again, followed by the whites around them. His gaze dropped immediately to where his hand was still wrapped around your wrist, and the sight of it seemed to cut through whatever had a hold of him. His fingers opened at once, releasing you so abruptly that your hand fell between you.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t…” His breathing stayed rough, the apology doing nothing to ease the panic moving through him as he backed away from you and struck the edge of your desk. The impact rattled it behind him, but Peter barely reacted, already trying to put more space between you. “I have to go. I should go. You need to stay away from me, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”
You stepped closer anyway, refusing the distance he had just fought to put between you. “You won’t.”
Peter looked at you, his brows drawing together as if he couldn’t understand how you could say it with that much certainty after what had just happened. His mouth opened, but his answer took a second to come, the words falling lower when they finally did.
“I almost killed someone tonight.”
“I know.”
“No, I…” He shook his head, the movement sharp with frustration as he tried to reach for an explanation that still wasn’t there. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what happened.”
“It was an accident, Peter.”
“You weren’t there.” His hand went back to his side as he moved closer to the open window, fingers twisting into the torn fabric there while he struggled to pull in a full breath. “I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t even realize what I was doing until it was already done, and what if that happens again?” His voice thinned, the fear in it coming through. “I’m dangerous right now. I can’t control any of this. I don’t even understand what this is.”
You moved to close the space, reaching for him again, but Peter slipped through the open window and stepped backward onto the fire escape with another shake of his head. “No, stay back.”
The warning was still hanging between you when his face tightened, another rush of noise tearing through him from every direction. Peter covered his ears, his eyes screwing shut again as sirens, voices and passing engines crashed together inside his head, each one too sharp to ignore.
“Peter, wait.” You moved toward the window to follow him, one hand lifting toward the frame, but his wrist snapped forward as you started to climb through. A strand of webbing caught against the glass and pulled the window shut between you, the frame slamming down, followed by a second shot along the edge that sealed it in place.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice strained beneath the noise still ripping through him as he pulled the mask back over his head.
You called after him through the glass, your voice rising as you pushed against the window, but Peter was already moving. He stepped onto the ledge and threw himself away from the building, a web catching somewhere above and sweeping him into the night, carrying him farther from you with every swing.
The first night, you barely slept. Every siren that passed beneath your window had you reaching for your phone, checking for a call you knew hadn’t come, then opening the news instead. You searched through every alert and half-written post that mentioned Spider-Man, watching clips long enough to make sure none of them showed him falling, bleeding or failing to get back up. Between each one, you called him again, listening to the line ring until his voicemail answered in his place.
“Please just tell me you’re okay.”
You left the message softly, worry still outweighing everything else as you stared toward the window he had sealed shut. The webbing still clung to the frame, the strands stretched white against the glass, and the longer you looked at it, the more the image of his face returned. His eyes turning black. The fear in his voice. The way he had backed away from you as though you were the one thing he couldn’t risk being near.
By morning, he still hadn’t answered.
You called again before you got out of bed, then later while you were getting dressed, then once more when most of the afternoon had passed without a word from him.
“Peter, answer me.”
Your voice came out firmer that time, the worry still there but starting to wear thinner with every call he ignored. You tried telling yourself his phone was dead, or he was asleep somewhere, or maybe he had found somewhere safe to wait until whatever was happening with his senses passed, but none of those excuses held up for very long when hours kept passing and he still didn’t say anything.
Sometime that night, he finally answered one of your texts.
I’m okay.
That was all he gave you.
No explanation. No apology. Nothing about where he was, whether he was hurt or when he planned on coming back. Just two words dropped into the middle of everything he had left you carrying, like knowing his heart was still beating should’ve been enough to settle yours. It didn’t.
You called the second you read it, only for the phone to ring until voicemail again. The confusion that had kept you worried began wearing thin after that, scraped away a little more each time your name lit up his screen without convincing him to answer. By the next day, you were no longer asking gently.
“One text, Peter? That’s seriously all you’re giving me after everything that happened? You know, I’m trying really hard not to be pissed at you right now, but you’re making that impossible.”
You ended the voicemail before you could say anything else, tossing your phone onto the bed only to grab it again a few minutes later when another notification came through.
Spider-Man.
It was blurry footage someone had posted online, red and blue streaking across the screen as Peter dropped between two parked cars, then launched himself after someone farther down the street. Another video surfaced a few hours later, then another after that. Spider-Man swinging between buildings, stopping a robbery, throwing himself into the path of danger while strangers stood close enough to film it.
You should’ve been relieved. He was alive, still doing what he always did. Yet, every clip made your anger climb higher because he was still out there. Still fighting. Still putting himself near criminals, cops and crowds while insisting that you were the one who needed to stay away from him.
You made up your mind in a matter of minutes. The few days you had already given him were more than enough. You tried calling. Tried giving him time to calm down and figure out whatever was going on without pushing him, but that clearly wasn’t working, and watching him swing around the city while he ignored you had burned through whatever patience you had left.
So you went to him.
You didn’t care how late it was tonight or whether he wanted to see you, only pulled on your shoes and walked the few blocks to his apartment with your phone still clutched in your hand. If Peter refused to answer your calls, then you would make him face you another way.
Your knuckles met the wood of his apartment door once, then twice, the second knock harder than the first. You had already raised your fist again, his name halfway out of your mouth as you started to tell him to open the door, when it swung inward.
Peter stood on the other side, looking like absolute hell. The bruising along his face had darkened, a cut split one eyebrow and was held together by butterfly closures, and exhaustion sat heavy around his eyes. His hair looked like he had been dragging his hands through it one too many times. He seemed irritated before either of you even spoke, though it didn’t sit naturally on him. It was too tangled with the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the door and his eyes moved over you once before quickly finding somewhere else to land.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
Not hello. Not an explanation or an apology for ignoring you. Just immediate resistance, as though he had spent every hour since leaving your fire escape repeating the same rule until he had convinced himself it was the only one that mattered. Stay away. Stay safe. Don’t let you close enough to make him want to let you in.
“Yeah. Well, I am,” you said, unable to keep the bite from your voice. You were done debating whether you were allowed to care about your own boyfriend. “You scared the shit out of me, Peter. You showed up bleeding, told me you almost killed someone, then left me standing behind a window you webbed shut. Which was a dick move, by the way.”
His eyes stayed on you, tired and guarded, and with the way he was looking at you, you expected him to say something back. To argue, apologize, tell you that you didn’t understand, anything, but he only stood there with one hand still wrapped around the edge of the door.
“I gave you space. I called you, I texted you, and you responded once like that was supposed to be enough before ignoring me again.”
Peter still didn’t answer, and after another second, you realized he wasn’t going to. Whatever he was holding behind that look, he had no intention of saying it out here.
You let out a short breath, your frustration pressing tighter beneath your ribs. “Are you going to let me in?”
Peter’s hand shifted along the edge of the door, his fingers tightening while the rest of him remained planted in the opening. For a moment, it looked like he might refuse, like he was still trying to convince himself that keeping you in the hallway was somehow different from shutting you out everywhere else. His eyes moved over your face, tense and unreadable, before he swung the door wider with more force than necessary and stepped aside.
He kept himself rigid near the door as you passed, leaving enough space between you to make the distance feel intentional, every part of him held back from even the slightest brush of your body against his. It didn’t matter. The second you crossed the threshold, his senses found you anyway.
Your presence cut through the stale apartment, every breath and small shift of your body reaching him like you were standing much closer than you were. Having you there made everything worse in a way he still couldn’t explain. The rest of the apartment seemed to drop back as his senses locked onto you so hard there was barely room for anything else—which was exactly why he had been dodging you. Whenever they narrowed in like this, someone ended up hurt before he knew what his body was reacting to, and he wasn’t willing to find out what happened if the person standing closest to him was you.
You stepped farther inside, looking around as Peter shut the door behind you. The living room curtains were pulled tight even though it was already dark outside, blocking the streetlights and whatever movement passed below. Nearly every appliance had been unplugged, cords hanging loose near the outlets, and a few lightbulbs had been unscrewed and set together on a nearby table. He had been taking the apartment apart piece by piece, trying to get rid of anything that made noise or gave off too much light.
He was struggling. That much was obvious, and he had still decided to sit here and deal with it alone.
You turned back toward him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. No, I’m fine.” Peter shifted near the door, barely looking at you as he corrected himself. “I’m fine.”
You knew he was lying as soon as he finished saying it. Reaching toward the counter, you moved to set your phone and keys down, but the second the metal touched the surface with a small clink, Peter winced.
His face tightened, one eye squeezing shut like the sound had struck somewhere directly behind it, and your hand stopped beside the keys. It had hardly been loud enough for you to think about, just metal touching a counter, something normal and forgettable, but it had bothered him.
That one little movement told you everything his lie didn’t.
Your anger didn’t disappear, but it changed as you looked at him, losing some of its heat beneath the sudden weight of how bad this actually was. You were still pissed that he had shut you out, still wanted to yell at him for deciding by himself that you were better off worried and ignored, but standing there inside the apartment he had practically taken apart to make bearable, all you wanted was to give him one second where everything didn’t hurt.
You moved closer, slow enough that he could stop you, and Peter’s attention caught on you immediately, the tension drawing tighter through his shoulders even though he didn’t step away. That surprised you more than it should have. He had been fighting this since he left your fire escape, and now he looked too worn down to truly keep doing it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said again, his voice lower now, strained by everything still crowding through him. “I told you to stay away.”
His brows pulled together, but he didn’t argue when you came close enough to touch him. Your hand settled on his arm first, nothing more than the warmth of your skin through his shirt. The breath that left him was uneven, but looser than the last, his body tipping almost imperceptibly toward your touch until he caught himself.
