I've noticed this tends to be a topic a lot of beginner writers don't have much resources for, so in this guide I'll try to cover all the basics and hopefully set you up on your journey ♡
PRE-BLOG
think about what you want your blog to be. get a pen and paper, open up a document, your note app, etc. and answer these questions.
what do I want to write about? (genre, fandom, type of fic)
what characters do I wanna write about? (canon characters, original characters)
what topics are my favourites? (tropes, aus, concepts)
what topics am I not willing to write about?
will I accept requests? (your readers sending you ideas via your ask box and you write them)
this will give you a good place to start and understand what you want. it'll also serve as a baseline for your guidelines.
BLOG ESSENTIALS (ADMIN POSTS)
these are posts that are essential. please note that they are optional, for example you don't need a post detailing your blog guidelines, but it's nice to have for some people. there are many other posts you can indulge, but here is a list of a few more common ones.
♡ = important
pinned post ♡
this is where you introduce yourself and your blog (ie: what you write). you do not have to be extensive. this is also typically where you will link other posts such as your masterlist, guidelines, and any other posts mentioned below.
masterlist ♡
a collection of your fics. this helps people navigate your blog to find more of your writing. you can divide this into fandoms and characters. some people keep everything on one post, while others create sub-posts for every character/fandom and link it back to their main masterlist. whichever you decide, your masterlist should be easy to navigate for the sake of your readers.
some masterlists have a “genre key”. you can use an emoji or symbol to indicate when a fic is fluff, angst, smut, and so forth. ie:
🍓 - fluff 🍒 - angst 🍑 - smut
by putting these emojis/symbols beside a fic link, you are telling the reader what genre it is before hand.
guidelines
I consider these important, but they may not be essential to everyone. this post is where you define the rules on your blog. this is where you can list a dni (don't interact) criteria, tell people what you will/won't write, state whether you take requests or not, etc. whatever is a boundary for you— put it here.
favourite fics
a completely optional masterlist. in this post, you can list either your favourite fics (that you've written), or your more popular fics.
queue
optional. in this post, you can list fics that you are working on/plan to post on specific days. do not let this pressure you.
BLOG THEME
this is not necessary, but having a theme can be rewarding in many ways. not only is it visually appealing, it also helps readers identify you and your writing. this is a very extensive topic, but I'll try to cover the essentials. here's where to start.
a) PLANNING
choose a colour palette. make sure these are colours you like, not colours you think other people will like. here is a pinterest board for colour palettes.
choose a blog theme. this can be extensive, so get creative with it! you can theme your blog after a character, a fandom, a setting, a nature concept, an occupation, an aesthetic, a movie, an artist, etc. the possibilities are endless. here is a list of potential blog themes.
with these two things in mind, you will now have a guideline for how to style both your admin posts and writing posts.
b) COLLECTING RESOURCES
I will now walk you through the process of styling your blog.
step 01: dividers
find dividers that match your colour palette or theme. there are tons of options. use the tumblr search bar and type “(colour) divider” (ie: pink divider) or “(theme) divider” (ie: cherry divider).
there are many lovely divider creators with tons of dividers from all sorts of categories. here are a few: @cursed-carmine @uzmacchiato @cafekitsune @diviniyae @pixopix @anitalenia @dollywons and many more! please follow their rules and credit if you use their dividers.
you can also make your own dividers. but that will not be covered in this guide.
step 02: headers
headers are images at the top of posts that make posts look prettier and tie in with your theme. results show that posts with images attract more attention than those without.
find images that fit your theme and colour palette. this is where you can test out different header sizes. try squares, rectangles, circles (requires transparent background images), whatever you think suits your blog.
ie: some blogs use a row of three 500x500 (square) images. others use a singular rectangular image. there is no correct way to do this, choose what speaks to you.
here is my pinterest board that categorises images by colour.
step 03: symbols
you can use symbols and emojis to pretty up your posts. this is not compulsory. I suggest looking at other blogs and analysing what attracts you. here's a site you can use for symbol combinations.
note: do not copy other people's themes. this is a sensitive thing for most. you may take inspiration, but understand where the line is drawn. make your posts look like you not someone else.
step 04: fonts
decide whether you'd like to use fancy font or not. this is not compulsory. they can pretty up your posts but can also quickly become visually overwhelming. here's a site for fancy fonts.
c) COMPOSITION
compose your posts. use your colour palette and theme to guide you. this is where you utilise the resources you've collected/decided to use and style your posts in whatever way you prefer.
again, you can look to other blogs for inspiration, but do not copy. you want your readers to recognise you for you.
there is no wrong way to style your posts, do what makes you happy.
some resources:
how to make custom colour text
how to make gradient colour text
some header dimensions
how to make your own dividers
some post format guides
TAGS
tagging your post correctly is how to ensure your writing reaches your audience that has not found you yet. regardless of what you write, it is good practice to keep track of what tabs are active in your writing space. for example, if you write for a specific fandom, make sure to search up a tag via the tumblr search option and head over to the “tags” tab.
your first five tags are important. if you use popular tags in these five slots, your fics have a better chance of getting recognised.
there is a tag limit of 30 tags, make sure to keep this mind. tag only what is necessary and do not tag off-topic. this includes tagging fandoms that have nothing to do with your piece purely because it is popular.
you can also tag the genre of your fic. fluff, smut, angst— so on. there are various subgenres, so mix and match where you see fit.
tags are also where you can tag trigger warnings. do not censor words (ie: s*icide) in your tags, as this makes it more difficult for people to filter out. instead, type: tw suicide or cw suicide.
for those in the reader insert sphere, it is good practice to tag the gender of your reader. along with any other specifications you find important.
MINDSET
this is more mind over matter, but as a writer of ten years, I think it's vital to spread some of what I've learnt. any creative craft takes a toll on an artist mentally, so it's good to keep a few things in mind.
you have probably heard this before, but write for yourself. what does this mean? write what makes you happy. even if it is “tropey”, “cringe”, or not popular. writing what you want to write should be the reason you start your blog in the first place.
you will only grow better at writing the more you write and read. writing is practice whereas reading is theory. do not neglect this. experience and skill comes to those who are consistent.
notes will come. it won't be on the first day, the first week, it might not even be in the first six months or a year. but notes will come, your audience is out there, so don't deprive them of getting to know you. don't give up.
readers might do some questionable things, but they are your biggest fans. put them first where you can.
other writers are your friends, not your competition. only compete with yourself. creative envy is a dangerous thing. allowing yourself to go down that path is not fair to you.
don't feel pressured to keep up with trends. this ties in to the first point, but don't feel obligated to go with the crowd. of course, if you are inspired, go right ahead. there is nothing wrong with both writing trends and not doing so.
you are a writer. not an influencer. you are here to create, not perform.
requests are nice, but do not feel obligated to do every one in your inbox.
be firm on your boundaries, you owe yourself that respect.
mutuals are nice, but in this era of fandom, be careful. moot culture on tumblr has grown toxic. be wary of the people you let into your space. having one solid, genuine mutual is better than having one hundred who do not want what is best for you. we unfortunately live in a cruel world with cruel people, so protect your peace.
there will be hate, and it will hurt. what you do with those hurt feelings is what makes the difference. you know yourself more than anyone, don't let random people on the internet dampen your spirits.
criticism is good until a point. you do not have to adhere to unwarranted criticism for a hobby you do for fun.
finally, have fun. create for yourself. be silly, or serious, do what makes you happy. anxiety and fears will always be there, you'll always question yourself because that's simply human nature. but anything worth doing has its struggles. remember that its rewards will always outweigh them.
if there is anything you need help with, please comment, or shoot me an ask/dm. I'll be happy to help ♡
pairing: arachnid! peter parker x neighbor! reader
w/c: 8k
summary: peter tried to stay away as best as he could. too scared to hurt the one person who knows his big secret. the darkness taking over him however- would not let that happen for long.
warnings/tags: the dove is very dead. very mean! dark! peter, arachnid peter, strangers to something blooming, blood, slight violence, comfort, smut (dubcon, unprotected sex, multiple positions, female masturbation, squirting, marking, fingering, web bondage, mean dirty talk, taunting, multiple orgasms, aftercare)
masterlist // join the taglist
part one // part three
The weeks that followed that night settled into a quiet, careful distance.
Peter was still next door. You still heard him—keys in the lock at odd hours, the low murmur of his voice on the phone, the occasional soft thump of something heavy being moved. Sometimes, late at night, you could hear curious soft beeping— always followed by a string of curses. Whatever he was building or researching, he kept it to himself.
He didn’t disappear completely.
