gwen 2.0

writer for peter parker !!this is a sideblog so i cant follow back!!

[gwenstacythe2nd]

gwenstacythe2nd!

welcome to my blog!

I write mainly fluff of my favourite characters <3 currently writing for peter parker (andrew and tom specifically)

requests open! have it be known I DO NOT write smut

I am very busy with school so idk how often uploads will be, but I'm trying my best!

masterlist

[gwenstacythe2nd]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PETER PARKER

[shiestyfury]

me looking at all the smut fanfics when i SPECIFICALLY asked for fluff.

[veralapulgaviajera]

I’m gonna share top secret nda material with you guys. When they were developing brand new day i was LITERALLY in the room and i pitched a version of the movie that was 10 minutes long. Everyone remembered him 5 minutes in and then peter looked at the camera and said “phew, i guess i survived my trip to nyc after all” and then ned walked in with a comedically big jbl speaker and started blasting we found love by Rihanna and they danced the other 5 minutes left. Luckily, I managed to save my concept art before they burnt it.

Source: trust me bro

No but seriously i’m so so so worried for my personal friend peter’s safety and well being. Also pls pls pls don’t spoil anything pls i BEG.

[bruisedboys]

CIVIL WAR — send me a character + an aesthetic, au, trope, colour, or concept and I’ll make you a moodboard!

movie date night with tasm!peter parker <33

movie date night with peter parker ★

(ft. the dvd collection that peter absolutely has)

[pinkiebieberpie]

pov: your camera roll if you were dating college!peter parker

[masterlist] || reblogs, comments and requests are appreciated ♡

[jtoddsbaby]

BF!PETER PARKER HEADCANNONS

SUMMARY: homecoming!peter is your boyfie :)

warnings: fluff, f!reader, homecoming!peter x gf!reader, established relationship, you know peter is spiderman

a/n: he is just so cute :P i wanna eat him

bf!peter parker who despite being busy saving new york, stops by your bedroom window every morning to place your favorite coffee from your favorite cafe on your desk.

bf!peter parker who checks his phone while swinging across buildings. he's arguably just as bad as someone texting while driving. once he was texting you some sweet, sappy words and slammed directly into a telephone pole... he had fun explaining that bruise to you later.

bf!peter parker who doesn't even need to confess that he's spiderman, you figured it out yourself. it happened after he saved you from an idiot trying to take your purse.

"are you okay?" he'd breathed, patting your shoulders and brushing down your coat.

you'd arched a brow, his touch feeling all too intimate, voice sounding all too similar...

"peter?!"

"i—" his shoulders slumped in defeat. "hi."

bf!peter parker who stares at you from across the cafeteria during lunch. it got so bad that you eventually decided to save him the trouble and began sitting with him. but even that didn't work.

"pete?"

he blinks, head propped on the heel of his hand. "hm?"

"you're still staring."

he smiles dopily. "yeah. you're pretty."

bf!peter parker who plays up his injuries tenfold just so you'll be nice to him. he'll come busting through your window with only a few mere scratches on his arm and abdomen, but be clutching his chest like he's in agony.

he'd flop down onto your bed on top of you, reaching for your hands. "it hurts so bad, baby. kiss it better?"

you'd giggle. "oh, yeah? it hurts soo bad, pete? should i call may and have her get you some he—"

"no, no. just you. only your help." he'd pout oh so adorably up at you. "please?"

bf!peter parker who pretends to hate it when you buy him silly little spiderman gadgets, but secretly finds it adorable. thanks to you, he has upwards of 4 spiderman plushies, a spiderman lego keychain, a few crochet spideys, and a t-shirt with webs on it.

bf!peter parker who only bought the hello kitty pjs and "i survived my trip to nyc" shirt because you'd been browsing in a random tourist shop with him and thought they were cheesy and adorable.

bf!peter parker who sometimes accidentally leaves his suit in your bedroom, and trying to get it back is a bit awkward.