It wasn’t enough to fix whatever was happening, but you felt the change and followed it. Your palm moved along his arm and across the tight line of his shoulders until your fingers found the back of his neck. The tension there gave in small pieces, the muscles slowly loosening as your hand slid higher and found his face.
Peter fully leaned into it then, his cheek pressing into you as though his body had made the decision before he could talk himself out of it. His shoulders dropped by half an inch, some of the strain finally leaving them as you gave his senses one clear place to land instead of the thousands still fighting for his attention.
You kept going, one hand holding his face while the other returned to his arm, tracing back over his shoulder and up toward his neck. You touched him slowly, mapping him back into his own body one piece at a time while Peter stood there trying not to collapse into you.
He still wouldn’t look at you, eyes lowered somewhere between you as his forehead came down to yours, the contact light at first, then heavier when his body folded toward you by the smallest amount. It felt like he was split between two separate instincts, one still trying to put distance between you and the other pulling toward every place your hands touched him.
“You are everywhere,” he said, the words so low they nearly disappeared between you.
Your hand stilled at the side of his neck. “What do you mean?”
Peter didn’t answer right away. His forehead stayed pressed to yours while his breathing moved warm across your skin, something working through him that you couldn’t see, his mouth parting once, then closing again.
“I can feel you…” His words stalled as another sound dragged at his attention, his jaw tightening while he fought his way back to you. “Everywhere.” His breath left him rough against your skin. “All the time now.”
Your fingers traced a fraction higher along his neck, and Peter’s breath snagged at the motion, his body following before he forced himself still.
“Even when everything else is…” He swallowed, his eyes squeezing shut as the noise pressed in again. “Even when I can hear all of it, you’re still…” His forehead pressed harder to yours. “You’re louder.”
The meaning settled between you slowly, carrying a different weight now that you understood. It wasn’t only that every sound, movement and touch had become too much for him. His senses had fixed themselves on you through all that noise, following you inside it, pulling every part of you forward until nothing else could drown you out. He was already overloaded, and on top of that, his body had tuned itself to you so completely that being close made it harder for him to tell where the overwhelm ended and you began.
“I have an idea,” you said, your voice dropping between you as your thumb moved once along his cheek. “Let’s give you one thing to focus on.”
Peter didn’t fight you this time. He stayed there with his skin pressed to yours, breathing through the closeness while your hands held him in place. He nodded once, small and almost unconscious, the movement more instinct than anything he had thought through.
You closed what little space remained, both hands sliding fully around his face as you pulled him into a kiss. For a second, he only took it, his mouth warm but motionless while his fingers flexed once at his side. Then his lips parted slightly, and the restraint holding him there gave just enough for him to kiss you back. It was soft at first, almost hesitant, but it didn’t stay that way for long. His head tipped into yours, his mouth fitting more firmly with your own as a low sound worked its way from his throat.
The kiss pulled at him quickly after that. His breathing changed, each exhale heavier than the last, while the tension held between your palms shifted into something harder to contain. He leaned closer, chasing your lips when you moved against his, and for a few seconds he let himself have it, let everything narrow down to the pressure of your mouth and the warmth of your hands holding his face.
Then you felt him catch himself again.
His lips slowed against yours before they stopped, not all at once, but like he was forcing himself out of the kiss piece by piece. He stayed close when he broke it, his mouth still brushing yours with every uneven breath, forehead lowering to yours again while his body remained pulled toward you despite the restraint tightening back through him.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” The words came out strained, carrying the same fear he had been trying to keep between you.
“I know,” you said, your thumbs moving along the bruised edges of his face. “You won’t.”
Peter moved restlessly beneath your touch, angling his face away from the certainty in yours without putting any real distance between you. His mouth opened, voice turning rougher as your fingers held him there. “I don’t. I don’t trust myself.”
Your hand shifted along his jaw, tilting his face until he had no choice but to look at you. Peter resisted only in the slight tension that met your fingers, his eyes lifting to yours, dark and uncertain as they searched your face for some trace of hesitation. You held his gaze, letting him see there wasn’t any.
“I do.”
The words stayed between you while your hand slipped from his face and found his hand hanging stiffly at his side. His fingers twitched when yours closed around them, but he let you guide him forward, let you bring his palm to your hip and press it against the curve there. The contact pulled something taut through him, his fingers spreading, then tightening by degrees when you leaned into his hand.
Your lips found his again, slower this time, and Peter matched it before the kiss turned heavier. The restraint was still there in every measured kiss, in the way his hand stayed fixed at your hip even as his fingers flexed there, but when yours slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck, something in him gave. His breath caught, rough and startled, and the hand at your hip tightened hard enough to drag you flush against him.
He moved like leaving any part of you untouched had become impossible, his palm sliding over your waist, tracing your side before moving higher across your back, with no direction beyond the need to keep finding more of you beneath his hands.
Every movement seemed to send the city another mile away. Traffic blurred beyond the windows, voices in the building thinned into something far off, and even the low sound of the building’s elevator moving through its shaft lost its edge as his attention fixed entirely on you. Your mouth. Your breath catching between one kiss and the next. The heat of your body pressing into his while his grip slipped from careful to possessive without him seeming to notice the difference.
Peter kissed you like he had been starving with your name in his mouth—like every day he had spent keeping himself away had only sharpened the need until it hurt—and you let him. Your hands twisted into his hair as his mouth left yours and moved along your jaw, his kisses growing messier by the time he reached your neck. He hardly seemed to care where they landed, his lips pressing just below your ear, then dragging lower while his breath spread hot across the skin he had already left damp. His grip tightened around your waist when your head tipped back for him, pulling you closer as his mouth found the quick beat of your pulse.
His senses zeroed in on something specific in your scent, something he still didn’t have a name for. You smelled good, but it wasn’t only the perfume fading from your clothes or the fragrance left in your hair. Something warmer rose beneath both, coming straight from your skin, the same thing he’d picked up the other night, only stronger now with your body pressed to his and his mouth open over your throat.
Whatever arachnid instinct had sharpened alongside his senses recognized it without asking him to understand. Peter wasn’t just kissing you anymore; he was drinking you in. His nose brushed along the side of your neck while his mouth returned to the quick pulse there, lips parting as every beat struck hot and frantic against them.
He could feel every reaction before you gave it sound, the flutter that moved through you when his teeth grazed your skin, the warmth rising where his hand spread across your back, the small shift of your body that pressed you more firmly into him. Each one found him cleanly now, stripped of the noise that had been tormenting him for days, giving him a stronger signal to follow.
Peter’s palm dug deeper into your waist as his mouth closed over that sensitive point, rougher this time, and the breath that hitched in your throat went through him like a command, pushing him further.
Without warning, his hands swept behind your thighs and hauled you off the floor in one effortless motion. Your legs wrapped around his waist on reflex, arms winding over his shoulders to keep your chest pressed to his as he carried you toward the bed. His mouth stayed on your skin, working down your throat in hot, open-mouthed kisses and breathing you in between them while every hurried step pressed the hard rise of him between your legs.
Your back hit the mattress hard enough to bounce you once as Peter followed you down, already tugging at the clothes between his hands and your skin. You tried to help, lifting into him as he dragged your shirt upward, but Peter was moving too fast for either of you to make it graceful. Fabric tangled around your arms, your hands knocked into his, and his breathing sharpened as he fought it free, throwing it aside so he could get his mouth back on you. His lips moved from yours to your jaw, then the bare stretch of your shoulder while his hands kept working, rough and impatient as they stripped away everything still covering you.
His own clothes went just as quickly. You reached for the hem of his shirt, but Peter was already wrenching it over his head, barely giving the rest time to hit the floor as he came back to you. There was none of his usual awkward fumbling, no nervous laugh when your limbs got in each other’s way, only the desperate need to get closer. He kissed you again the second there was nothing left between you, his mouth opening hot over yours while his hands finally met skin. They swept over your waist, closed around your thigh, dragged you farther down the mattress as though having you naked against him still somehow wasn’t close enough. His breath broke harshly across your lips as he lined himself up, then pressed inside.
There was nothing slow about it. Peter sank into you in one hard movement that pulled the air from your lungs and forced a low, strained sound from his throat. His forehead dropped to yours, fingers digging harder into your hip while the sudden stretch split through you, raw and immediate, making your body lock around him. The reaction went straight through Peter, his mouth finding yours again to swallow the sound you made as his hips started rutting into you.
He fucked you like he was trying to drown in the one sensation that didn’t hurt, each thrust driving him deeper while his mouth stayed pressed to yours and his hands kept you pulled tight against him. He had denied himself this until the distance became another kind of pain, listening to your voice through unanswered calls and imagining the touch he had forced himself to avoid while every nerve in his body burned too hot inside him. Now your lips were under his, your fingers twisted in his hair, your body wrapped around every place that had ached for you, and the relief was already turning sharp at the edges.
The overload still threaded through him, coiled and electric, but now every sound that hit too loudly was dulled almost as soon as it reached him. A horn blared somewhere below, only to vanish into the broken way you said his name. The pipes knocked inside the wall, but your nails dragged down his back hard enough to leave heat behind, giving his senses something closer to hold onto. He could hear every shift in your breathing, every wet pull of his body moving inside yours, every small sound you tried to swallow into his mouth, and each one cut cleaner through the noise than anything else had. He even felt the smallest rise in your temperature where your skin met his, warmth gathering a fraction at a time across your chest, your stomach, the inside of your arms where they held him close, each change so slight you never would’ve noticed it yourself, but Peter caught all of it.
It became too much and still somehow wasn’t enough. Peter answered every change in your body without thinking, pounding into you faster like he could keep coaxing more from you—more warmth, more sound, more of those filthy little reactions whenever he struck deep enough. Feeling all of you at once wore through what remained of his control, every tremor, every shiver, every breath sweeping across his face, until he stopped trying to escape the overload and gave himself to it instead, sinking further because now every part of it tasted like you.