There were friendly waves in the hallway when your paths crossed—quick, almost shy, the same lopsided smile that never quite reached his eyes the way it used to. One morning you woke to the smell of sesame and the soft weight of a paper bag on your windowsill. Your favorite bagels, still warm, with the exact cream cheese you always ordered. No note. Just the quiet proof that he was still thinking about the small things.
You never went back into his apartment.
You told yourself it was because you didn’t want to push. That night in the bath you had opened the door—told him you weren’t scared, that you were there for whatever came next. He had held you like he believed it. But in the days after, he never quite stepped through that door again. The distance he kept felt deliberate. Protective. Like he was trying to put the version of himself that had lost control back in a box before it could touch you a second time.
So you pulled away too.
You stayed in your own space. Didn't leave the apartment and risk running into him in public— or worse running into him while he was working. Answered his hallway waves with small smiles of your own and didn’t linger. The invitation you had offered stayed open, but you stopped standing in the doorway waiting for him to walk through it. It was easier that way. Safer. Or at least it felt like it should be.
But your mind never quite left him.
You caught yourself listening for his footsteps at night. Replaying the way his voice had gone soft in the bath when he admitted he’d liked you for a long time. The look on his face when the black had left his eyes and pure horror had taken its place. The bruises on your hips had faded to nothing, but the memory of his hands stayed under your skin like a tattoo.
Sometimes, when the apartment next door went quiet for too long, you wondered what he was working on so late. Whether the arachnid thing was still clawing at the edges of him. Whether he was winning.
You never asked.
You just stayed in your shell, the same way he stayed in his, and tried not to think about how much you still wanted him to knock.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
It started the way it had most nights since the distance settled between you.
You were alone in your apartment, lights low, the city humming faintly outside the window. Your mind had drifted to Peter again—his hands, the way his voice had gone rough and mean when the spider took over. It felt shameful in a way. You really did not expect to get that turned on by the thought that he could do whatever he wanted with you and you would just… let him. Wanting him and not being allowed to reach for him left everything sharper.
You didn’t bother with slow build-up tonight.
You were already soaked—slick coating your knuckles, dripping down onto the sheets beneath you. Two fingers curled inside the heat of your cunt while your free hand had shoved your shirt up under your chin so you could twist and tug at a nipple the way you kept imagining he would.
You thought about the night the spider had taken over him—the way he’d bent you over the counter and fucked you like he was starving, the filthy praise that had spilled out of him while he used your body on the couch. You thought about the bruises he’d left on your hips and how they’d faded too fast. You thought about the weeks of careful waves in the hallway, the bagels still warm on your windowsill, the late-night sounds of him working next door and never once knocking. The wanting had only gotten uglier with the silence. Your hips rolled up to meet every thrust of your hand, thighs trembling, breath coming in short, broken pants as the pressure coiled low and mean in your belly.
You were right there—fingers buried deep, cunt clenching hard around the stretch—when the crash hit.
Something heavy slammed into the shared wall hard enough to make the plaster vibrate against your shoulder blades. Glass shattered. A raw, strained yell tore through the noise, unmistakable even muffled by the barrier between your apartments.
“—help—!”
Peter’s voice. Tight with pain.
You were on your feet before the last syllable finished. No thought for consequences. You adjusted your underwear, slid your shirt back down and wiped your still glistening fingers across the fabric. You didn’t stop for pants. Three steps across the hall, hand already on the unlocked knob, and you shoved the door open straight into whatever was waiting on the other side.
The door swung open on chaos.
Broken electronics littered the floor—something small and expensive reduced to shattered glass and exposed wiring. Peter stood in the middle of it, barefoot, dressed in an old soft t-shirt and a pair of dark sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His chest rose and fell too fast. And his eyes…
Black. Completely. The reflective sheen was already there, pupils blown wide, the mean, hungry look locked on you the second you crossed the threshold.
You barely had time to take a breath before a thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist and wrapped tight around your bare waist. One sharp tug and you were yanked forward, stumbling straight into his space. His free hand caught you by the hip—fingers digging into the soft skin just above the waistband of your underwear and held you there.
“I heard you.”
His voice was low, layered, already half-gone to the thing under his skin. He leaned in, nose nearly brushing the side of your throat, and inhaled like he’d been waiting for the scent of you.
“You gonna try to play it off? Act like you just happened to be up and racing over here half-naked because you were worried?” A soft, mean laugh left him. “Cute. But I’m smarter than that. And right now my senses are so fucking sharp I can hear your heartbeat from the other side of the wall. I heard every wet little sound your fingers made. Every soft, desperate noise you tried to keep quiet while you were touching yourself thinking about me.”
You opened your mouth—some half-formed denial already on your tongue—but he didn’t let you get there.
“Don’t.” His grip on your hip tightened. The webbing around your waist pulsed once, warm and sticky. “I smelled you too. How wet you got. How close you were. You’ve been aching for weeks and I felt every second of it. You thought you could hide from me? Avoid me? Think again little bug.”
He tipped your chin up with two fingers so you had no choice but to meet those black, reflective eyes.
“I knew exactly how to get you back over here. One crash. One yell. And look at you—you look like a wreck. You didn’t even stop to put pants on.” His mouth curved into something dark and delighted. “You ran straight to me the second you thought I needed you. Just like I knew you would.”
The arachnid thing looked out at you through Peter’s face, hungry and amused and completely without apology.
“Missed me that bad, sweetheart?”
Peter’s mouth curved sharper at whatever he saw on your face.
You tried to counter him.
“You’ve been avoiding me since that night,” you shot back, voice steadier than the rest of you felt. The webbing around your waist was warm and tight, his fingers still digging into your hip hard enough to bruise. “You didn’t have to do all this. I told you I could help. I meant it.”
He laughed—low, mean, almost fond in the ugliest way.
“Help” He repeated the word like it tasted sweet and rotten at the same time. “You think I want your help with this?” One sticky hand left your hip to gesture vaguely at himself—the black eyes, the way fresh webbing still pulsed from his wrists in slow, involuntary strands. “The spider problem?”
He leaned in until his mouth was right against your ear, breath hot.
“I don’t want your help with that, sweetheart. I want you trapped. Just like this. Like my little bug that walked straight into the web because it couldn’t stand not being there to help.” His teeth grazed the shell of your ear. “Look at how easy it was. One crash. One yell. And you came running with your cunt still wet like the desperate thing you’ve been for weeks.”
The meanness landed exactly where he wanted it to.
Heat flooded low and sharp between your legs, fresh slick already threatening to drip down your thigh. Your pulse jumped under his fingers. He felt it—of course he did—and the sound he made was pure, cruel delight.
“There it is,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your face. “That little spark. You can try to look pissed all you want. Doesn’t change the fact that being mean to you gets you dripping. Doesn’t change how fast you dropped everything the second you thought I needed you.” His thumb dragged slowly over the soft skin just above your underwear. “I barely had to try. And you still walked right into it.”
Peter’s black eyes glittered.
“So tell me again how you were going to help me, little bug. While you’re standing here already caught.”
You opened your mouth to tell him off—something sharp, something that might cut through the black in his eyes—but you never got the chance.
Peter moved too fast.
One hard shove and your back hit the wall with a force that knocked the air from your lungs. The webbing already wrapped around your waist stuck instantly to the plaster, thick and warm and greedy. It held you there, suspended just enough that your toes barely scraped the floor. You hung in place, chest heaving, while he stepped in close and looked at you like he’d just caught the most entertaining thing in the world.
Fresh strands shot from both wrists.
One pair snapped tight around your upper arms and pinned them hard to your sides. Another pair wrapped your ankles and yanked outward, forcing your legs apart until the stretch burned in your inner thighs. The silk was hot, almost feverish, and it contracted once—deliberate—locking you open and helpless against the wall.
Peter laughed.
It was a low, delighted sound, completely without remorse. He tipped his head and studied the way you were spread for him, black eyes glittering with pure amusement.
“Oh, look at that,” he murmured, voice dripping mean satisfaction. “All that fire and you still end up stuck like this. Hanging there because the web decided it wanted to keep you.” He reached out and dragged two fingers slowly up the inside of your thigh, stopping just short of where you were already dripping again. “You have no idea how fun this is for me right now.”
He leaned in until his mouth was almost against yours, the reflective black of his eyes the only thing you could see.
“Where do you think the Peter you knew went, little bug? Buried somewhere under all this?” A soft, cruel huff of laughter brushed your lips. “Maybe. Or maybe this is just what happens when he stops fighting so hard. Either way…” His fingers finally pressed against the soaked crotch of your underwear, rubbing once, slow and deliberate. “You’re not going anywhere. And I am going to take my time enjoying the fact that you walked right back into my web.”