he'd crashed at yours after patrol one day, stripping himself of the suit and changing into sweats. he'd realizes before school the next day that he'd need it back asap... you needed to meet up in the all-gender bathroom to exchange the spandex without being caught. ned still caught you, though.

bf!peter parker who loves to take candid shots of you when you least expect it. you'd be sat at his desk, chewing lightly on a pen as you think, then suddenly... click. you'd whip toward him. "what was that?"

he'd wait a bit before handing you the polaroid. "it's you. i thought you looked pretty.

bf!peter parker who is especially clingy and sweet when he's tired after patrol. he'd absolutely melt when you'd run your hands through his sweaty hair after removing his mask. when you'd let him lay his head in your lap and massage his shoulders. when you'd ask him how things went and let him ramble against your stomach for hours.

bf!peter parker who seeks your help when developing his web shooters. you'd become his test subject, giggling as he shot the webs at you from varying distances, testing their reliability.

"ah! peter!" you'd squeal as he shot the web at you from literally a foot away, causing him to giggle softly.

"oh, sorry! too close?"

bf!peter parker who begs to try the upside-down kiss. like, fully begs on his knees with prayer hands. when you finally agree, you swear you can see his tail wagging behind him.

bf!peter parker who loves to mess with you by approaching you in public as spiderman, forcing you to pretend you don't know who he is.

you'd hear him before you see him, the soft thump of feet landing behind you. "morning, ma'am," he'd greet, falling into step beside you. "nice coffee. heard that's a good place." he'd tap the side of your cup.

you'd see his eyes crinkle in amusement through his lenses, which also narrow. "good morning, spiderman," you'd grit, glaring at peter spidey. "yes, it's very good."

"i'm glad. you stay safe on these streets, miss. new york can be...troublesome."

"so i hear. so shouldn't you be, y'know, fixing that? not talking to some random lady on the street?"

he'd smirk. "a random, very pretty lady," he'd correct, still walking casually beside you. "new york's quiet right now. i've got alllll the time in the world."

your jaw would clench. "amazing."

"i am, aren't i?"

bf!peter parker who loves when you doodle on his notes or research papers. you'd always draw little cartoon-y webs on the corners of the sheets, surrounding them with hears.

taglist: @celestium-ambrosium @notyouraverageloser-13 @laneythebug @nalah-whimsy @uglyandrotten @starz-boy @ruiboo @goobfeels @pinklyred @magmamaya @sunnylikesreading @shy-guy927 @lvlyu @jaydennicole

[gwenstacythe2nd]

SWING

mcu!peter parker x stark!reader

summary- in which you gift spider-man his new suit

tags- fluff, y/n stark, reader is super smart, limited use of y/n, avengers lab, peter is a cutie, protective dad tony

word count- 1.5k+

a/n- thank you for all the love on 't-shirt'! I've been a little out of sorts with writing recently (nothing feels right), but I think I'm going to be writing more for tom's peter because I am currently obsessed with that dork. PLS I NEED IDEAS THOUGH.

Since the moment your dad recruited Spider-Man to the Avengers, you had been itching to meet the boy yourself. But Tony always refused. For whatever reason, your father didn't have much trust in you to keep Spider-Man's secret. (Which was completely insulting, by the way). Besides, you were pretty sure you knew who was under the mask.

You didn't exactly mean to figure out his identity. It just sort of...happened. You had a few things you knew for sure about Spider-Man. One; that he was a guy. Two; that he was in high school. And three; that he went to your high school. So the options were narrowed down a little.

Honestly, it wasn't hard for you to come to a conclusion. Peter Parker was not exactly subtle. You began getting suspicious when you overheard him telling someone about his internship at Stark Industries. You had never seen him at Stark Industries before. Initially, you chalked it up to Peter just wanting to seem cool. But then there were other things. Like showing up late to class, out of breath and beat up. Or getting weirdly nervous and jittery whenever Spider-Man was brought up. Or 'coincidentally' being absent whenever a villain invaded New York.