The second your body started to settle into the rough pace, Peter slowed. One last deep stroke left you stretched around him, then he withdrew so abruptly the loss barely registered before his hand closed around your hip and turned you over. Your stomach hit the mattress, sheets twisting around you as he rolled you onto it, one palm pinning you in place while the other hauled your hips back to him. You’d hardly caught your breath when his weight covered you and he sank inside again, the angle wrenching a broken sound from your mouth as your back arched on instinct, your ass meeting his hips while he started fucking you all over again.
Peter leaned forward until his chest covered your back, skin hot and slick where it sealed to yours, then hooked one arm around you and drew you into him. His bicep locked across the front of your throat, thick at the hollow just below your chin, holding you exactly where he wanted while his mouth hovered near your ear. The position left you trapped between his body and the mattress, your back pulled flush to his chest as he drove into you harder, each thrust landing deeper from the way he’d folded himself around you. His grunts broke low beside your head while your moans spilled out underneath them, his breath hitting the shell of your ear in short, ragged bursts whenever your body clenched and dragged another sound from him.
God, you felt good. The thought tore through him somewhere between the sound of his cock fucking back into you and the way you cried his name in those thin, ruined breaths, your voice breaking each time his hips snapped forward. With your body wrapped hot and tight around him and your pulse hammering against his arm, the thing inside him that kept scratching for release finally had somewhere to go. It settled lower, meaner, turning relief into a hunger that cinched his arm tighter and drove his rhythm toward something brutal, his mouth grazing your ear while he fucked you like he needed to hear exactly how much of him you could take.
His free arm circled you next, crossing over the first until both locked you to him, closing your body into his while his hips kept driving forward with nowhere left for you to move. The pressure forced your back tighter to his chest and kept him buried along the same swollen place over and over, each thrust striking it so cleanly that your cries started breaking apart. You said his name once, then again, louder when the tension finally split through you, your legs locking straight before they broke into short, uneven kicks across the sheets. The orgasm flooded through you hard enough to make your whole body seize inside his arms, thighs trembling, hips jerking, your pussy clenching around him in pulsing waves while Peter held you there and kept fucking you through every second of it.
Even with your body shaking around him, he still wasn’t done. The release moving through you gave him more to feel, every tight pulse dragging over him, every fractured sound falling from your mouth landing right against his senses. The sensation turned his breathing rougher near your ear, but he finally dragged himself out, the loss drawing a wrecked sound from your throat as his arms loosened around you. One hand stayed at your hip while the other caught your shoulder, flipping you onto your back so quickly the room tipped around you. The mattress sank with his weight as he followed, settling between your legs and driving back inside while you were still catching your breath, the stretch tearing another ruined sound from you when your body took him again so soon.
Peter braced himself over you with both arms framing your head, his chest dropping close enough that each rough exhale reached your face. Then his hips started moving, driving into you with a pace that made the bed shift with each stroke, the headboard knocking softly into the wall while your body slid higher over the sheets. His mouth found yours in the middle of it, but even the kiss came apart under the force of how he was fucking you, teeth catching your lip, breath spilling between you, his mouth missing yours for half a second when a harder thrust jolted you both before dragging back over it.
Your hands landed on his shoulders, nails pressing into skin already marked from you, and Peter answered by dropping more of his weight over you. One forearm stayed planted beside your head while the other slid down your body, palm dragging over your waist until his fingers closed behind your knee. He pulled your leg higher along his side and hooked it over his hip, opening you wider for him without slowing, the shift changing the angle enough that the next thrust struck somewhere that made your whole body jerk. Your mouth broke from his on a sharp cry, and his face tightened at the sound, eyes dropping between you as he felt the way you closed around him.
That was all the encouragement his body needed. He rolled his hips lower on the next drive, grinding into you instead of pulling back as far, keeping himself buried while he worked over that same sensitive place from inside. The motion was slower for half a second, deeper in a way that made the pressure build instead of break, his pelvis dragging against you while his hand held your leg tight to his side. Then he pulled back only enough to do it again, each stroke forcing you open around him before ending in a rough grind that pressed every inch of him inside you.
He kept changing the rhythm by fractions, listening to what each adjustment did to your breathing, watching your lips part when he angled his hips slightly higher, feeling your leg tighten around him when he drove down and forward. Every stronger reaction pulled another one from him, a low grunt breaking near your mouth as he chased the spots that made your body seize beneath his.
You could feel how close he was in the tension running through his body, in the way his stomach drew taut over yours and his breath kept catching between clenched teeth, but he still wouldn’t let himself fall into it. Even like this, with sweat slick between you and that rougher edge cutting through every movement, Peter still had a hold on himself. You knew him well enough to see it.
His rhythm would stutter for half a second, one broken thrust landing harder than the rest, then he’d drag it back under control and force himself into something steadier. His jaw stayed locked, the muscles along his shoulders trembling beneath your hands while his eyes squeezed shut, and you knew what he was hiding from when his lashes pressed tighter against his cheeks. The black was threatening to rise again. One side of him was clawing for more while the other kept every part of his body pulled painfully tight, terrified of what would happen if he stopped controlling each breath, each muscle, each filthy drive into you.
You reached for his face, palms sliding over the heat in his skin until your fingers curled along his jaw and pulled him down toward you. “Peter.” His eyes stayed shut, his hips still moving with that strained, measured force, so you said his name again and made him look at you. Brown showed first when his eyes opened, darkened around the edges by something deeper trying to surface, and the fear there was sharp enough to cut through the hunger twisting across his face.
You held him there anyway, thumbs braced high along his cheeks while his body kept moving between your thighs. “It’s okay.”
He shook his head once, barely enough to count, like even that small movement might loosen something he couldn’t put back. His mouth brushed yours as he breathed, each exhale hot and uneven, his forehead dropping close while his grip tightened around your leg.
“You don’t know that,” he managed, though the words broke apart when you clenched around him and his hips jerked hard into you. You nodded against him, refusing to let him turn away, your hands keeping his face close while your lips moved softly over his. “It’s okay,” you told him, the words landing between one kiss and the next. “Let go.”
You were looking straight at him while you said it, your body spread wide for him, your mouth still touching his as you asked for the thing he’d been fighting to keep from you. Peter searched your face for hesitation and found none, only your fingers tightening along his jaw and the quiet nod you gave him when his breathing caught. His brows pulled together for half a second, something strained and almost disbelieving passing through his expression, and then everything changed.
His palm struck the headboard above you, fingers spreading hard over the wood as his hips drove forward with enough force to shove you higher across the mattress. The next thrust came faster, then another, whatever restraint he’d been holding finally splitting apart as he fucked into you with the strength he’d spent the entire night trying to keep buried. Your mouth fell open, each breath spilling into helpless sounds while your hands slid from his face to his shoulders, nails digging in as each snap of his body buried him as deep as you could take him.
The bed slammed under you, its wooden frame knocking against the wall in a violent rhythm that matched the pounding of his hips. The headboard struck once, twice, then kept hitting until the plaster cracked behind it and dust sifted loose along the edge, but Peter didn’t slow enough to notice. His arm stayed locked above your head, every muscle drawn taut as he fucked you harder, each impact traveling through your body until your breasts shook and your legs cinched around his waist just to keep yourself anchored.
You felt all of it, every brutal glide as he pulled back and every deep, punishing thrust that filled you again, his hips grinding into yours at the end of each one as though even that last inch mattered. The mattress shifted at your back, sheets dragging over your skin while Peter’s mouth found yours between ragged breaths, the kiss missing at first when another hard stroke knocked your head back, then met it again with teeth and tongue and the rough sound he made when you squeezed around him. He was finally letting everything through, all that impossible strength turning each movement sharper, fuller, until there was nothing in the room except the bed striking the wall and the wet, filthy rhythm of his body driving into yours.
His pace broke without warning, one deep thrust holding him against you while his whole body went rigid above yours. A wrecked sound tore from his throat as he came, hips jerking hard into you again while his fingers pressed deep enough into the frame to splinter the wood under his palm. His face tightened through it, mouth falling open near yours, and when his eyes lifted they were already changing, the brown disappearing into black until the darkness swallowed them completely.
Peter realized it almost immediately. You saw the exact second pleasure gave way to fear, his body still trembling over yours while those blackened eyes searched your face for the reaction he’d been expecting since the first night. He waited for you to tense, to recoil from what he’d finally let you see, to understand why he’d begged you to stay away, but you only tightened your hands behind his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. Your mouth met his without hesitation, soft for half a breath before opening wider, catching the rough exhale that left him while your fingers pushed into his hair and kept him close.
This was what he’d tried to outrun, and he’d been wrong.
You saw the black in his eyes, saw the change he feared would make you look at him differently, and you didn’t treat him like a monster. You kissed him like he was still Peter because he was. Your arms drew him closer as his weight settled over you and his hips kept grinding through the last uneven pulses of his release. The slow pressure dragged over the place he’d already worked raw until your second orgasm spilled through you, your body closing hard around him as his name slipped from your mouth and into the kiss.
Peter felt every part of it. The sudden heat spreading through you, the sharp tremor running down your legs, the helpless way your nails caught at his shoulders while your body tightened around him in wet, pulsing waves. He held you through it with his forehead pressed to yours, those dark eyes fixed on your face as the terror he’d carried for days found nowhere left to stand. You weren’t scared. You weren’t enduring him or trying to calm him down. You wanted him exactly like this, still wrapped around him while your breath shook against his lips and your body kept drawing him deeper whenever the aftershocks moved through you.