He pulled his hand away and licked the wetness off his fingers without breaking eye contact, still smiling that mean, hungry smile.
The real Peter felt very far away.
He started slow on purpose.
Two fingers pressed against the soaked crotch of your underwear and dragged upward in a lazy, deliberate stroke, the wet cotton clinging to every fold. He watched your face the entire time, black eyes half-lidded and mean with amusement as he rubbed tight circles over your clit through the fabric. The pressure was just enough to make your hips twitch against the webbing that held you open, just enough to pull a soft, frustrated sound out of your throat.
“Listen to that,” he murmured. “Already so vocal and I haven’t even touched skin yet.” He pressed harder, the damp cloth dragging over swollen nerves until your thighs strained against the silk pinning them apart. “These are ruined. Completely soaked through. All that time you spent touching yourself next door and you’re still this desperate the second I get my hands on you.”
The teasing lasted maybe thirty seconds before the patience dissipated.
Peter hooked his fingers under the waistband and ripped. The fabric gave with a sharp, wet tear, and the ruined scrap of underwear came away in his hand. He didn’t toss it aside. He crumpled the soaked cotton in his fist, brought it briefly to his nose like he was savoring the scent of you, then shoved it deep into the back pocket of his sweatpants with a satisfied little hum.
“Mine now.”
Then his fingers were back—two of them, thick and unapologetic—sliding into you in one smooth, relentless push. The stretch burned. Your cunt clenched hard around the sudden intrusion and he laughed under his breath, already curling them against that spot that made your vision spark.
He didn’t ease up.
Peter finger-fucked you hard and deep, the wet, filthy sounds of it filling the quiet apartment as he worked you open against the wall. Every thrust of his hand drove a broken noise out of you. The webbing around your arms and waist held you perfectly still for it, legs forced wide so he could watch every time his fingers disappeared inside you.
“That’s it,” he said, voice low and mean and almost fond. “Take it. Look how easy you open up when you’re stuck like this. No fighting. No running. Just my fingers fucking this pretty cunt until you make a mess all over them.” He added a third finger without warning and the stretch punched a cry from your throat. “Gonna keep going until you come on my hand. And I wanna hear you scream.”
His thumb found your clit and pressed down hard, rubbing tight, merciless circles while his fingers kept slamming into you at a pace that left no room to breathe.
The spider looked out at you through Peter’s face, hungry and delighted, and it had no intention of slowing down.
A fourth finger pressed against your already stretched entrance and pushed in alongside the others. The burn was immediate—sharp, deep, almost too much—yet it rolled straight into heat that made your toes curl against the empty air. Your cunt fluttered hard around the thick intrusion, trying to pull him deeper even as the stretch edged into delicious pain. He watched every flicker of it on your face, black eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.
“There we go,” he murmured, voice low and filthy. “Look at that. Four fingers and you’re still trying to suck me in. Greedy little thing.” He worked them deeper, knuckles pressing against your entrance with every slow, deliberate thrust. The wet sounds were obscene—slick and rhythmic, filling the quiet apartment as he fucked you open against the wall. “You’re stretched so wide for me. I can feel you shaking. Does it hurt? Or does it just make you wetter?”
Your answer came out broken. The webbing held you perfectly still for him—arms pinned, legs forced apart, waist stuck to the plaster—so there was nowhere to go when he curled all four fingers hard against that spot and kept them there, rubbing in relentless, grinding circles.
“That’s the spot, isn’t it?” He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear, breath hot. “The one that makes you forget how to talk. I’m going to keep pressing it until you break. Until this pretty cunt has no choice but to soak my entire hand.”
The pressure built too fast. Your thighs trembled against the silk restraining them. Every nerve felt lit up, oversensitive, the stretch of four fingers turning every movement into a thick, overwhelming drag that left you gasping. Peter’s thumb found your clit again and rubbed tight, merciless circles in time with the deep thrusts of his hand.
“Come on,” he goaded, mean and soft at the same time. “I can feel how close you are. You’re fluttering around my fingers like you’re already about to lose it. Do it. Squirt for me again. I know you can do it. Make a mess of the hand that’s fucking you open.”
It hit like a wave.
Your whole body locked up as the orgasm tore through you—cunt clenching hard around the thick stretch of his fingers while you squirted, a hard, pulsing rush of wetness that spilled over his hand, his wrist, down his forearm in messy streaks. The sound you made was raw and animalistic. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and kept working you through it, fingers still moving, still curling, dragging every last spurt out of you until your legs were shaking and fresh tears of overstimulation pricked at the corners of your eyes.
He finally slowed, but he didn’t pull out.
Four fingers stayed buried deep while he looked down at the mess you’d made of him, black eyes bright with pure, mean delight.
“Oh, sweetheart.” He lifted his free hand and slowly licked a stripe of your release off his own wrist, never breaking eye contact. “You just fucking flooded me. Look at the state of my arm. All because I stretched this tight little cunt open and told it what to do.” A soft, cruel laugh left him.
The fight had already left your body somewhere between the fourth finger and the way he’d licked your release off of himself. Maybe if you just let this version of him burn through whatever was clawing under his skin, the real Peter might surface again. The one who had held you in the bath. The one who had looked horrified when the black left his eyes. You could try to reach him after. You could try.
Peter didn’t notice the quiet shift in you—or if he did, he only found it more entertaining.
He tipped his head, studying the way you hung open and wrecked against the wall, and made a soft, thoughtful sound.
“Where next…” he murmured, almost to himself. One sticky hand stroked up the inside of your thigh, smearing the mess he’d already forced out of you. “Counter was fun last time. Couch too. But you’ve already been on the wall.” His black eyes flicked upward, and a slow, mean smile spread across his face. “Ceiling it is.”
The webs around your waist and limbs released with a wet snap. Before you could drop he caught you, spun you, and launched a fresh burst of silk that stuck hard to the ceiling. Another sharp pull and you were hauled upward, stomach pressed flat to the cool plaster, arms stretched out along your sides and webbed tight, legs forced close together and pinned the same way. Your head fell back, hair hanging, the entire apartment suddenly upside down. Blood rushed in your ears. The world tilted.
Peter’s clothes hit the floor in two careless motions.
Then he crawled.
Hands and feet stuck to the wall with that same unnatural ease, he scaled the vertical surface like it was nothing, sweatpants and shirt left in a heap below. When he reached you he settled between your forced-together thighs from behind, the thick, hard length of him dragging through the slick mess between your legs. The angle was different—you felt impossibly full. Your legs being pinned so close made every inch of him feel thicker as he lined up and pushed in.
The stretch punched a broken sound out of your throat.
Peter groaned like he’d just sunk into the best heat of his life and bottomed out in one slow, deliberate thrust. The position left you completely at his mercy—head hanging, world inverted, cunt gripping him in a vice because there was nowhere for your thighs to open.
“Fuck,” he breathed against the back of your shoulder, voice pure filth. “Even better like this. Look at you. Stuck to my ceiling with your pretty cunt wrapped around me and nowhere to go.” He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, the wet sound of it loud in the quiet room. “I can feel every flutter. Every time you try to adjust. You’re just going to take it exactly how I give it.”
He set a deep, rolling pace, hips snapping forward bouncing off the curve of your ass while the webbing held you perfectly still for every thrust. The inverted angle made everything sharper—the drag of his cock, the way your own wetness dripped upward toward your stomach, the dizzy rush of blood in your head every time he bottomed out.
Peter’s mouth found the side of your throat, teeth grazing as he fucked into you from behind.
“Still hoping the nice version of me shows back up?” he murmured, mean and breathless against your skin. “Keep hoping, little bug. I don't think he wants to play right now.”
Peter fucked into you harder.
Every thrust drove your stomach against the ceiling with a force that made the plaster groan. A sharp crack split the surface right beside your shoulder. White dust sifted down past your hanging face. He didn’t slow. He just laughed—low and delighted—and shot a thick burst of webbing over the fracture, sealing it shut in one careless motion before slamming back into you like nothing had happened.
“Oops,” he murmured against the back of your neck, voice pure mean amusement. “Ceiling’s not built for this. Neither are you, but you’re taking it anyway.”
You let the words wash over you without answering.
Somewhere under the dizzy rush of blood in your head and the thick, relentless stretch of him, a small, stubborn part of you was still waiting. Waiting for the rhythm to break. For the black in his eyes to flicker. For the real Peter—the one who looked at you from afar and left you your favorite bagels and just cared—to claw his way back up through whatever this was. You had stopped fighting for exactly that reason. If you just let this version burn itself out, maybe the man you knew would surface again.
And you didn't exactly hate what was happening to you right now.
The webbing around your hips loosened just enough.