Soon enough, your suspicions would be confirmed.

You liked helping your dad and Bruce out in the lab after school. Loved it, actually. Whenever you had even a minute of free time, you'd be working on a new prototype or mending someone's beat up suit. You were freakishly smart, and a pretty good artist too, so when Tony suggested you help design Spider-Man's new suit, you couldn't help but jump into his arms and scream 'yes'.

The suit was easy to design. Making it was a whole other story. It went through many prototypes, the design slowly morphing over time. You wanted it to be perfect. It was a lot of pressure making a costume for a superhero. Especially since that superhero was a cute teenage boy from your science class. Eventually, you developed new web shooters that could hold almost double the amount of web fluid, and were even stronger than previous versions. The material of the suit was strong yet breathable, just enough to protect Peter--sorry, Spider-Man--from being beaten black and blue. It was a huge improvement from his very first costume, if you could even call it that. A sweatsuit wasn't going to do much to keep him safe from Thanos.

Currently, you sat in the lab, working on some chemistry homework. Tony was tinkering away in the corner, off in his own little world. Music blasted through your earbuds, making it slightly hard to concentrate, but you weren't going to turn it down. Music was made to be listened to loudly.

It was so loud, in fact, that you didn't hear Peter entering the lab behind you. Tony had told him to come in so he could test out the new suit. But to no surprise, the man had completely forgotten to get you out of the lab before Peter arrived. It wasn't until you saw your dad indiscreetly waving his arms and shooing Peter away that you spun in your chair. Your eyes widen when you see him, old costume in hand. You grin at him, ripping out your earbuds.

"I knew it!" you exclaim. Finally, you had an answer. Confirmation that you were right all along. Peter was Spider-Man.

He glances down at the suit in his hands, quickly hiding it behind his back. "W-what?" he chuckles awkwardly.

Next to you, Tony holds his head in his hands with a groan. "Too late, kid."

Peter deflates. "Sorry, Mr Stark. I-I didn't realise..."

"Was this," Tony says, demonstrating the arm flailing he had done earlier to get Peter to leave, "not clear enough?"

"No, it was clear."

"Yeah, well, you're lucky." Tony wandered back over to whatever he was working on in the corner. "She won't tell anyone."

"Oh, so now you trust me?" You pipe up, crossing your arms to look at your dad.

"Ehh," Tony shrugs skeptically. In reality he did trust you, he just liked messing with you sometimes.

You turned back to Peter, smiling reassuringly.

"You promise you won't tell anyone?" he asks, putting his suit down on the table now that there was no hiding it.

"Of course, Peter. I won't tell a soul," you promise, closing your textbook with a soft 'thud'. "So, you wanna see what I made?"

You grab Peter by his sleeve, pulling him over to the other side of the lab where a metal briefcase sits on the table. "Open it," you say, clasping your hands behind you as you watch in anticipation.

Peter clicks the case open, stepping back in awe when his new suit is presented to him. Sleek, a rich red and blue--undeniably Spider-Man. Peter stares at it, jaw slack and eyes wide.

"Do you like it?" you ask, a little nervous at his lack of words.

"Do I like it? Are you kidding me, this is awesome! This is like, the coolest thing I've ever seen!" Peter grins.

"Really?" Your cheeks are warm with pride, a little sore from the massive smile on your face.

"Can I try it on?"

"Of course. There's a bathroom to the left if you wanna get changed in there."

Peter comes back out a minute later, flexing his fingers and getting used to the feeling of the suit. He looks good in it. Really good. It's hard for you not to scan him up and down, seeing how it hugs his muscles.

"How does it feel? Do I need to make any adjustments?"

"It feels perfect," Peter nods. "Way better than my last suit."

"What was that?" Tony suddenly pipes in from the corner, offence evident in his voice.