The realization met every sharpened sense at once, cleaner than the noise outside or the damaged headboard creaking beneath his hand. Your pulse wasn’t racing with fear. Your scent had only grown warmer, richer, threaded through with the same desire that had pulled him to your throat in the first place, and the arms around his neck weren’t trying to hold him back. They were pulling him closer.
His body had been trying to tell him that from the beginning. Every time his senses cut through the rest of the city to find you, every time your voice rose above thousands of others or your touch gave all that noise one place to settle, it hadn’t been choosing a target. It had been reaching for an anchor. He had spent all this time afraid to touch you, forcing himself to stay away while every part of him remained painfully aware of what he was denying himself, never realizing he had been running from the one thing trying to bring him back.
Something in him settled around that truth while something else rose to meet it. His mouth found yours as his hips began to move, slowly at first, then with a gathering force that filled the room with heat, the creak of splintered wood, and his name breaking apart in your mouth again and again.
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warnings: brand new day spoilers (but it's genuinely the smallest one you ever did see)
summary: you're avoiding the party that mj and ned wanted to throw, but that doesn't stop you from being found by a stranger. why can't you shake the feeling that he's familiar?
a/n: umm it's been eight years since i posted on this account? we're so back? saw brand new day in theaters (twice) and felt teenage me gnawing on the bars of her enclosure this one is for her (and for y'all). potential for a part two...
You didn’t know exactly what it was. You didn’t mind the music or the alcohol; even being around so many people was fun sometimes. Before everyone got drunk and started spilling things and yelling, obviously. But every single party you’d been to at MIT had felt…wrong. Like you were missing something. Like someone was supposed to be there with you, and they weren’t.
Which didn’t make sense. Ned and MJ had gone to a majority of the parties you’d gone to throughout college, and they were your closest friends. How could you feel like something important was missing when everything important was already there with you?
Either way, you’d started trying to avoid that gnawing feeling in your chest. Besides, you were growing out of the phase where going to every party and meeting every person you could fascinated you. Maybe one day that deep, dreadful sinking would go away. Maybe it would stop appearing at parties, on every birthday you turned a year older, on the small amount of dates you’d gone on where the feeling got so strong it made you nauseous.
Today, though, was an exception. You’d graduated this past summer and moved back to New York with MJ and Ned, and they were determined to throw one last party with all the college friends that had wound up back in the city, too.
Well, Ned was determined. You and MJ were lukewarm about the whole thing.
Which is why you were in your—abysmally small—bedroom, working through this line of code that you were pretty sure was going to get you fired from your shiny new job if you didn’t figure out why it wasn’t working, with your door open to the noise beyond. It was to keep an eye on MJ and Ned, you told yourself, even as you eyed all the swaying people around the TV you’d just spent fifty dollars on from Facebook Marketplace. Ugh, you should have moved it before. If they broke it, you were totally making Ned buy you takeout for a week.
You went back to work, thankful everyone seemed to be too preoccupied with the party to worry about the weird girl staring at her computer screen on her bedroom floor. You couldn’t figure this out. It was driving you crazy. You were sure it had worked yesterday evening, and then when you’d come into work this morning it was all wrong and every single test you did didn’t fix it and you were going to throw your computer—
A knock on your open door. A cleared throat. “Um, hey.”
You looked up.
A guy around your age stood in your doorway. The first thing you noticed about him were his eyes, wide and expressive, looking at you as if you were the one who’d shown up in his bedroom. But…reverent too, almost in disbelief. He was looking at you like he’d never seen a girl before.
But he was cute. And something about him…
He seemed familiar.
“Are you okay?” he asks you. His gaze starts to bounce around the room the second you meet it, avoiding your eyes. “You looked, um, mad?”
“Oh!” You laugh a little at yourself. “I’m just doing some work. I’ve been told I look mad when I can’t figure something out. I don’t even realize it.” But who had told you that? It wasn’t your family, or Ned or MJ. But someone had told you. Who had it been?
The guy shifts on his feet. You realize he’s holding a bouquet of flowers, which is a weird thing to bring to a party, but you find it charming. He squints his eyes at you, but the corner of his mouth is lifting like he wants to smile. It makes something in your chest flutter. “You’re doing work during a party?”
He’s teasing you. You feel yourself smiling back. “Yes, I am. Super important work, I might add.”
“Oh, yeah?” He leans a shoulder against your doorframe, eyes on yours now.
You can’t look away.
“Yep. Keep an eye out because I’m gonna dethrone Spider-Man from the first page of the Daily Bugle tomorrow with my amazing work on debugging this finance app that only has three hundred downloads. Really groundbreaking stuff.”
He smiles fully, now. It makes you feel triumphant, nervous, and warm. “That’s awesome because I love—What’s the name of the app?”
“Financipply” Stupid name. From the doubtful look he sends you, he agrees.
“That’s perfect because I love Finacnipply. Can’t wait to see you on the front page.” You roll your eyes, but you laugh. You both do, his shy and small, as if he hasn’t done it in a long, long time. As if he shouldn’t be laughing at all. But his eyes are bright. They turn towards the floor as your laughter dies, shy. “So what can’t you figure out?”
And you just can’t stop looking at him. You motion towards your computer screen vaguely. “Just this code. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It’s just not working.”
He takes a small step forward. “Do you think…Can I…look at it?”
“For real? You code?”
He shrugs, one hand in his pocket. Adorable. “I…dabble?”
“Are you sure about that?”
Another flash of a smile. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Alright then. Knock yourself out.”
He comes to sit next to you on the rug you found at the thrift store a couple blocks away, rubbing his palms over his jeans and looking intently at your computer screen. He smells like clean laundry and the rain the city had earlier in the day, and he’s looking at your code like he actually understands it. “Oh wow. Cool.” He scrolls through it a couple times, up, down. You’re entranced by his profile, so close. He stops to type. “Did you try this?”
You blink. Look at the screen. “Oh my gosh, no.” A simple line edit. You know when you see it that it’ll work. “Holy shit. You did it. Holy crap. Thank you. You’re, like, awesome.”
“It was nothing.” But he's ducking his head with a blush. “Seriously.”
“What’s your name, anyway? Since you saved me from getting fired.”
“Um, May..nard.”
“Maynard.” It sounds wrong. You’ve never had that thought before—that someone’s name is wrong. But it’s a sure feeling in your chest. The one you have when you know your code tests are going to work, and when you decided you wanted to move back to the city. It’s really the only feeling you trust anymore.
“Yep.” He leans back on his palms, and your eyes run down his arms unconsciously, tracking muscles and veins. You have a brief, overwhelming urge to curl closer to him, to run your hands down his biceps, to take his hands into yours and trace the lines of his palms. And it feels normal, to have that feeling. So normal, your body almost starts moving on its own accord. But his voice breaks you out of it. “So, is this what you want to do? Program apps?”
You tell him that your dream is to work on developing video games, and he nods like it makes complete sense and gets you to tell him that you’d love to make a game based off of Star Wars, which makes his eyes light up in a way that has your breath catching.
And that’s how you end up talking to a cute boy on the floor of your bedroom for an hour, about Star Wars and your favorite video games and what got you into them in the first place. He makes you laugh, and talking to him is so easy. It’s hard to believe you just met him now and not in high school. He would fit right in with MJ and Ned. You can almost see it for a moment; the four of you hanging around the diner MJ used to work at before college, laughing and teasing and studying. The image is so visceral that for a moment it feels real.
You’re just about to invite him over sometime because you’re so sure that they’d love him and that you want to get to know him better, when there’s a crash from the living room.
Both of you turn, and your face immediately drops. That better not have been your TV.
You sigh. “I need to go make sure nothing important is broken.” You almost add on a desperate wait for me, but he’s already standing up and holding out a hand for you.
That would have been too weird to ask for, anyway. Right?
You let him pull you up. When your hands touch, it’s almost as if the warmth radiates from his calloused fingers, grips your heart, and drags it all the way down to your toes. He lets go quickly, as soon as you’re on your feet, but you stand there for a moment, disoriented. Feeling like…feeling like you’re right where you need to be. But also like you’ve forgotten to do something. It pulls at your brain like a grocery item list you know you were thinking about five minutes ago, but no matter how far you reach, you can never remember what it was.
It shouldn’t bother you this much—you’ve been feeling it since you went to college. It hung over you during orientation, and move-in day, and every visit home. It reaches you in dreams, and weirdly, whenever Ned shows you the thousands of videos he gets of Spider-Man swinging across the city.
But you’d never felt this close to grasping it before. You can almost see an image in your brain, faded around the edges like an old photograph, a word floating just on the edge of your consciousness.
“You okay?” He’s asking you. Maynard. God, why does that name sound so wrong to think?
He looks about a second away from grabbing your hand again.
You want to let him.
But you hear MJ’s voice from the living room, firm in the way she only uses when she’s annoyed, and you know that your TV is probably done for. Maynard seems to be able to sense it too, because he urges you to go.
And your TV is broken, thanks to some idiot and his friend who decided to start play-fighting for no reason. He gives you a twenty from his pocket, but you can’t even focus. Your mind is too busy playing back your night. Warm brown eyes, messy curls, soft smiles. You end up just waving it off—but you keep that twenty—and rushing back to your room to find Maynard.
Only, he’s not there when you return.
Your laptop is closed and placed at the foot of your bed. On top, the bouquet he showed up with.
You stand there, in the middle of your tiny room, touching your fingertips to the carnations and grieving.
Grieving for what? You keep asking yourself. Why do I feel this way?
But you can’t figure it out. It stays, stays, stays.
Later that night, his face comes to you in your dreams. It’s younger, unburdened with the sadness you’d seen lying underneath. He’s laughing, bright and beautiful, and he’s looking at you. You’re on a rooftop somewhere, both of you golden in the sun, and he’s saying your name with a fondness that notches into your spine.