His hand snaked in front of your body, sticky fingers finding your clit with perfect accuracy. He rubbed tight, filthy circles in time with every deep thrust. The dual sensation was almost too much—his cock stretching you from behind while his fingers worked the swollen bundle of nerves that had already been oversensitive for too long. Your body responded helplessly, cunt clenching around him, wetter with every cruel stroke of his fingers. Traitorous. Even now.
“That’s it,” he goaded, breath hot against your skin. “I can feel you getting closer. You’re gonna come on my cock while I’m buried in you, aren’t you? Do it. Take me with you.”
It hit both of you at once.
Your orgasm tore through first—cunt locking down around him in hard, pulsing waves as you cried out, the sound echoing oddly in the upside-down room. The tight, rhythmic squeeze pulled him over the edge a heartbeat later. Peter groaned low and filthy against your shoulder, hips stuttering as he came deep inside you, thick heat spilling into you in long pulses while his fingers kept rubbing your clit through every tremor.
For a few seconds the only sound was the two of you breathing hard, still locked together against the ceiling.
In that thin, fragile quiet, hope flared—stupid and bright. The shared finish. The way his body had shuddered against yours like it still knew how to match you. Maybe—
Then he laughed.
The sound was soft and cruel and completely without mercy. He nuzzled the side of your throat like he was savoring the way your pulse jumped under his mouth.
“Aww,” he cooed, mocking. “We finished at the same time. How fucking cute. You were hoping that would bring him back, weren’t you?” His fingers finally stilled on your clit, but he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried to the hilt, letting you feel every twitch of his cock as he softened just slightly inside you. “Hold on to that hope little bug. Makes this all the more enjoyable.”
He tipped your hanging head further back with two sticky fingers so he could look at your upside-down face.
The black in his eyes was still absolute.
Something in your chest tightened, then went quiet.
The hope didn’t vanish all at once. It just… dimmed. Folded in on itself under the weight of that mocking smile and the unbroken darkness staring back at you. You had wanted so badly to believe the real him was still reachable. That the man who had confessed he liked you for years, who had washed your hair with careful hands, was only buried—not gone.
Peter’s mean, satisfied expression made the truth feel colder.
“Sorry, little bug. He’s not here right now.” A slow, cruel smile curved his mouth. “It’s just me. And I’m not done playing with you yet.”
You closed your eyes against the inverted room and let the last of that fragile hope slip away, as Peter chose the bed next on purpose.
The webbing released with a series of wet snaps. He caught you before you could fall, carried you the short distance, and dropped onto the mattress with you straddling his hips. The position was deliberate—your knees on either side of him, his cock already hard again and sliding through the mess of his own release still dripping out of you. He settled you over him exactly the way he had that first night, when the black had finally left his eyes and the real Peter had surfaced underneath you.
He knew what he was doing.
“Familiar?” he asked, voice dripping mockery as he gripped your hips and pushed up into you in one slow, deep thrust. The stretch pulled a broken sound from your throat. “This is how he came back last time, isn’t it? You on top. Him underneath. Soft little moment after he finished using you.” He fucked up into you harder, watching your face. “Are you sad little bug? Because your Peter isn't the one fucking you stupid? Spider got your tongue?"
Something in you finally snapped.
“Fuck you,” you bit out, hands bracing against his chest as he drove up into you. Your voice came out rough, meaner than you expected. “You think this is funny? Dragging me around your apartment like a sex doll and then putting me here just to remind me he left?” You rolled your hips down to meet his next thrust, deliberately tight, trying to take some of the control back. “You’re not him. You’re just the thing wearing his face and getting off on how much I still want the real one.”
Peter’s eyes flashed—black and delighted.
“There she is,” he laughed, mean and breathless. His hands locked harder around your hips, fingers digging into the bruise marks from earlier as he snapped up into you with new force. “There’s the little spark. You finally got mean back. Took you long enough.” He thrust up again, deeper, the wet sound of it filthy in the quiet room. “Keep going. Tell me how much you hate that it’s me fucking this cunt instead of him. Oh you're going to be so disappointed when it's just you and him. Tell me how badly you wish the soft version would climb back out and apologize.”
You glared down at him, even as your body clenched around every upward snap of his cock.
“I do hate it,” you shot back. "I hate that you know exactly how to make me come and you use it like a weapon. And I hate that the second you decide you’re done playing, he’ll have to look at what you did.”
Peter’s smile turned sharper. He planted his feet and fucked up into you harder, using the position to drive the air from your lungs with every thrust.
“Good,” he growled, voice pure filth and cruelty. “Hate me. Fight me. It just makes you hotter.” One hand left your hip to wrap loosely around your throat, not squeezing at full capacity, just holding you in place while he used your body from below. “You’re soaked for the version of him that doesn’t care if you’re hoping. The version that wants you trapped and dripping and talking back like it might change anything.” He thrust up particularly deep and held there, grinding against you. “Spoiler, little bug—it won’t. He’s not coming back until I’m finished. And I am nowhere near finished with this cunt.”
He kept fucking up into you, mean and relentless.
You kept trying to talk.
Every sharp retort came out broken—half a sentence, a curse, a breathless jab at the thing wearing Peter’s face—only to be punched out of you by the next deep upward thrust. He fucked into you like he was trying to carve space for himself, each stroke stealing the air from your lungs and leaving you gasping against his chest.
“Still trying to run that pretty mouth,” Peter snarled, mean and breathless beneath you. One hand stayed locked on your hip hard enough to bruise; the other shoved between your bodies, nimble fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, filthy circles. “Keep going. Tell me how much you hate the version of him that’s balls-deep in this soaked little cunt. Tell me while you’re about to fucking squirt all over me again.”
The dual sensation was brutal. His cock stretching you deep from below while his fingers worked your clit with merciless precision. Your thighs started to shake. The words died in your throat, replaced by raw, helpless sounds you couldn’t swallow back.
“That’s it—right there,” he goaded, black eyes locked on your face. “I can feel this greedy cunt fluttering. You’re gonna make a mess of me. Do it. Squirt on my cock like the desperate little fucktoy you are.”
It hit like a punch.
Your orgasm ripped through you hard—cunt clamping down in violent, pulsing waves as you squirted, a hot rush of wetness spilling over his cock and stomach in messy streaks. The force of it left you shaking, breath gone, forehead dropping against his shoulder while aftershocks kept milking him.
Peter groaned like he’d been waiting for exactly that.
“Fuck—yes. Soak me. Just like that.” His hips snapped up harder, chasing his own edge now that you were clenching and dripping around him. “Taking every inch while you come your brains out. Look at the state of you—shaking, dripping, still trying to hate me.” A few more deep, punishing thrusts and his rhythm broke. He buried himself to the hilt with a low, guttural sound and came hard, flooding you in thick, pulsing ropes while his fingers kept rubbing your oversensitive clit through it.
He stayed inside you through every spurt, grinding up against the mess he’d just made.
Then he moved.
He pulled free and immediately shot a thick, precise burst of webbing straight against your entrance. The silk was hot and sticky and sealed you shut in one deliberate motion, trapping everything—his fresh come, your slick, the mess of the orgasm he’d forced out of you—deep inside.
“There,” he said, voice pure filthy satisfaction as he looked at the sealed mess between your legs. “All plugged up. Every drop of me locked inside this pretty cunt where it belongs. You’re going to stay full and dripping on the inside while I use that mouth next.”
Fresh webbing shot from his wrists before you could react.
It wrapped your wrists tight and yanked them behind your back, then looped around your upper arms and torso, forcing your shoulders back. Another set of strands caught your ankles and calves, binding them together. One firm pull and he dragged you off the bed entirely, dropping you hard onto your knees on the floor between his spread thighs. Your plugged cunt throbbed. Your hands were useless behind you. The only thing left free was your mouth.
Peter sat on the edge of the mattress, cock still hard, shiny with the combined mess of both of you. He reached down, fisted a hand in your hair, and tipped your face up so you had no choice but to meet those black, reflective eyes.
“Open,” he ordered, mean and calm. “You’ve been talking so much shit. Time to put that mouth to better use.” He dragged the head of his cock across your lips, smearing them with the slick evidence of what he’d just done to you. “You’re going to suck me clean. Every inch. And you’re going to do it while that webbing keeps my come trapped inside you like a good little toy who knows her place.”
His grip in your hair tightened, not quite forcing you down yet—just holding you there, waiting to see if you’d fight or open for him.
“Go on, little bug. Show me how well you can take cock when you’re already full and sealed shut.”
Something in you finally broke.
The constant mockery, the deliberate cruelty, the way he kept twisting every soft memory into something filthy and mean—it all stacked up until the only thing left was pure, sharp anger. You were done. Done being the little bug. Done hoping. Done letting whatever this thing was wear Peter’s face and use your body like it owned the right.