"N-nothing, Mr Stark!"

You laugh, rolling your eyes at your father. "Don't worry, he's only half serious."

"Anyway," you continue, voice quieter. "I think we better go out and do a test run of these web shooters."

Making sure Tony isn't paying attention, you grab Peter's hand this time, feeling a little more confident. As you guys rush out the tower, Peter gets a bit panicked.

"I don't know if this is a good idea, I mean, your dad will probably kill me if he finds out we're doing this! What- what if I drop you? Oh my god, what if I drop you?!"

You turn to face him, now outside on the sidewalk, staring into the white, wide eyes of his mask. "Peter, you're not going to drop me. And my dad won't even have a clue we've left the tower, let alone that we're swinging around New York. Come on, bug boy."

The nickname gets a laugh out of him, helping Peter be less anxious. "Alright, hold on tight."

You just barely wrap your arms around Peter's neck before his arm grabs your waist and you're both hoisted into the air by a web. You try not to scream as Peter swings from building to building, but you end up letting out a yelp as the momentum propels you forward. Once you get used to the feeling of flying, you open your eyes and take in the city. Everything is smaller from up here, less intimidating, you and Peter safe from the streets of New York.

Your grip on Peter is tight, heart still pumping from the adrenaline. He can feel the fast beats on his own chest. "You okay?"

"Yeah!" you yell. "This is awesome!"

Peter chuckles against you, letting the web stretch out so you dip to the ground, cutting between cabs and earning points from pedestrians. You're unable to hold in your scream now, the sudden closeness to the road making your heart rate spike. You can practically feel Peter's grin under his mask, and it's sort of impossible not to smile when Peter does. You feel so free like this, finally escaping the comfort of the tower. You could do this forever.

Peter, however, cannot. It's a little tiring holding two people up with one arm. He swings you both up onto a nearby rooftop, setting you down softly. You run a hand through your windswept hair, unable to wipe the grin off your face.

"That was the most fun I've had in a while," you laugh.

"Me too," Peter says, his voice so soft and sincere. He admires the way your eyes shine in the setting sun, the way your whole face is lit up with joy. He clears his throat, realising he's staring. "These web shooters though? They're so smooth, it's crazy. Your engineering is amazing."

You flush pink at his compliment. "Yeah, well, I learnt from the best."

"Tony?"

"Bruce."

Peter laughs, shaking his head. "Do not let your dad hear you say that."

"Too late, kid."

You and Peter jump dramatically. At the edge of the rooftop is Tony, suit on and undeniably pissed.

"M-Mr Stark! Funny seeing you here, haha. The sunset is nice tonight, right?" Peter tries to awkwardly defuse the tension and fails miserably.

"I think you better swing on back to your web, Spider-Man," Tony deadpans.

"Y-yeah, no, definitely." Peter nods. He points a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll just-um-get going then. Yeah." Peter sheepishly waves at you before jumping off the roof. Something you wished you could do right now.

"Let's go," Tony waves you over, ready to carry you home.

"I think I'd rather walk."

[shouldakissedyouanyway]

there's new spiderman fics being uploaded every 15 minutes oh how i've prayed for times like these

[xiaoale]

personal favorite — peter parker

synopsis. in an attempt to get closer to your boyfriend, you try to guess his favorite color.

—✧ content. fluff and sap and warmth and all the happiness peter parker deserves and self-indulgence to the peak. reader plays sports casually and gets hurt sometimes doing them! this was originally posted as a gojo fic sue me !! also based off of a tiktok sound

—✧ notes. 1.3k words, i wanted brand new day to kill me and then it killed me . #superheroshill #inthisshit4life

“Hm... yellow?”

A breeze flutters against your eyelashes as you lie next to him, the cool toughness of the concrete against your cheek. His eyes narrow jokingly, a gloved finger jutting out to poke your face.