I love you, he says, and he means it. It’s in his eyes, in the way his expression melts into softness, in the way he traces his fingers across your shoulder and pulls you into him.
Peter, your voice sounds just as yours does now, weighed down by adulthood. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and there’s a peacefulness in your body that you know you haven’t felt in years, even through the haze of the dream. I’ll always love you.
You feel the press of his lips to your hair, the curve of them as he smiles.
You wake up. Gasping, gripping the thin sheets of your bed, sweat gleaming on your collarbone.
Peter, your mind whispers to you in the dark.
“Peter.” You murmur it into the moonlight shining across your floor, to your heart beating against your ribcage, to the knot in your stomach that finally releases.
“Peter.” You say again. Taste it on your tongue, certain you’ve said it a thousand times, in a million different ways.
warnings: mugging (minor, over quickly), kissing(!)
summary: getting your memories back comes with a lot of feelings, but one thought consumes it all: where is he?
a/n: thought about splitting this into more parts…then decided i didn’t care. thank you for all the love on part 1!! i’ve had the best time reading your comments and seeing all the reblogs!! tried to tag as many people as i could!! don’t hate me if this sucks okay byeeee
Well, would it even be going crazy if you were suddenly having memories that you were sure were yours, and sure had been taken from you somehow? Is that going crazy, or is it going uncrazy?
Whatever.
After your dream, you spend the day with the worst headache you’ve ever had in your life. You think you take about ten Advil to get through the day (screw the warning labels), hating your stupid job and the stupid 90-day policy before you can take PTO because the last thing you want to do after remembering a name that makes your heart feel like it’s flying out of your chest is sit at a desk and look at code for a stupid, dumb app.
On a Friday.
You spend your entire shift staring at the wall in your cubicle where you’d pinned a picture of you, Ned, and MJ from high school. By twelve, you’re one hundred percent certain that there had been someone else there. Someone next to you, arm around your shoulder, a smile that makes you feel jittery just thinking about it. You know what that smile looks like. You know.
Peter Parker, a constant mantra in your head. You’d written it on sticky notes you’d slapped on twenty different things in your room, filled an entire page of your work notebook with it. You would not forget again.
You couldn’t.
By two, you remember his Aunt May and her warmth, the way she’d always feed you and always treat you like one of her own. How she’d always teased Peter but never, ever hesitated to protect him.
By two-thirty, you remember that she’s dead. You look up her obituary on your work computer—screw it—and read through it, sniffling and aching and destroyed when there’s no mention of a nephew anywhere on it.
Peter Parker, you write again on a sticky note, then under it, Aunt May.
By four, your memories of high school have reshaped, the blurry remnants of them you’d had remolding like wet clay, and Peter is everywhere.
The first day of freshman year, debating with you on the subway about who was going to be more popular (neither of you).
Laid across your bed with chemistry textbooks open, wearing sweats and a hoodie and looking so soft. You remember wanting to kiss him, feeling ashamed because of it.
All the times he’d started disappearing, missing classes. When you’d invite him over for dinner and he’d never show. When your study sessions turned from the two of you laughing and not really getting any work done, to just you. Alone.
Following him after school, knowing something was up, wanting to be there for him. Watching him strip to his boxers in an alleyway, tug on Spider-man’s suit and launch himself onto the rooftops.
Sneaking into his window and waiting in his bedroom, so angry he’d never told you. Deflating immediately when he’d slipped in later that night, wide and pleading brown eyes, a bruise on the apple of his cheek, looking so vulnerable in a suit that meant anything but.
Your first kiss. The pink of Peter’s cheeks, the way his breath caught, stuttering through telling you it’d always been you. That he couldn’t imagine another day where you didn’t know. How couldn’t you have known?
Sitting on rooftops, going to dances, learning the ways his body responded to your touch, looking up how to do stitches for when Spider-man would come tumbling through your bedroom window, scaring you to death—that’s how you knew how to do stitches! Dates where he’d hold you to his chest and take you swinging around Manhattan, wind in your hair and laughter in your throat.
God, you’d loved him. You’d loved him more than anything else in the world.
More than anything.
And you still did. Still had, all these years. Felt it in your chest, curled up and ever-present. Felt it expand when you’d seen him again, light you up from the inside without warning.
But how had you forgotten?
By five, when you’re on the subway home, you know.
The memory bleeds against your eyelids. Peter, beaten and bloodied, eyes red from crying and busted blood veins. Your Peter, telling you that you would forget everything, wiping your tears and promising that he’d come find you. That he’d come get you and make you remember.
You telling him you would never forget.
But you had.
And he’d let you.
You’re so angry at the thought that you have to take a lap around your block before you enter your apartment. So angry that you end up going to your favorite bodega on the corner and getting your favorite sandwich even though you're supposed to be saving money. And then you get annoyed on top of that because the second your order leaves your lips you suddenly remember that it had been Peter’s favorite too.
That you both used to split one from Delmar’s on Wednesdays and eat it on the roof of your parent’s apartment.
You must look downright furious, because Jay, the cashier that’s been there every time you’ve come since you moved in, slides you a chocolate bar on top of your finished sandwich and doesn’t charge you for it.
You eat the whole thing while you take the stairs up to your apartment, muttering to yourself.
Then you see all your sticky notes. Peter Parker on your lamp, your closet door, on the coat hanging from your bed frame, on your window and pillow, where you’d scattered a handful of them at 3am.
You were mad. You were pissed.
But you wanted to be mad at him to his face. To see him and yell at him until you lost your voice. To watch the way his eyes would change from your words, so easy to read. To hug him and kiss him and touch him. To throw things and watch him dodge them effortlessly, to let him calm you down, to let him.
You wanted to know if he still had the same sandwich order.
Did he even want you to remember?
You think about the look on his face the night before—he’d been right there next to you after all that time, and you’d let him slip away. The way he’d looked at you when he’d knocked on your door, how he’d held your hand when he’d helped you up, how he’d let you talk to him about the dreams you’d already shared with him in the dark with this calm, serene look on his face.
And you didn’t care if he wanted you to remember him or not.
You were going to find him.
The next day, after a night filled with dreams about calloused hands and hushed whispers, after waking up with tingling lips and a hollowness to your chest, you start your search with a sudden kind of desperation.
Ned had gone to visit his grandma for the weekend, so you plant yourself in his chair and spend hours searching the internet for any trace of Peter Parker.
You even search for Maynard—absolutely ridiculous name—and then spend ten minutes crying over how Peter it was to use a dumb fake name, and how you miss him so much.
You find nothing.
The spell had worked. Peter Parker was nowhere. No one.
You sit back in the chair and try to breathe through your disappointment.
How were you going to find a ghost? How would he ever know that you remembered?
A notification sounds through the computer. Discord, from Ned’s Spidey Tracker server. You silence it absentmindedly.
Then you sit up.
Peter Parker was nowhere.
But Spider-man…Spider-man was everywhere.
And you knew how to track him.
You move so fast you hit your knee on the underside of the desk, and curse your way through pulling up the app files. You’d helped Ned code the app, so you knew it was based entirely on community sightings of Spider-man, constantly taking in reported locations and spitting them back out for the users.
Which meant you knew how to compile a list of his most common locations. Maybe if you could narrow it down enough, you could figure out where he could be.
You make a mental note to talk to Ned about how dangerous this app could actually be, and then you get to work.
You can’t believe how many people have been using the app. There are hundreds of thousands of sightings and photos and videos to sort through. It takes you hours.
Which is definitely attributed to you constantly getting distracted by videos of Spider-man after fights, heaving chest and weak knees, swinging off all alone.
How many wounds had he had to treat by himself?
How lonely he must be.
You don’t narrow it down to a few specific locations until close to midnight. Queens (of course), a five block radius of sightings going back to when Ned officially published the app. You compile the time stamps.
Most of them are in the middle of the night, into early morning.
“God, Peter, when do you sleep?” You mutter to the screen as your code spits the times back at you. You’re almost sick with how much you want to hold him.
It’s late. It’s late and you should wait until tomorrow. At least until the sun comes up. But you dismiss the thought as soon as you have it. You feel like you’ll die if you wait any longer to find him. Plus, it’s the perfect time. The app said so.
And you’ve never been a very patient person.
So you go to your room to get ready, and you hesitate. Should you…look nice? What if you don’t even find him? What if you find him and he says he doesn’t want you—
No. You’re not going there. This is Peter. Yes, you’d forgotten him. You’d forgotten him and the guilt was eating away at you for it. But you knew him. Even through the haze, you know him.
As angry as you are, you know why he did what he did, self-sacrificing idiot.
You hated that it made you love him even more.
In an effort to be quick, you just throw on a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. You grab your mace and make sure your keys are poking through your fingers, just in case. Small crimes have practically disappeared over the past four years, but you were going to a part of Queens your mom and even Peter had once warned you about, so you weren’t going to take any chances.
Plus, a crazy part of your brain whispered, if you get mugged, maybe he’ll come save you.
Yep. Definitely losing your mind a little.
You ride the subway with tunnel vision. Mapping where you’ll go, how long you’ll look, how much it’ll take before you give up. It’s quiet on the subway, only the occasional sleepy passenger and drunk college kids going home in crowds. But once you get to your stop in Queens, you exit alone.
You take a deep breath, and you start walking. Eyeing alleyways and rooftops, ears perked for any movement. Keys in one hand, Spidey Tracker open in the other, map devoid of any spider symbols.
You loop the blocks slowly, one direction then the next. It’s probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, being out so late on your own, but you had that feeling. The only one you’d trusted since college Since, now you knew, you’d forgotten everything.
The feeling of being right. Of being sure.