So you bit.
Hard.
Your teeth sank into the sensitive flesh of his cock without hesitation, deep enough to draw a raw, startled sound out of him. Whatever he was right now, he could take it. You wanted him to feel it.
The reaction was instant and violent.
Peter’s hand left your hair. Both palms hit your shoulders and shoved. The webbing around your arms and legs snapped under the force as you were thrown backward. You hit the floor hard, right in the middle of the shattered electronics and broken glass from earlier. Sharp edges bit into your palms, your hip, the side of your thigh. Pain flared white-hot. Blood welled immediately—thin red lines cutting across your skin and dripping onto the debris.
You pushed up onto one elbow, breath ragged, and looked at him.
Peter had staggered back against the edge of the bed, one hand clamped over himself, chest heaving. For a second the black in his eyes was absolute, furious, predatory—
Then it flickered.
A sharp, human sound left his throat. His pupils contracted. The reflective sheen cracked like ice under pressure. He stared at the blood on your skin, at the way you were still half-bound and bleeding on his floor, and something raw and horrified tore across his face.
“No—”
The word came out strangled, half his voice, half the thing still fighting underneath. His hands flexed at his sides like he didn’t trust them. Fresh webbing leaked from his wrists in uncontrolled pulses, but he didn’t aim it at you. He looked sick. He looked like he was drowning.
“I—fuck, I threw you—” His voice cracked, the mean edge gone, replaced by something panicked and familiar. “You’re bleeding. I made you bleed.”
The black tried to surge back. You watched him wrestle it down in real time—jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut, every muscle in his body locked in a visible war. When he opened them again the darkness was still there, but it was no longer alone. The real Peter was clawing upward through it, staring at the damage he’d done like it was the worst thing he had ever seen.
“Stay down,” he forced out, voice shaking, still not fully his. “Don’t—don’t come closer. I can’t… I don’t know which one of me is speaking right now.”
Blood dripped from your palm onto the broken glass.
For the first time in hours, the thing wearing Peter’s face looked terrified of itself.
Peter looked like he was coming apart.
He stayed backed against the bed, one hand still pressed over himself, the other braced on the mattress like he needed it to stay upright. His eyes kept flickering—black to brown to black again—like two versions of him were trying to occupy the same body and neither was winning cleanly. Ohh
“This is why,” he forced out, voice raw and cracking. “This is exactly why I stayed away. Why I left the bagels and just waves and left you alone. I knew it was getting worse. I knew the second I let myself get close to you again it would stop being me.” He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, leaving a streak of silk behind. “I threw you into glass. You’re bleeding because of me. Because I couldn’t keep the darkness down.”
His gaze locked on the red welling across your palm and thigh, and something close to panic flashed across his face.
“You need to go. Right now. Get out of this apartment and lock your door and don’t open it no matter what you hear.” The words came out sharp, almost desperate. “I don’t care if I sound like him when I say it—leave. I can’t trust what I’ll do if you stay.”
You didn’t move.
Blood dripped steadily from your hand onto the broken glass, but you stayed exactly where you were, still half-bound, still breathing hard, staring at the man fighting himself in front of you.
“No,” you said.
Peter’s head snapped up. The black surged hard in his eyes for a second, then receded under what looked like pure, human fear.
“Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t be brave right now. I’m not safe. The thing that just used you and mocked you and threw you is still right here under my skin and it wants—” His voice broke. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. “Please. I’m asking you. Go.”
You shifted onto your knees carefully, glass crunching under you, and kept your voice steady even though your pulse was still hammering.
“I’m not leaving.” You met his flickering gaze without flinching. “You don’t get to decide that for me. Not after everything. The real you is still in there—I saw him. I saw the way you looked when you realized I was bleeding. That wasn’t the spider. That was you.”
Peter let out a shaky, broken sound. More webbing spilled from his wrists and hit the floor with soft, wet impacts. He was trembling now, every muscle locked in the effort of holding the darkness back.
“You don’t know what it feels like,” he whispered. “It’s louder every day. Hungrier. And when you’re near it gets so much worse because it already decided you’re mine and I can’t—” He cut himself off, breathing hard. “I don’t want to hurt you again. I can’t live with that.”
“Then don’t,” you said simply. “Fight it. I’m right here. I’m not running. Look at me and come back.”
You stayed on your knees in the glass and the blood, refusing to look away, giving the real Peter something solid to reach for while the darkness tried to drag him under again.
You moved closer.
Glass bit into your knees and the side of one palm as you shifted forward across the debris. Blood ran warmer now, steady lines tracking down your wrist and the outside of your thigh, dripping onto the broken glass and glittering fragments beneath you. You didn’t look at it. You didn’t care. Your eyes stayed locked on Peter’s face—on the war still happening behind his flickering eyes.
He tensed hard when you closed the distance, fresh webbing pulsing from his wrists in a sharp, involuntary burst that stuck to the floor between you.
“Stop,” he rasped. “You’re bleeding and you’re still coming closer. You need medical attention. Pressure on the cuts. I— I don't know. Anything but being around me. Please—”
“It decided I’m its,” you said, voice low and steady even as another drop of blood left your hand. “That’s what you keep saying. The spider. The darkness. It already claimed me. But what about you?” You held his gaze without flinching. “What have you decided, Peter? Because you’ve spent weeks running from me, like the only option was to lock it down so hard it never got near me again.”
His breath hitched. The black in his eyes surged, then receded under something rawer.
You kept going, softer but no less direct.
“What if that’s why it’s so feral when I’m around? What if the constant fighting—the way you keep trying to shove it down and pretend it isn’t part of you—is exactly what’s making it worse every time I get close? Like it’s starving and angry because you won’t let it have any air.” You shifted another inch nearer, close enough now that the heat of him reached your skin. “Maybe it doesn’t need you to lose. Maybe it just needs you to stop treating it like the enemy long enough to figure out how to live with it.”
Peter stared at you like you’d just reached into the middle of the war inside him and touched something vital.
His hands flexed. The reflective sheen in his eyes kept fracturing, brown bleeding through in unstable waves. He looked terrified of the idea and desperate for it at the same time.
“You don’t know what you’re asking me to risk,” he whispered. The voice was almost fully his now—wrecked, shaking, but his. “If I stop fighting it the way I have… if I let any of it stay…”
He couldn’t finish the sentence.
You kept your voice quiet, almost conversational, like the blood on the floor and the war in his eyes weren’t the loudest things in the room.
“What were you trying to make?” you asked. “All those late nights. The sounds through the wall. What was it?”
Peter blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. For a second the question seemed to short-circuit the spiral he’d been trapped in. His gaze flicked toward the workbench in the corner—scattered tools, half-disassembled devices, notebooks open to dense pages of formulas—then back to you.
“An inhibitor,” he said roughly. “Something that might dampen the arachnid side. Slow the takeover. Give me enough control that I wouldn’t… that I wouldn’t become this every time you got close.” He swallowed hard. “I thought if I could just build the right formula, the right delivery system, I could keep you safe without having to stay away forever.”
You nodded once.
“That’s a good idea.”
Then you reached out.
Your bloodied hand settled lightly on his knee. Red smeared across his leg— warm and unmistakable— dripping freely. Peter went rigid under the contact. The black surged hard in his eyes for one sharp, dangerous second—hungry, possessive, furious at the sight of your blood on him—
—and then it cracked.
A broken sound left his throat. The reflective sheen shattered. His whole body seemed to fold in on itself as the last of the darkness lost its grip. He grabbed your wrist like it was the only solid thing left in the world and collapsed forward, forehead pressing hard against your shoulder, arms coming around you with desperate, shaking force.
“I’m sorry—” The words tumbled out of him in a wrecked, continuous stream. “I’m so fucking sorry. I hurt you. I threw you. I said those things and I used you and I watched you bleed and I couldn’t stop it— I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
His shoulders shook. Fresh, uncontrolled webbing leaked from his wrists and stuck harmlessly to your back as he clung to you, face buried against your neck, repeating the apology like it might undo any of it if he said it enough times.
The real Peter was back.
And he was falling apart in your arms.
Until he forced himself to pull it together.
The full-body shaking didn’t stop all at once, but he managed to sit back enough to look at you properly. His eyes—clear brown again, red-rimmed and wrecked—scanned every visible inch of you with frantic care. The blood on your palms and thigh. The glass still clinging to your skin. The way you were still half-naked and marked from everything the other version of him had done.
“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
He stood on unsteady legs, scooped you up as carefully as if you might shatter, and carried you to the bed. The sheets were a mess of earlier webbing and come, but he lowered you onto the clearest spot he could find, supporting your head and back the entire way down. His hands never stopped moving—checking, adjusting, making sure nothing pressed against the cuts.