"Did you just say that because the sun is setting right now?" He teases, "C'mon, where's your creativity?"

It's a quiet day today, as quiet as New York City can get, anyways. You find yourselves on the roof of his apartment, just at that transition period when day shifts to night and the sky loses its sky blue to bright yellows and oranges — when parents usher their kids from memories and dreams made from woodchips in the park below you, as teenagers and the elderly alike ride the metro back to their homes in the real world.

Luckily for you, you don't need to go back to reality when you're next to Peter.

It's just the two of you up here — no supervillains to traumatize him, no stuck-up professors to traumatize you — just two bodies soaking up the weather of the city you grew up in.

Peter’s still in his suit, the practical turtleneck bobbing with his Adam’s apple as he swallows, his eyes curved into crescent moons as he peers at you. His irises are the color of roasted coffee — flecks of warm honey highlighted under the setting sun, something akin to love with a hazy warmth in his gaze.

(It's unfair, you think, for someone to look so beautiful.)

"Whatever." You huff, rolling your eyes as the two of you slump back onto your shoulder blades, a satisfied grin playing on his face.

“Hah.”

"Okay, what is it then?" You flop back around immediately, nudging against his shoulder. "Your favorite color?"

For a moment, he doesn't answer.

Between him and the spare leaf he twiddles with his fingers, he's never had one.

Red and blue are Spider-Man's colors, but he'd be lying if he called them his favorite. Green is nice, pink is cute for sure, orange was the color of his favorite Pokémon; his childhood was about as normal as most were, save for the radioactive spider that led him to becoming a superhero.

…

Okay, so now that he’s thinking about it, it makes sense that he’s maybe never gotten the chance to think about one.

It’s certainly possible that he had one growing up, but after becoming Spider-Man, his mind became too busy with equations and his body occupied with dodging alien attacks outside his window. Peter’s never had time to care about something as silly as a favorite color, but—

You were smiling when you guessed yellow.

Your eyes glazed with an excited shine he'd only seen in his dreams, your lips parting to show a smile he's sure he'll try to get you to recreate for the rest of his life — does yellow fit him that much? What's your reasoning?

Even now, as you take small glances at him, your gaze is filled with that lovestruck nosiness that he’s loved since high school (although if anyone's stricken, it's him). He doesn’t mind yellow being his favorite color if you can stay like this forever.

"You were right." He resigns, a nonchalant grin playing on his face, his eyes closed to soak in the last moments of sunshine, “Yellow's the best."

The next few moments are silent, other than a soft breeze that brushes through his bangs. The beginnings of the night chill nips at the bare bit of skin under his neck; he peeks an eye open, turning slightly to look at you and—

Ah.

Your lips are happily curved upwards, unable to hide your giddiness from him.

Before he can even comprehend what's going on, your arms push your body off the grass, trapping his back to the Earth, your face mere inches away from his.

“You’re not lying, right? You’re telling the truth?”

Peter gazes up at you through half-lidded eyes, that astounding color of yellow shining against your silhouette. There’s a bit in your eyes, he can almost imagine, fire shining against your iris that he wants to stay lost in forever.

(Was the sun always this pretty? Or is it just you?)

“… Yeah, it’s cute.” He smiles simply, “I like it a lot.”

His gloved hand pulls you down towards him, pressing your chest to his as he presses small kisses against your skin.

“Peter—” You whine, pulling your face away as the kisses travel down your neck (he laughs as he pulls your head down again, hugging your body close), “Peter, you’re being annoying.”

“Aww, you like me anyways.”

He can feel your heat against his shoulder, behind your mumble, “Ugh, I guess.”

“Why yellow?” His grin is boyish as his hands palm at your hips, “Why'd you think of yellow for me?”

You bite the inside of your cheek as you bury your face into his clavicle, nose against nylon and muscle, “It's ‘cause …” The words that leave your lips get lost, the fabric of his shirt trapping them from his ears.