So you keep walking, holding on to hope that the stragglers you avoid on the sidewalks will see something you don’t and set off the app. You keep staring at the screen, at the void of streets with no red icons, urging one to pop up.
Which, in the end, was the thing that actually took first place for the stupidest thing you’d ever done.
Because you hadn’t been paying attention. If you had, you’d have heard the footsteps. You’d have heard the schlick of the pocket knife being cracked open.
You would have been able to close your hand around the mace on your keychain before you’d been pushed into an alley, face pressed hard into the brick wall, until it stung.
The man holding you grunts as he slams your wrist against the wall to get you to drop your phone. You try not to cry out at the pain, to not show them how scared you are as it clatters to the ground.
Your mind goes somewhere very, very far from your body.
Another pair of hands wretches your keys from your grip, and then there you are, defenseless. The one holding your wrist yanks you back around and slams your back against the brick. He keeps one hand firmly on your shoulder and brings the other up to your throat. You feel the prick of the knife against the underside of your jaw, and grind your teeth against the whimper that wants to escape.
You can barely see the man’s face under his hood in this darkness, barely make out the shape of his eyes. He must see the screen of your phone on the ground, because he snorts. “Looking for Spider-man?”
His friend chuckles.
“He’s not here,” He continues, his tone mocking. He runs a finger down the side of your face, and you think you’re going to throw up. “It’s just you. And us.”
Your phone vibrates from where it’d fallen, still open to Spidey Tracker. A notification brightens the screen, then:
New Spider-man sighting! Location: Queens.
The one holding you freezes a second before a web wraps around the knife he’s holding against you and drags it up into the darkness.
“I’m sorry,” A voice calls from somewhere above, hiding where the light doesn’t touch. “Were you using that for something?”
Your body crumples against the brick in relief. It’s him.
The man doesn’t even have time to move before he’s getting jerked back, so hard his body goes flying into the adjacent wall. Before you can even blink he’s encompassed completely in webs, eyes and mouth obscured.
The other one starts running immediately, but a figure swings from the shadows, kicking him straight in the chest and sending him sprawling against a dumpster with a deep clang. You have one second to let out a breath before he’s enveloped, too.
It all happens so fast. Them getting webbed, Spider-man talking through the mask like he’s on a phone call, saying the words mugging and two males, early 20s, she’s safe. Then picking up your phone and keys, pressing a gentle hand into your upper back, and guiding you back out onto the street. The glow of the lights almost blind you, and you blink.
You’re…okay.
You look back into the alley, your attackers groaning into the dark.
Wow, you think.
“Are you okay?” Spider-man—Peter—asks, keeping his distance now that you're safely in the street and can see him fully. Cloaked in red and blue, the white eyes of the suit expanding and contracting as he takes you in. As he, no doubt, realizes who you are.
You know exactly when he does, because his entire body tenses up and goes still, easy to see under the material that hugs every single muscle that has only grown bigger since you’d last seen him this close. You watch, slowly, as his free hand clenches into a fist, and then he’s crossing over towards you, fast.
Fingers on your chin, turning you to face the light, to check for damage. A small, choked off sound when he must see something there. Now that your adrenaline is fading, you can feel the pain against your cheek, the way your knees are shaking, the other hand he’s put against your side to hold you up. He’s so warm, is your first coherent thought, so warm and here.
“I’m okay,” You manage. Your voice sounds breathless, scared.
Spider-man’s fingers leave your jaw, move up as if he means to press them against what you assume is a cut on your face, but then stop. You feel him take a breath, so close to you, then pull away. He takes a step back, two. Your body goes cold. “What are you doing here?” He asks you, his voice desperate and wounded under the mask. You don’t have to see him to know the quiver in his lip, the worry that has to be shining in his eyes. But he clears his throat and backs up even more, almost completely out of the light now. “I mean…uh…why are you out here this late? Alone?”
There’s a roughness on the alone, an anger you know from when you’d tried to help him stop a car jacker in junior year and gotten thrown to the ground, hard. The memories come easier now, a constant stream of pieces that leave you disbelieving that this man loved you. That he’d cared for you and you’d cared for him. Peter Parker. Spider-man.
You hadn’t planned what to say. You sure as hell hadn’t actually planned on getting mugged, despite the real possibility. Your mouth feels dry and your body is buzzing with nerves, battling with the need to touch him. You open your mouth, not even sure what will come out—
New Spider-man sighting! Location: Queens.
You both jump.
Across the street, you see a flash, and a voice yells, “Spider-man!” Your phone vibrates and sounds another notification, and you see the spider icons start popping up, reflecting against the material of his suit where he’s still holding your phone. “Spider-man, could I get a picture?”
Spider-man looks at the person starting to cross the street, then looks at you, then back. The eyes of his suit are impossible to see through, but you can see the indecision in every line of his body.
Whether he should leave you for the police. Whether you want him to.
You think back to the other night, the urge to tell him wait for me despite not knowing him. What had happened when you didn’t do it.
You’re desperate. You have this feeling that if you let him walk away now, you won’t have another chance. That he’ll swing away or the cops will come and you’ll lose him, anyway. You grab at his arm, the hard line of his bicep, and all you can say, all you can whisper, is, “Peter.”
His head whips over to you. Those eyes contract in, out, in, out. He goes utterly, completely still. You wish you could see his face, see what he was thinking. How he was looking at you.
There’s a whoosh of breath from under the mask. He takes a step closer to you and your heart has enough time to jump into your throat by the time he hands you your things, wraps one arm around your waist, and tells you lowly, “Hold on to me.”
So you do. Hands around his neck, so close to the line of his mask, as he shoots the two of you up and away from the pedestrian who throws his hands up, away from the incoming police sirens, and across the rooftops. You feel the wind in your hair for just a moment, enough time for you to smile, to let the part of you that’d forgotten everything remember what it had been like, before you’re on concrete again, however many stories up.
Spider-man lets you go like he’s been burned, pacing a few steps away and running his hands over his mask, where you know he’d be pulling at his curls if he could get to them.
All at once, he turns to you. “What did you say?”
Quiet, nervous, as if he’d heard wrong.
It’s a slow thing, dropping your things to the ground and walking over to him. He tracks your every movement carefully. Tracks it as you bring your hands up, across his shoulders, up to where the mask meets the neck of his suit. You run the pads of your fingers under the material, finally finally against his skin, and he shivers against you.
You wait to see if he’ll stop you, but he’s practically swaying on his feet under your touch. You don’t think he’s breathing, don’t think he lets out a breath until you pull off the mask and your eyes meet.
There’s a scratch across his forehead, right over his eyebrow. A bruise on his jaw. His eyes are glistening as they take you in, running over and over your face, searching. Hopeful.
Perfect.
The mask thudding to the ground sounds like it’s miles away.
“Peter,” you murmur. You press your hand to his cheek, and he leans into it, melts into it.
He laughs, a disbelieving thing. A tear falls from his eye and curls around your thumb as he loops his fingers around your wrist, loose and distracting. “You remember.”
You feel like there are a thousand little stars in your chest, shining and imploding. You nod, and with a sniffle, realize you’re crying, too. Smiling, too. So hard you feel the strain of it. “I remember.”
You look at each other, twin tear-stained cheeks, and then Peter is pulling you close, into his chest. You throw your arms over his shoulders, run a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. He shudders, ducks his head into your collarbone, and bunches his hands into the fabric at your waist as if he’s scared you're going to disappear.
You stand there for what feels like hours, breathing each other in. The smell of the wind on him, so familiar to you, so similar to how it was before everything happened. Like nothing had changed, like you hadn’t spent four years feeling his absence without knowing why.
But he pulls away from you, sudden. Far enough to look into your eyes. “Tell me you’re okay.” His hand lifts to run against the cut on your cheek. Moves down to your arms, the redness of your wrists. You feel his touch rattle into your bones. “I hate that this happened to you.”
“I’m okay, Peter. Promise.” You can’t stop saying his name, marveling at the feel of it on your tongue after not saying it for so long.
The look he gives you is so pained. “Let me fix this for you.”
You shake your head, even as your stomach twists pleasantly at the tone of his voice. “It’s nothing.”
He grips your chin, and you wish you could feel his fingers without the suit. He makes you look at him, to see the emotion in his eyes. He says your name, low and sweet, and you feel like breaking apart. “Please.”
“Okay.”
You would’ve gotten mugged a thousand times—hell, you’re scared of what you’d be willing to go through—if it meant it would end with you right here, with Peter leading you down into his apartment.
It’s a mess of tech: a line of monitors on a large desk, a fancy-looking printer lasering up something you can’t see, a treadmill shoved into a corner. The bed is a mess of threadbare sheets, and the kitchenette is bare, just a couple of chip bags and protein powder sitting on a shelf by the fridge.
It’s…honestly, it makes you feel unbearably sad.
You’d been going to college, learning about computers and SQL and Python, meeting Ned and MJ to study on the quad, making friends and new memories.
And he’d been here.
“Here,” Peter says, tugging you over to sit at the edge of his bed. He leaves you there, taking off his mask and throwing it haphazardly onto his keyboard, bending to tug out a giant first aid kit from underneath the desk. When he returns, he kneels between your legs, still in his suit, thigh muscles rippling and bulging against the fabric.
A secret you hadn’t even told MJ and Ned: you’d had a crush on Spider-man. Crush sounded ridiculous, but it was the only way you could describe it. Even at MIT, you’d watched any video you could of him swinging around New York, thinking about the man under the mask. Could you be blamed, seeing how he filled out that suit?
It’d made a lot more sense in the past couple of days. Maybe you didn’t remember Peter Parker, but your body sure as hell remembered Spider-man.
It’s a little overwhelming, Peter looking up at you tenderly through his lashes, clad in something almost obscene. Two sides of the same coin.