“I’m going to take the webbing off,” he said, voice low and tight with leftover guilt. “Just… stay still for me. Please.”
He knelt between your knees and worked with deliberate gentleness. The silk sealing your entrance had already started to dry at the edges. Peter coaxed it free with slow, patient fingers, murmuring soft apologies the entire time like the removal itself might hurt you. When the plug finally gave, a warm rush of everything he’d left inside you spilled out onto the sheets. He didn’t look away. He just kept apologizing under his breath while he reached for a clean cloth.
He cleaned you with the same careful attention—warm water, soft pressure, never lingering longer than necessary on the places that were still oversensitive. Every pass of the cloth came with another quiet “I’m sorry.” When he finished between your legs he moved to the cuts, picking out the tiny shards of glass with tweezers from the first-aid kit he kept under the bed, then disinfecting and bandaging the worst of them on your palm and thigh.
“I did this,” he said while he taped gauze over the deepest slice on your hand. His voice cracked again. “I let it get that far. I’m so fucking sorry.” He smoothed the last piece of medical tape down with trembling fingers, then sat back on his heels, still staring at the bandages like they were proof of every failure. “I never wanted you to see me like that again. I never wanted to make you bleed.”
Peter stayed kneeling there beside the bed, one hand resting lightly over the gauze on your thigh, continuing to apologize in a soft, broken loop even as he finished patching you up. The darkness was gone.
Description: You’re Spiderwoman and your biggest fan is Peter Parker who you don’t know until he sits outside your apartment building.
Warning: Smut, unprotected sex, sex in an alley, public sex, jerking off, panty sniffing, switch! reader and Peter, oral sex (both receiving), hand job, fingering, Peter imagines you riding face but it doesn’t actually happen, stalker Peter, he’s kinda creepy in this.
Word Count:6.4k
Author’s note: loosely based on this post but I changed a few things https://www.tumblr.com/dearlyhyeon/824106534542950400?source=share Would love to write other scenarios with Spidey reader and biggest fan Peter
You saw him each night that you were on the streets fighting crime and doing the neighborhood good, being the friendly neighborhood Spiderwoman. You weren’t sure who he was or what he even looked like but he wore a Spiderwoman hoodie with the hood up. He managed to be at the scene each time, watching you kick ass.
He was your biggest fan, took the time to watch your moves and take photos that you hadn’t seen in the newspaper yet. He took those pictures for his own pleasure, took them because you looked good and were doing good for the city that he called home. One photo though was his favorite and it was one that he had printed and on his wall like a poster.
He had managed to get so close to you that he got a photo of you with your mask off while it was raining. Your hair was wet and your face was soaked, you looked beautiful. The photo was very dear to him as you were and he would cherish it forever. You weren’t aware of the photo that he had taken of your face but you knew that he had photos of you fighting.
He never followed you home or said anything to you. Others would call him a creep but you thought of him as your biggest fan. He did follow you home though, he had planned to for months but he didn’t want to get caught so he waited. You lived near him in an apartment building like an average person.
It was nothing fancy but you didn’t want fancy, just something to get you by. Peter watched as you swung into your open window, it was on the top floor of the building which made him groan. He needed to find a way up there. He needed to see what your apartment looked like, what you wore outside of the suit.
He now knows what you look like so that should be simple. Peter was about to graduate from college and took his studies serious, you and school. He studied at the coffee shop but decided that he would do it near your apartment building just so he could see you in your everyday life. There was a bench right outside the building.
He took the opportunity to study there every chance he got. He would get so focused on his studies that someone living the building would make him jump and look at who it is and he would get bummed out when it wasn’t you. You tend to stay inside during the day or you would have food delivered to you and he would just miss you.
He would think about you in class, sketch your mask and design when he was bored. Ned, his best friend would shake his head and call him obsessed, not knowing the extent of what Peter does. Peter barely talked about you to his friend, who had no idea that you were the reason that MJ left him.
Youn had no idea that Peter was that obsessed with you or who he was. You were 27 years old while he was 22, just about to graduate from college. He didn’t think the 5-year age gap mattered, and he didn’t think that you would care. He didn’t know you personally yet, but it was on his to-do list, hell you were on the list.
So the day that you ended up leaving your apartment at the right time, where Peter was there on the bench, you saw him and you didn’t recognize him and as far as you knew nobody new moved in the building.
“You new here?” Your voice broke him out of his studies.
He turned to look at you, glasses a little crooked. He fixed them with shaky hands and you chuckled, he was cute.
“Uh.” He couldn't think.
You were right there, talking to him, without him having to make the first move.
“I just haven’t seen you around here and I thought maybe you had moved in.” You said and he shook his head, a small smile on his face as he thought of what to say.
“I just come here sometimes to study. I live in the apartments over there.” He pointed and you nodded.
“And there isn’t a bench over there.” You joked and he laughed, “Not a nice one like this anyways.” He said but he didn’t care for the bench, he cared about you, meeting you and talking to you.
Which was his wish come true right now.
“Yeah everyone loves this bench.” You took a sit next to him and he tensed up.
“What’s your name, bench boy?” You asked and he blushed.
He told his name and you hummed.
“Fits you.” You say and told him your name.
You use your real name because you know that nobody besides other heroes know of your secret. Though the guy that you sat next to knew your secret and now your name.
“That name fits you too.” He stuttered out and you chuckled.
He was cute and you wished that you could stay and talk to him but you needed to go grocery shopping. He watched as you walked away with a smile, he had you right where he wanted you.
You put on your suit and sighed, grabbing your mask. You looked in the mirror as you slid it on. You slid out your window leaving it open for you to crawl back into and went about your business. Peter should be asleep but he knew that you would be out tonight. He tugged the hood on of his black hoodie with the Spiderwoman symbol on it.
He grabbed his camera that he had been working on to get more pictures from a further away location. He left his apartment building and used the tracker app that he created. You were near the bank that had been closed for hours at this point. There must have been a robbery.
Peter was very surprised when he set up his camera and zoomed in to see you on the building eating, not fighting. Maybe he had missed it but you were eating what appeared to be dinner. Your business for tonight was eating and watching the streets in case of an emergency. The past few nights had been calm and that worried you, so you waited for something to happen.
There was no way that there wasn’t going to be anymore breakouts of violence and crime. Peter just watched you through the lens, not paying attention to anything but you. He snapped a few photos and heard something behind him. He turned to look and the person had knocked him down and took the camera, running down the street.
“Fuck.” He mumbled as he got up.
You heard something and used your senses, putting your mask back on and getting off the building. Some guy had a camera that looked very expensive and was running with it like it wasn’t his. You sighed and started running as well, chasing him. You started swinging with your webs until you got close enough to use them.
Peter wished that he had his camera or anything that could help him as he ran to where you were heading. You were going to get his camera and save him but he stopped running when he realized that you were going to demand his identity and that you would know that he was your stalker.
“I’ll take that.” You said as you got the camera.
The guy looked at you with wide eyes and you laughed.
“Next time don’t take things that don’t belong to you.” You say and web him in the alley that you had chased him down.
Peter was quick to get home so you wouldn’t find out. He ran in the other direction, hoping that he was fast enough. He was freaking out. He needed his camera back but he couldn’t let you know that he was your stalker. He had to find a way into your apartment to retrieve it.
You got into your window and closed it as you set down the camera. You knew that it was your biggest fans’ camera and you weren’t surprised that he ran away before you could give it back to him. It was also strange that he would just run away because now you had the camera and all the photos that he had taken on it.
You knew that all of them were going to be of you and you fighting. You took off the mask and placed it on the table by your bed. You sat down on the bed, still in your suit as you took off your gloves before picking up the camera. You never minded the person that followed you to crimes and took your photo, they were harmless.
Just a big fan that adored you probably but you had no idea of the extent of it. The photos were of you fighting crime, like you expected. Whoever the person was they were very good at taking photos and you admired the work until you nearly dropped the camera. One of the photos made your heart stop and gasp into the quiet room.
“What the fuck?” The photo was of you, your face.
He knew what you looked like without the mask. He knew your identity. The photo was one of many that exposed you. Like tonight the most recent photos of you eating with your mask off. You hadn’t realized that he was there, or near you at all. Your heart was racing and your breath hitched.
The person knew you were Spiderwoman, what else did they know? You set the camera on the desk with shaking hands and you took a deep breath. The first maskless picture of you was taken awhile ago and it hadn’t been posted anywhere. He was the only one that knew of your identity. You needed to find out who this person was and what they wanted.