“Sorry?”

“I said—” your cheeks heat up in embarrassment, tilting your head towards his neck, “— It’s because you’re bright. Whenever I see you, you just … shine. Like the sun.”

Every New Yorker could attribute Spider-Man to the sun. It's the warmth he brings, the kindness he shows to the little man — everything Spider-Man does can associate him with the brightness of New York City.

No one knows Peter Parker, though. Certainly not like you know him. No one else knows the words that fuss over you every time you get hurt, fingers that painstakingly bandage your knees every time you fall on the court, the mind that stays up with you to help you study even after exhaustion creeps up his throat.

No one knows that Peter loves harder than anyone you’ve ever known, evident in chapped lips and small lulls of domesticity in the morning, evident in low moans and warm hands at night.

(No one knows his favorite color, except you.

You've never felt more special.)

“Will you kiss me?”

The words come out more vulnerable than you expect; sap dripped from your tongue, the feeling of wanting to stay like this pushed through your tongue.

Peter obliges, though — his hand tilts your chin towards him, the other at your scalp, pulling you close enough to feel his breath steady on your skin. His lips find yours immediately, soft against the wind that brushes against your body, warm fingers ghosting your neck contrasted with the cool stone at your palms.

You’re in love with him. God, you love him, the boy that rivals the sun — the boy whose natural state is to give more than he takes, and still accepts you anyways.

You pull away slowly as the sun falls further, the heat on your cheeks matching the dusty pink on his. The apartment lights across the street are lighting up, deep reds and violets lined against the horizon, and still, time feels far away from you. Peter looks a little lost when he looks at you, his head in some faraway place in his mind.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask, your pointer finger tracing his cheek.

He hums, a carefree smile on his face as he stares with that same lovesick look, as if his love could ever make you sick.

“Let’s just lay here for a while.” He closes his eyes, relaxing fully, “Until it gets dark.”

(Yeah, if he’s being totally honest, he doesn’t give a shit about the color yellow.

It may not be his favorite color, but you’re certainly his favorite person.)

every time nyc was typed out or mentioned i felt an inexplicable rage and jealousy to all new yorkers 💔💔 happy for yall 💔💔 mamdani please save my state 💔💔

[gwenstacythe2nd]

my cork board if I was an avenger dating peter parker <3 (hung up in my room in the avengers tower ofc)

[ex-robin]

Princess treatment from Peter Parker who was born to make grand, romantic gestures… but forced to be a broke college student

Princess treatment from Peter Parker who is the proof that it's the thought that counts. Right from the first gift he ever got you, a cheesy, arcade-won necklace that you wouldn't trade for all the jewellery in New York

Princess treatment from Peter Parker who always has your favorite snack at his place, even when he's so strapped for cash he can count his grocery list on one hand

Princess treatment from Peter Parker who still buys you bouquets every date. They're somehow always doomed to get a little beaten up in transit but they've got all your favorite flowers

Princess treatment from Peter Parker who takes so much joy in the few times he gets a big enough paycheck to take you out for a nice dinner and cover the bill

Princess treatment from Peter Parker who is basically your personal photographer at this point. You're his favorite subject, which anyone could guess based on the picture of you set as his desktop background, or the polaroid of you in his wallet, or all the framed shots of you scattered around his apartment

Princess treatment from Peter Parker who might actually go crazy if he couldn't text you everyday, your chat logs are more wordy than all of his textbooks combined

Princess treatment from Peter Parker who manages to be so protective in such a gentle way, whether it's walking you home, draping his hoodie around you at the slightest breeze or the pep talks he gives while holding you in his arms after a rough day

[atomikats]

inspired.

[everythingcollided]

and time, is taking its sweet time erasing you (part two)

part one

pairing: peter parker x fem!reader

word count: 6.2k

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

*ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚

Over the next few days, you go a little crazy. 