Very overwhelming, actually.
He gets to work cleaning your cut, standing between your knees. He holds one hand against your jaw, fingers reaching into your hair, as he gently dabs it with alcohol. You sigh into the touch, and wait until he’s finished putting tape on it to say, “I missed you, you know. I might have forgotten you, but I don’t think my body ever stopped wondering where you were.”
He must have been waiting for you to say something first, because he lets out a deep, shuddering breath. He tilts your head up with the hand still in your hair, and with the other, traces the line of your bottom lip. You feel like you’re on fire, hot under the touch. He’s looking at you like he had the other night, like he’s scared you’re going to disappear from right under his hands. “I missed you, too. So much. Every day.”
You want to ask, then why? Why did you let me forget?
But you’ve spent so much of the last forty eight hours angry, and right now, you want to be relieved.
The anger can come later. It will come later.
Peter is doing this half-smile, gaze still caught on your face. “I was always—“ a huff, another graze against your lip that leaves you reeling. “I was always thinking about you. It was distracting. I couldn’t—I couldn’t do anything.”
You run your hand up his abdomen, clad in red. It pulses under your touch, and Peter’s breath hitches like he’s in pain. You stop at the spider on his chest, drag a finger across the surface. “You seemed like you were doing just fine.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “There’s so much to tell you. But I don’t want to drag you back—“
“Do not finish that sentence.”
Suddenly you’re standing, finger pointed at his chest. You clench your teeth against the anger that hits you, white-hot. You’d been doing so good, forgetting it. You try to breathe, breathe through the reality that he’s trying to do this to you again. “Peter,” the way his face crumples under you saying his name again almost gives you pause. “I’ve lived without you for four years. And I’m so pissed at you for doing that to me. Thinking about you in this shithole—sorry—all alone for all that time makes me so angry. Thinking about you leaving me and Ned and MJ in a world where we think you don’t exist is—is so—“
You have to break off to breathe. Peter is following every word you’re saying, even as his eyes grow red with tears again.
“I’m mad, Peter. I’m heartbroken that you did this to me. But now I can tell you that I do know what it’s like to live without you. Whatever life you wanted for me, away from you, from all of this, I got it.
“And I hated it. I spent every second feeling like something was missing. You know the first date I tried to go on, I puked twice before I even made it out the door and had to cancel? Everything was so wrong all the time. You said you were always thinking about me? Well I was always thinking about you and I didn’t even know why.
“Peter.” You touch his face, and you feel your expression shift, recognize it from your dreams. The soft slant of your mouth, the warmth of your eyes. “I’d rather be in danger every day of my life, every second, than to keep living it without you. I can’t do it anymore, and I won’t do it.”
And Peter, through his tears, through the lump in his throat starts to say, “I don’t—“
You cut him off. “Do you love me? Still?”
Even though you’d known the answer, known it since he’d knocked on your door as a stranger, it’s a relief when he immediately nods his head. “Yeah. Yes. You know I—yes, of course. Always.”
Always.
“Do you want to be with me? I’m talking about Peter Parker. No Spider-man, no multiverse bullshit. You.”
You watch, transfixed, as his defenses lower. As he’s left deflated, nothing but messy curls and sad eyes. “Yes.”
“Then be with me.”
“I can’t—“
“If you want me out of your life, you’re gonna have to get Doctor Strange to make me forget again. I mean that. I love Peter Parker, and there is no Spider-man without Peter Parker. And if Peter Parker loves me, and Peter Parker wants to be with me, I’m gonna let him.” For good measure, you add, “Fuck Spider-man.”
It gets a surprised laugh out of him, as watery as it is. The smile stays after, too. Even through it, through how much you’re sure he’s heard you, you know you haven’t completely convinced him. You see the hesitation behind his eyes.
Stubborn, stubborn man. You could get him to change what kind of candy he wanted at the store, but when he came to what he thought protected you, it was like talking to a wall.
And unsurprisingly, you were failing.
“Just,” you touch his hand, revel in how it immediately envelopes yours like second nature. “Be with me. At least for tonight. No Spider-man, no memory curse that I’ll definitely need to talk to you about later, just Peter. You and me.”
He squeezes your hand once. “You and me.”
Your chest feels like it could cave in with the relief. You’d do it. You’d convince him, some way.
For now, you just wanted to see him.
“You want to change out of the suit?” You ask him, “I wanna…feel you.”
It comes out…not how you intended it. You just meant you wanted to feel the skin of his hand when he touched your face, the jut of his collarbone under your touch, the stretch of his bicep.
But he gulps, hard. “I, uh—Yeah. Yeah, I can go—“ He throws a thumb over his shoulder, looking panicked, and honest to God stumbles over his feet. “I have—clothes, bathroom. Yeah. Be right back.”
You laugh into the dark, and you think the lightness of your chest could fill the entire room. The entire city.
When Peter returns in a hoodie and sweatpants—looking so much more like the boy you fell in love with—his cheeks are still red. He comes to stand close to you, chest to chest, and lets out a breath like it'd been hard to be so far from you for that small time.
This was your Peter. Say all you want about Spider-man, but Peter would always be yours, tucked against your ribcage like a secret just for yourself. Whether he liked it or not.
He leans his forehead against yours. Already, being out of the suit has made him softer. More honest. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’m scared I’m dreaming.”
You do what you’ve been dying to do since two nights ago, even if you’d been avoiding the feeling. Run your hands under the bottom of his hoodie, splay them against his lower back. He’s so warm, and just touching him makes you feel too full, a soda can shaken too much just before opening. His content sigh, the way his body slackens the smallest bit, the heavy blink he gives you.
“Me too. It’s how I remembered you—a dream.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Us on the roof. I was saying your name. I was happier than I’d been in years. When I woke up I just…kept remembering. Stole Ned’s computer to try and find you.”
“Spidey Tracker…you coded it, didn’t you?”
You nod against him, pleased he’d noticed. “Totally dangerous, by the way. Someone could track you down easily.”
“Someone did.” He smiles at you, not at all threatened by someone using it to hurt him, not afraid.
You roll your eyes, and his crinkle at the corners, running over your face, catching on your lips.
Staying there.
“Hey, Peter?”
He makes a humming sound, distracted.
“When are you gonna kiss me?”
There’s a soft, startled gasp in the back of his throat. He looks back at you, eyes a little wide. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”
“I’ve been waiting four years to kiss you.”
He licks his lips, blushing at your words. He brings his hand to cradle the back of your head, just how you like it, and keeps the other under your chin to angle you so all you see are his eyes. “Can you say my name again?”
You wonder how long it’d been since he’d heard it. His name, meant for him.
“Kiss me, Peter.”
And he does, groaning softly against your mouth, tightening his grip on your hair just enough to have you sighing into him. He breaks away, tilts your face just the slightest bit, and meets you again, devouring.
This had been one of your favorite things, when Peter shucked off the awkwardness and became a mix of demanding, gentle, and eager.
It’s one of the last memories that come to you, how your body responds to him. Where to touch him so that his breath stutters, his fingers flex against your jaw. You run your hands up the notches of his spine and suck on his bottom lip, knowing the low groan that will come after. Trace your thumbs up the ridge of his abs, knowing his hips will twitch towards yours, knowing it makes him pull your head back to lick deeper into your mouth.
But he knows you too. Knows to put a hand on your lower back to arch you into him. Knows to, when your kisses start to get sloppy, spin you so that he can sit on the bed and pull you with him. Your knees on either side of his hips, him looking up at you.
Kiss-swollen. Dazed.
“I love you,” Hands teasing under the hem of your sweatshirt, he kisses your cheeks, your forehead. His thumbs are white-against the skin of your stomach as he presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers, “I’m sorry.”
He tells you twice more, hugging you to him, sucking spots into your neck, the underside of your jaw.
“Peter,” You say his name again just to feel him sigh into your neck. Card your fingers through his curls and tug him where you want him. “I’ll always love you.”
You sound so much like the girl in your dream. The past, happy version of you, with no missing pieces in your brain. This time, just a little breathless.
Feeling Peter’s lips lift into a smile against your skin.
When he pulls back, all heavy lidded eyes looking up at you, hands halfway up your sweatshirt, splayed over your bare ribs possessively, you have an all-encompassing fear that you are dreaming. That there’s no way this is happening, this beautiful man pliant beneath you, absolutely lovely.
But he’s so solid under you, under your mouth. The small sucked and bitten marks on your neck feel real, the coiling warmth in your stomach that spikes the longer he looks at you with those dark eyes, as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, feels real.
The fondness, the relief threatening to rip you apart feels real.
You put your palm over his heart, just to feel it racing.
The both of you breathe in the dark.
He tucks your hair behind your ear. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. Then, absently, like he doesn’t really mean to say it, “You said you couldn’t live without me.”
“I said I don’t want to live without you.”
He shrugs a shoulder, smirking now. “Same thing.”
You pretend to think. “On second thought—“
He makes a noise that sounds a lot like nu-uh, rolling you onto your back in the bed and blowing air into your neck. It makes you laugh and completely stops you from finishing your sentence. You’re so, blindingly, happy.
He looms over you, arms bracketed on each side of your head. Smiling. “Stay here tonight.”
“Um, was that a question, or?”
He says your name again, slow. Savoring it. “Stay here with me tonight, please?”
And it really hadn’t been a question because obviously you would do it. You didn’t want to let him out of your sight. “I would love to,” you answer. “But I have a question for you, too.”
“Okay.”
You grin at how attentive he becomes, eyes curious.
“Who the hell is Maynard?”
Peter buries his head into your shoulder with a groan.
Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
Summary: When Doctor Strange's spell made the whole world forget Peter Parker, something went wrong (or very right). Now, you're the only person who remembers him. But it doesn't stop the nightmares from invading Peter's mind about the day where he might wake up and you don't remember him.
Warnings: Panic attacks, nightmares. This does not contain spoilers for Brand New Day but the Peter in this is Brand New Day Peter!
Word Count: 2.1k
A/N: I had an idea for this one the other day and it took me a few days to work on it as it's a pretty intense fic but I'm really proud of how it turned out in the end so I hope that people enjoy it even if it tears your heart out. Title is taken from the song The Anchor by Bastille (one of my favourite songs of all time).
Peter has tried to keep the nightmares a secret from you.
It’s been easy up until now. You’ve only been living together for a few weeks, finally giving up on both of you paying rent on your own apartments in the city when you spend half of your time at each others places anyway. It wasn’t hard for Peter to keep the nightmares to himself when most nights, he was sleeping alone.
What was easier now was waking up and seeing you beside him. He’d lay there staring at your sleeping form, noticing the way you breathed, how you nuzzled your head into the pillow, memorising everything about you as he tried to calm his breathing. Just incase none of this was real and the nightmares were real instead. The nightmares often took you from him.
You weren’t even supposed to be here.
Doctor Strange’s spell had done what it was supposed to do. The whole world forgot about Peter Parker. But something in the spell had gone awry and now you were the only person in the world who remembered him. Peter would never take that for granted.
But the nightmares always remind him of how fragile the world can be. How as quickly as it can give something, it can be taken away.
He wakes up pretty quickly most of the time. After how many of them he’s had by now, his body knows to wake him and get him out of there as soon as possible. It’s the panic that comes afterwards that’s harder to deal with than the nightmare. The crushing darkness of his room, the feeling that everything he’d dreamt might be real. But maybe it’s how comfortable he feels sleeping beside you that keeps him there a little longer tonight, in the world where he lost you too.
You’re used to waking up when you sleep in the same bed as Peter. There have been several times when you’ve slept over at his apartment and he’s gotten an alert on his phone in the middle of the night, causing him to spring out of bed, grab his suit, press a quick kiss to your forehead and go off to do what he does best. But what wakes you up tonight is different.
It’s the sound of whimpers that clue you in to the fact that something isn’t right. Still half asleep, you turn over, blinking your tired eyes to look at Peter. He’s laying beside you, sweat coating his body, head moving side to side. You hear the whimpers for what they are now. Murmurs of “No, no, no.”
Dread fills you. “Peter,” you mutter, sitting up in the bed and reaching out a hand to place on his shoulder to try and gently shake him awake. “Peter, wake up. You’re having a nightmare, sweetheart.”
His eyes fly open, staring up at the ceiling for a split second before looking right at you. He murmurs your name and before you can even think about replying or to ask if he’s okay, he’s wrapping his arms around you and pulling you back down to the bed and into his chest. His body is warm and slick, still coated in sweat that you’re sure would have soaked through a shirt had he been wearing one.
“Are you real?” Peter whispers against your head. “Please tell me that this is real.”
Your heart cracks. “It’s real, Peter. I’m real.” You don’t even know if he can hear you but you try to make your words as loud as you can through the sudden feeling of thickness in your throat. You’ve never seen him like this before.
You can feel his heart racing and slowly you become aware of the fact that his breathing is quickening too.
“Peter, hey,” you gently try and push back from him, though his grip is still tight on you, clearly trying to convince himself that you are real. “Tell me what’s going on.”
His grip loosens enough for you to pull away a little. You reach up a hand to stroke his cheek. His eyes are screwed shut, breathing coming in small bursts. You recognise it for what it is immediately.
“Can you sit up with me for a second?” You whisper, moving to sit up and feeling immediately relieved when he listens to you and sits up too. “I think you’re having a panic attack, sweetheart. Can you open your eyes for me?”
You move to sit a little closer to him so he can see you in the dark room, only lit by the sliver of moonlight coming through the curtains. You reach up and swipe away a tear as it falls from his eye.
“Peter, open your eyes, sweetheart,” you try again.
His eyes slowly open and the sight of them so full of tears breaks your heart even more. That, combined with his still heavy breathing and the fact that he hasn’t uttered a word since he first woke up, worry you even more.
You reach down to take his hands in yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Can you breathe with me, Peter? In for four, out for four, okay? I’ll do it with you. Ready? One, two, three, four…”
Relief fills you as Peter starts to try breathing with you. It’s difficult at first but the more you count out loud, the more you do it with him, the better he becomes at it. His breathing starts to slow and even though there are still tears streaking down his cheeks, it’s progress.
You keep counting for a few minutes even after his breathing has slowed and the tears stop falling. Your hands don’t let go of his, though. You still want to keep holding him, anchoring him to the real world for as long as he needs it, even if he hasn’t asked you to.
“Are you okay?” You eventually ask, voice soft.
Peter nods once and then shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut again. You can’t help but feel the need to get closer to him so you make the split second decision to move to straddle his lap, letting go of his hands briefly to rest them on the sides of his neck, stroking your thumbs back and forth over his skin.
“That was a nightmare, wasn’t it?”
He nods again, hands moving to rest on your waist and pull you a little closer to him. “They’ve been happening for a while,” he replies, voice a little croaky from the tears and the panic attack. In the past, he’s been known to scare himself awake with a scream. Had he done that tonight? No… no, tonight your voice had been what he’d heard when he’d awoken. Your voice and your touch. You had cut through the noise. “And the panic attacks afterwards.”
“You’ve never said anything,” you frown. You’re not disappointed in him. You think you understand why he kept them to himself. But knowing he’s been struggling like this for a while and you’ve been unable to help him hurts a little.
“I didn’t… I didn’t want to seem weak to you,” he admits, meeting your eyes. His eyes are still full of tears, you notice. “I shouldn’t be having nightmares. Not when it was my choice.”
“Everyone has nightmares, Peter. I’d never think you’re weak for having them.”
Peter shakes his head again. “Not nightmares like these,” he continues. “These ones… they’re different. It’s not just nightmares like I used to have. About the blip or about losing fights or… about Aunt May. These ones…” He drifts off, closing his eyes again.
“You can tell me,” you hum, stroking your thumb over his skin again.
“In these ones, you forget me too,” he manages. “I wake up one morning and you’re asking who I am, why I’m in your apartment, in your bed. Or I come home and you tell me to get out of your apartment or you’ll call the cops. Or I try and text you and the message bounces back to me because I’m not in your contacts.”
Tears start streaming down his cheeks again as he tells you about his nightmares. They’re coming too fast for you to stop this time, even though you try. Even though there are similar tears tracking their way down your cheeks too, now. He’s been dreaming about you forgetting him. About Doctor Strange’s spell working on you, like some kind of delay. And you had no idea about it up until now. It’s been over a year since the day that spell worked. Has he been having these nightmares ever since then?
“Peter, I’m not going to forget you,” you sniff, removing one of your hands from him just so you can wipe your own tears from your face this time. “If the spell was going to work on me, it would have worked by now. But it didn’t. It didn’t and I’m still here.”
Peter blinks, finally looking back at you. “How can you be sure of that?”
You wish you could tell him with certainty that you were sure. That there wasn’t a part of you that thought that one day, the spell would take effect. That the delay would finally wear off and you’d forget him entirely. You’d had similar nightmares in the past, but none to the extent that Peter has clearly been having.
“We can’t be sure of anything, Peter,” you admit softly. “But we can be sure of right now. And right now I’m here, and you’re here and we’re together. And I remember you and I still love you like I have all along. That’s not going to change.”
For a few moments, Peter does nothing but stare at you. Even though in the dark room, he can’t see you that well. He focuses instead on what he can feel. The weight of your body atop his. The warmth of your legs over the top of his. The feeling of your shirt and your skin where his hands sit on your waist. He reaches one of his hands up to cup your cheek, wet with tears like his are too. His thumb moves to trace your lips. He works on calming his breathing again as he takes in the feel of you. You’re here. You’re real. You remember him.
He can’t help but lean forward, then, and capture your lips in his. His hand moves to hold behind your neck as he kisses you, still focusing on how you feel, how warm your lips are, the taste of the salt of both of your tears mixing together, the faint taste of your lip balm, the one you always put on before bed. He memorises feelings like this for the next time he wakes up in a panic from a nightmare like the one he’d just had. Feelings like these to remember what it feels like to have you, to hold you, to love you and to have you love him back just as deeply.
Eventually, when he needs to breathe again, he pulls away regretfully from your lips. He rests his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry I woke you, love,” he mutters.
“I’m not,” you say. It’s the truth. You’d rather be here with him awake now than sleeping beside him, unaware of everything he was going through and unable to help him. “Wake me up next time it happens, please. Every time it happens.”
Peter knows better than to argue with you. “Okay,” he agrees. “I will.”
The two of you sit there again for a few moments, soaking in the feeling of each other. You feel closer. Things have changed in your relationship tonight. For the better, you think.
“You think you can try and sleep again?” You ask.
He nods, if only for your benefit. He doesn’t know if sleep will come for him again tonight, but he’ll happily lay with you in his arms, feeling the way you breathe and letting you sleep beside him. “Yeah, I can try.”
Before you can move off of him to lay down again, he leans forward to kiss you again. The kiss is deep but gentle, soft but firm. It’s another attempt to memorise the way your lips feel against his. Something to think about as he tries to sleep again beside you. Something to hold onto.
He wraps his body around yours as you both lay back down to try and sleep again. He makes sure the blanket is pulled back up around you to keep you warm and presses a soft kiss behind your ear as you snuggle back into him.
“I love you,” he whispers, needing you to hear the words since he didn’t say them earlier.
“I love you too, Peter,” you reply quietly. “I’ll love you forever.”
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