Peter couldn’t sleep that night at all. You had to have went through the camera and saw the photos. He knew that if you looked through all of them that he knew what your face looked like. It had his heart racing and he was worried. He needed his camera back but he wasn’t sure how to get it back without doing something he’s not sure that he’s ready for.
Breaking into your apartment. He had never done something that extreme before but it wasn’t something that he was just doing for the camera, he wanted to see it because it’s your apartment, a piece of you and what you were like. So he studied on that bench, waiting for you to leave.
He didn’t come out at night when you fought crime, why would he without the camera to really see you? He wasn’t going to do with you fighting crime even though he could just use the app to see where you were heading. He was going to do it when you were out as an everyday civilian.
Days went by and you hadn’t left when he was there. You were trying to catch whoever your stalker was, so you waited for nighttime to come and to put your suit on. Peter hated that but it made sense so he waited until you decided to leave during the day, when he was sitting there on that bench.
“Bench boy?” He turned to the sound of your lovely voice, using that nickname that he had grown to love.
“Y/N?” He asked and you chuckled, sitting next to him.
“How are your studies going?” You asked him, seeing that he was on his laptop.
“Alright. Just 3 more months and I'm done.” You smiled at him, he was about to graduate.
“That’s awesome.” You say and check your phone.
You seemed tense and he knew why but he still didn’t want to pry.
“Well I’m gonna get going. You have fun studying.” You tease him with a wink and he adjusted his glasses with a blush creeping up his cheeks.
He watched you walk away until you weren’t in sight anymore. He quickly shut his laptop and moved to the side of the building. Your window was opened; it was a bad habit you had now thanks to being Spiderwoman. He wasn’t sure how’d he get up there. He knew how you get up there but he didn’t have that luxury.
He stared at the window for a good 5 minutes deciding and what to do when he decided that someone would eventually leave the apartment building and he would get in.
Peter had no idea what apartment number yours was, all he knew was that it was on the top floor.
“That won’t work.” He mumbled, thinking about knocking on the doors to see.
He needed to use the window. He looked around for anything that could help him when he saw a ladder that belonged to the company next door. He stared at it for a few minutes before shrugging and going over to grab it. He had hoped that nobody came out and saw him climbing it to your open window.
He groaned as he moved the ladder under your window and made sure it was steady before climbing it. He tried not to think about the fact that he was on a ladder going to your apartment. He tried not to look down, but he tried to hurry. He was breathing quicker and his heartbeat was loud as he made it to the top.
There it was, your room. He stared inside the window at the bed that you slept in, the bed that you probably played with yourself in and the bed that smelled like you. He hated how hard his dick got at that and he wasn’t here to be a pervert right now. He was here to get his camera and flee.
He entered the room and the smell of the candle that you left burning on your dresser (another bad habit) filled the room. Your bed wasn’t made and the clothes from the night before were scattered on the floor. He saw his camera on your nightstand and walked over to the pile of clothes. His eyes lit up at the sight of your panties.
He picked them up and like a pervert he stuck his nose in them smelling your scent. It was dirty, so dirty of him and he did not intend to do this but here he was, sniffing your used panties and dick hardening. He needed to jerk off and he was sure that he had time. He laid on your bed that wasn’t made and took in your scent on the pillows and sheets.
He groaned and brought the panties up to his face, sniffing them again. He imagined that you were riding his face as he kept smelling your pussy. His other hand went inside his sweats and boxers to his hard, needy cock. He was already leaking pre cum, already so hard. He closed his eyes and took himself in his hand, running it along his dick, teasing himself.
He needed you, needed you so bad that he wished that you would catch him in the act and let him fuck you. He needed you to be just as turned on from this as he was. His hand moved, slowly up and down his length a few times, hips bucking. He needed more, he needed his hand to be yours.
He imagined your sweet voice in his ear, praising him as your soft hand jerked him off. It needed to be you teasing him with slow motions and pushing his hips back down on your bed as you continued your slow pace. He wanted to take his time with you, never rush. He imagined your sweet juicy pussy on his face, maybe after a night fighting crime as your hands gripped your headboard.
His tongue would lap up your clit and juices. His hand squeezed his tip a little at that thought, making him moan. Your hands would be in his hair pulling and yanking as he made out with your pussy. His hand sped up his movements at that thought, and it could be heard through the quiet room.
He was lowly moaning and groaning as he imagined you humping his face, whining into the night about how good he was. The praise you’d give him, making him hard instantly and humping the air. Your pleasure would come first, you would cum first and multiple times at that. He needed your thighs to squeeze his head and shake around it as your orgasm creeped up on you.
You would be begging and whining for more, telling him how perfect he was and how great he made you feel. His hands would have a bruising grip on your ass as you rode to completion. Your wetness drowning him but he would die a happy man. As your orgasm came you would shake and cry out, hands nearly breaking the headboard as your hips stuttered through your orgasm.
Peter gasped and opened his eyes as he came in his hand. His glasses were foggy and he pictured you talking him through it. He sighed as he removed his hand that was covered in his cum.
“Fuck.” He breathed out and used your panties to clean himself.
Unfortunately his boxers were sticky with his cum and he whimpered at that as he got off your bed. He sighed and walked over to his camera. He grabbed it and decided to leave through the door instead of the window. Which was a mistake in itself because he forgot about the ladder in his hazed mind that he used to get up to window as he began walking away with his camera in his hands.
You had gotten home an hour after Peter left your apartment. You were tired and needed a nap before going out tonight if there was any trouble. You walked into your bedroom and hadn’t noticed that camera was gone at first as you crashed on your bed. Your eyes were closed at first until you noticed how warm the bed was and you hadn’t been in it since this morning. Your brows creased in confusion and you opened your eyes.
“What the?” You gasped as you saw your panties on the bed but they were soaked in…”OH MY GOD.” You quickly got up and stepped away from your bed.
That’s when you looked at the nightstand and noticed the camera was gone.
“Shit.” You ran over to the window and looked down.
The ladder was still there, your stalker used a ladder to climb into your window to get his camera. How did he know that you were gone? He’s your stalker of course he knew that you were gone, your thoughts answered for you. But he also…you turned towards your bed that the cum filled panties were on.
“What the fuck?” You asked outloud and you grabbed them.
Your face scrunched up in disgust thinking that this was some kind of sick joke that your stalker was pulling on you. He jerked off in your bed and left the evidence. You took your panties to your dirty hamper and dropped them in there, going back to your bed. You were no longer ready to crash but ready to find out who exactly this person was.
You brought your pillow to your nose and smelled it, trying to pick up any scent that didn’t belong to you.
You put on your mask as you got ready for your mission tonight and it wasn’t one that involved fighting the criminals. You were going to find out who the hell owned that camera and who had the audacity to jerk off in your bed with your panties. You left your window opened again in case the stalker wanting to get back in, maybe you would catch them in the act.
Would they even be bold enough to come out tonight? Or would they wait? You swung into the night, trying to focus but you couldn’t let go of the fact that your stalker had made it to your room. You landed on a building that was quite common for you and you had a feeling that your stalker would be near.
You used your senses to look around and see if you possible could find them. You kept your mask on in case you saw a fight break out or something more important than why you were out tonight. Meanwhile Peter was walking with his hood on and the camera in his hand. He knew where you were at but refused to get too close for awhile.
He knew that you would notice the missing camera and the panties that he used. What he hadn’t expected was that he was your mission tonight and that you were trying to find him. He never cared that you knew of him but now he was scared that you might confront him after you save the city.
So he couldn’t see you until he looked into the camera that was zoomed in on you. You were looking at the city, trying to pin point where he would be but he had no idea about that. He thought that you were looking for crime or just chilling. The camera clicked as he took the picture and that was his second mistake of the day, first being leaving the ladder and the panties.
Your head snapped in the direction that you heard it and his eyes widened. You start swinging towards the noise and Peter took off with the camera, realizing that maybe you were waiting for him. He wasn’t ready for you to know, not yet. You could hear him running and you chuckled as you got closer.
He didn’t look back but he knew that you were there, knew that you wanted to confront him. He hid behind a dumpster and held his breath, hoping that you wouldn’t find him but he wasn’t so lucky. He gasped and covered his mouth as you landed on the closed dumpster. This was crazy, he thought.
You were right there, the closest you had ever been to him. He knew exactly where he was, his heartbeat that was racing a mile a minute gave that away. He knew that he couldn’t outrun you, there was no way so he closed his eyes and held his breath. You landed in front of him and he heard it, squeezing his eyes shut.
He was wearing the hoodie, your merch and holding onto the camera for dear life. You took off the mask, he already knew what you looked like.
“Look at me.” You demanded, voice dripped with anger and annoyance.