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.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚

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[everythingcollided]

in dreams, i meet you in warm conversation (part one)

part two

pairing: peter parker x fem!reader

word count: 2k

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...

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You’d never really liked parties. 

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.

And the dark whispers back, Peter Parker. 

[lunshimmer]

─ wrong way

main masterlist

pairing: peter parker x reader next

summary: peter parker breaks into your apartment (on accident). it's snowing. he can't see that well.

w/c: 1.3k

a/n: hellooooo it's time i started writing for peter. i needed to add another sad white boy to my arsenal. this'll have another part to it coming sooooon :)

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ requests are open (as always), likes, comments, & reblogs are much appreciated !

The first time Peter Parker breaks into your apartment, it’s snowing outside.

It isn’t an intentional break-in, really— just an unfortunate miscalculation of floors due to limited visibility because of the snow. He only notices that he’s in the wrong apartment when he clicks the window shut, turns around, and sees you.

Your computer sits open on the coffee table, the old plush of your worn loveseat dipping beneath your weight. It seems to him like you’re in the middle of something, based on the way your fingers move tirelessly scrawling something in the notebook on your lap. It also seems like you’d barely noticed his arrival.

Peter stands awkwardly by the window, hands drumming at his sides. Should he wait for you to notice him? Should he leave before you do? He decides that it’s probably better that Spider-Man doesn’t gain the reputation of breaking into girls’ apartments and starts to pull the window open from the bottom, when—

“What are you doing here?”

He whips around to face you. You’re standing now, notebook and blanket thrown haphazardly to the floor at the sudden motion. You’ve got this shocked look on your face, because obviously it’s normal to be shocked when a masked vigilante breaks into your apartment. He curses himself internally and watches as your eyes scan the apartment.

“Is— is something going on? Am I in trouble?” You ask.

“No!” Peter interjects, and when you flinch at the volume of his voice, lowers it and holds his arms out in front of himself, “No, no! I just, uh— this is the, uh… it’s wrong.”

“It’s… wrong?” You echo.

What an idiot. He’s got such a way with words. If E.V. doesn’t play this on loop to embarrass him later, his brain will do it for her.

With a rapid flailing of his arms, he clarifies: “No! I mean, it— it’s wrong, because this isn’t my apartment.”

By the look on your face, you’re not as terrified by the intrusion as before. A small smile creeps onto your lips as you glance around, almost as if to prove his point. “Well, yeah, dude. I could’ve told you that.”

He inhales deeply. Exhales like he’s blowing away his inability to speak. Emphasizes every word like he’s trying to correct himself. “I am not in my apartment.”

At this point, you’re not as on guard as you were. Wordlessly, you sit back down, pulling the blanket over your legs and lifting the notebook from the ground. Your hand resumes its busy motion of writing in the notebook, gaze focusing back on the laptop screen that illuminates your figure.

You’ve, seemingly, gone back to work. Peter has not. He stands there like an idiot.

After a moment, you cock an eyebrow at him. “You good?”

His face is probably scarlet— not that you’d even be able to tell through the already red fabric of his mask, but it’s the pure notion of it. He opens his mouth once, twice, trying to get any semblance of a coherent sentence to tumble from his mouth. “I’m— I’m going to leave now.”

You smile— wide, genuine, a laugh huffing through your nose as you do. “See you, Spidey.”

Peter fumbles with the already open window, blindly shoots a web, and swings back out.

The second time he breaks in, it’s pouring.

He’s absolutely sure, even with the fact that he can barely see the building with the rain beating down on him, that he’s made it into the right apartment this time. There’s no way that would happen again. He’s absolutely sure of it.

That is, until his feet land on an unfamiliar floor and the smell of vodka sauce floats in the air. A spoon clatters on the kitchen counter.

“We have got to stop meeting like this.”

It’s you, wrong-apartment-girl from before. He did it again. Son of a bitch.

Footsteps pad through your apartment and as he begins to lift his head to glance around, he notices that he’s dripping water all over your floor. A thought from May creeps into the forefront of his mind, something about ice cubes and water and hardwood floors. He quickly goes to stand off the hardwood to save the floors, but then realizes he’s now leaking water all over your nice rug.

You return from what he presumes to be the bathroom or the bedroom with two green bath towels in your hands. You hand one to Peter, which he gratefully wraps around himself, and drop the other to the puddle of water on the hardwood.

“Sorry about that, by— by the way. And— about this.”

After pushing around the towel on the floor with your foot, you pad back to the kitchen and start to stir the saucepan again. “What? You mean the fact that you keep breaking into my apartment?”

“It’s not on purpose, I promise!” He stutters, hands moving so fast that the towel nearly falls to the ground. “It’s just— the weather, and I miscounted, and—”

“Relax. I’m joking.” You say, turning off the burner beneath a pot of noodles. “Would you come strain this for me? Colander’s in the sink.”

Peter, to his own horror, obeys. He walks to the kitchen, slips on two green gingham-patterned oven mitts, and watches as the pasta produces a cloud of steam above the colander.

“Rigatoni? That’s— a good choice.” He says, small, and realizes at this moment how ridiculous he must look: Spider-Man, wielding no weapon but two oven mitts, marveling at your chosen type of pasta.

“Yeah? Thanks.” You laugh, ensuring that each burner knob is set to off. A clinking of dishes sounds from behind, and as Peter turns, he’s met with two flower-patterned ceramic bowls on the counter top. “Wanna stay for dinner? I probably made too much for just me, anyways.”

At first, he’s hesitant. He broke into your apartment, and you’re asking him to have dinner with you? It’s all backwards— not that he’s ever enact it in the forwards way, anyways, but regardless.

At his lack of response, you smile and pour the strained pasta from the colander to the pot. “What, no time to eat? Old lady stuck in a tree, or something?”

He can’t help but laugh at your joke. What else has he got to do, anyways? It’s not like he’s got anyone at home to have dinner with. “I’ll have some. That’d— that’d be nice.”

Peter pulls his mask up to eat, barely above his lips. He’s cautious about lowering it in between bites as you sit across from him at your small table. He notices you stab multiple noodles onto your fork and bite down on them, fork now clean.

“So… Spider-Man.”

“So…” Peter echoes, voice trailing off slightly. “I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

“And I don’t think I ever caught yours.” You say, grinning, eyes shining as you corner him with words.

Peter huffs a laugh. “Touché.”

A rigatoni-filled silence passes while you both continue to eat. “Fine. Keep your secrets. Remain mysterious.”

“That’s the plan.” Peter grins. He gestures up and down to himself with his fork. “Masked vigilante? It’s… kinda my whole thing.”

“I get it.” You say, stabbing a few more noodles with your fork. “Anonymity is key.”

“Exactly.” He answers. After a few moments, he speaks again. “I still didn’t get your name.”

You don’t answer. You shrug, grinning as you finish off the noodles in your bowl. The way you’ve chosen to deflect the topic makes him laugh. “What? Am I just gonna call you wrong-apartment-girl forever?”

You laugh too. “Hey! If anything, my name should be totally-innocent-repeat-victim-of-home-invasions-girl!”

“That’s… something. Very wordy.”

“Well, not all of us can be Spider-Man.”

As if on cue, his phone beeps: Bank robbery. 51st street. What an appropriate reminder.

Peter stands, firmly tugging his mask back into place as he deposits his bowl in your kitchen sink. You smile at him from the kitchen table.

“Stay dry out there, Spider-Man.”

He tugs open the window and plunges into the rain once more.

[dearlyhyeon]

the concept of civilian! peter parker (who’s one of professor banner’s students) being an obsessive fan for spidey! reader and does unsolicited stuff for her; creating suit designs, web fluid, etc… #needthat

he already put a tracker on her since senior year of high school