He whimpered like a scared child and looked up at you. He gasped seeing that you had removed the mask. Though he had a feeing that you looked through the camera and saw the photos, this confirmed it. He was in the perfect shadow that even though he looked at you, you couldn’t see his face.
“You got to see me without my permission; I think it’s only fair.” You said and crouched down to his level.
He was breathing hard, scared and a little turned on. This wasn’t supposed to happen just yet. You reached and grabbed the camera, causing him to flinch.
“You come into my room to take this back but that’s not all you did.” You said and looked at the most recent photo that was taken. You looked back up at him.
“Who are you?” You asked and got closer.
He was panting at this point, he was so nervous and scared. You reached forward for the hoodie and he nearly begged you not to do that. You pulled down the hoodie and your face fell at the sight. Messy brown hair and glasses, cute scared look in his eyes. The same guy that happened to be on the bench every day studying.
“Peter?” You breathed out and he winced at his own name.
He huffed and couldn’t believe that you were face to face with him like this.
“You’re my biggest fan?” You asked and you couldn’t believe it.
You thought back to the fact that you randomly started seeing him on the bench and he hadn’t lived there. He followed you home one night and decided to use his studies as a way to get close to you.
“You followed me home?” You asked and set the camera down
. You searched his face as he didn’t say anything. He didn’t look ashamed, maybe embarrassed that you caught him? He jerked off in your bed, cleaned himself with your panties. You were so lost and confused and he hadn’t said anything about it yet.
“I did.” He nodded and looked at the camera, “And I kept your true identity a secret from the world.” He said and looked back at you.
“You weren’t studying on the bench because it was nice.” You stated and he chuckled.
“No I wanted to see you, see you outside of this costume.” You looked down for a second.
You were never freaked out by him, and thought that was weird but finding out that he was a cute guy? Well maybe you were toxic.
“You left the ladder on purpose.” You stated but he shook his head, a mere observation that was false.
“No. But I couldn’t help myself in laying in your bed with your panties and getting off to the smell of you.” Oh you were wet at that.
You stared at him. for a minute after he said that and stood up, "Wait." He said and also stood up.
"Peter-”
“Please just one night.” He starts and walks closer.
“Please I’m your biggest fan.” You hadn’t had sex in years. and now you had a guy begging to fuck you.
"I've imagined every scenario, how I would get you off, how I would make you cum, please.” He was about to drop to his knees.
You didn’t let him though, instead you let the throbbing heat between your legs take over and you pulled him close. He gasped and you felt his hard dick through your guys’ clothes. You could smell him, all of him and hear his heartbeat. You leaned up and kissed him, making him moan. Finally, his brain thought as he felt your lips on his.
He kissed back and tugged you closer, feeling your body against his. Your gloved hands moved to his messy hair, deepening the kiss. He kissed you back harder and his hands moved to your ass. You gasped into the kiss at him squeezing you and he chuckled, shoving his tongue in your mouth.
You tasted amazing, better than he thought and your scent this close to him, made him dizzy. You were french kissing the man that stalked you for months in an alley behind a dumpster but that made it hotter for you. The suit felt hot, everything felt hot as he kissed you. You pulled away from the kiss and pushed him against the wall of some restaurant that you didn’t care about.
You kissed him again, hard, trying to take over. His hands never left your body, moving from your perfect ass to your lower back and all the way up to your hair. You always left your hair down (if it’s long enough) and you felt Peter weave his hands in it. Your hands moved from his hair and went down to the hoodie.
Him in this hoodie, the hoodie that had your symbol on it made you wetter. You pulled away from the kiss, both of your lips were red and swollen. You dropped to your knees, making eye contact and he swore he felt his heart stop. You were in your suit, mask somewhere and on your knees.
You undid his jeans and his hands were shaking, “Please.” He breathed out and his jaw dropped when you got his dick out of them.
“So big.” You whispered and he moaned out at the praise. It was real, this was real and it wasn’t a dream. You were on your knees about to suck his cock.
He couldn’t take it and he tensed up when your hand wrapped around his cock, “Fucking-” A moan left his lips and he bucked his hips making you giggle.
“This what you thought about when fucking yourself in my bed?” You asked and he nearly choked at the question.
“Please yes fuck yes just touch me.” He begged you and you started moving your hand.
You watched his face as you teased him, hand moving slowly.
“Nnng I need you to fuck.” He groaned and bucked his hips.
Your hand felt soft, like he imagined it to be and it was so warm and good as you dragged it down his cock and back up to the tip. He cried out as you jerked the tip a few times, his head falling back against the brick wall. His hands were in your hair still and each tug made you whimper.
“Please fuck. Best fucking hand ever.” He mumbled nonsense and you loved it.
You stared at his beautiful cock as you jerked him off, seeing him twitch. He was panting and whining softly, eyes closed. You replaced your hand with your mouth and his body jerked. His eyes opened wide and his glasses were foggy.
“Shit.” It was sharp and loud but you hummed against him.
He tasted amazing. Your mouth on him was everything and more. You were bobbing your head and his hands were pulling at your hair.
“Fucking beautiful mouth.” He groaned and he couldn’t think straight.
Your tongue swirled the tip and he couldn’t help but move his hips. He whimpered and mumbled nonsense about how amazing you were and this was better than he had imagined. You felt those words in her pussy and you needed release soon. Peter tried to hold off from cumming too soon but you kept your mouth on him until he was cumming down your throat.
“Oh I’m cumming, yes shit.” He moaned like a whore as you helped him ride out his high.
You removed your mouth from him with a pop and wiped it with the back of your hand. Peter looked down at with a drunk smile. You reached up to remove his glasses and set them down before standing up. You kissed him again, letting him taste himself on your tongue.
“I need you to fuck me Peter.” You breathed against his mouth.
“I need to taste you first.” He says and you pulled away, taking off your suit.
You’re glad that it’s late and the universe was good to you tonight because this was risky. Peter stared at your perfect body once the suit was off. You wore a bra and a thong that didn’t match but to be fair you weren’t expecting this. He quickly pinned you in his place and started kissing you hard.
You kissed back and cupped his face as his hands moved to your tits. You moaned into the kiss as he played with them, tweaking the nipple and massaging them. He moved to undo your bra and you stopped him, pulling away from the heated kiss that was making you dizzy.
“Another time.” You pushed his hand down to your thong that was soaked.
“Fuck you’re wet.” He said against your lips.
“All for you.” You breathed out as you felt his hand touch you down there.
Your words made him hard again. Another time? You’re all wet for him? He must be dreaming but here you were looking at him with need and swollen lips from his kiss. Pussy wet just for him and your hips bucked against his hand, telling him that you needed more. He dropped to his knees and looked at your wetness.
You were wet, so wet that your thong was clinging to you. Peter wasted no time in tugging the thong down your legs, hearing the gasp leaving you as you were now exposed. Peter leaned in and sniffed you like he did with your panties. You moaned and grabbed the back of his head, shoving his face in your pussy.
He heard you moan out into the night and he only wished that he could see your eyes roll back as your head hit the brick wall. He hummed as he tasted you on his tongue and he loved it. You tasted so good, better than he imagined. Better than anything he’s ever tasted before. You felt his tongue and lips move against you.
He was moving his head and his eyes were closed as he focused on your pleasure. You were trying to keep your noises down but he was eating at you like a mad man. He lifted one of your legs onto his shoulder and you sighed as you felt a finger trace your hole. You were drippy wet, the wetness was dripping down his mouth and your thighs.
“Peter.” His name made him move faster, entering a finger inside.
You moaning his name was everything to him, made him a man. His finger worked your tight gummy walls as you tried so hard not to scream. Everything, every sense was full of pleasure as Peter made out with your pussy. He was groaning like a wild animal against you as you started to hump his face. You were panting and squeezing his finger that was dripping wet. Your hands tugged at his brown locks, crying out for him as you got closer.
“Peter I’m gonna cum.” You sobbed and he was a man on a mission to feel you cum all over his face and around his finger.
You gasped loudly, biting your lip so hard it could bleed as you came so hard you saw stars. Your thighs shook like crazy as you came and Peter moaned loudly letting your juices drown him. You rode out the blissful waves of pleasure and Peter let you use him, his face and finger to feel good. He could die like this and be happy.
He pulled away and looked dirty with your wetness but it was the hottest thing you think you’ve ever seen. You were panting and shaking and that made him proud. The fact that he did that to you. He stood up and looked at you. Your eyes hooded and dazed with pleasure. Your face flushed and you were staring at him. He cupped your face and you fell into it.
“Peter that was amazing.” You praised him and he needed to show you that he could fuck you good as well.
“Let me show you something better.” He whispered against your lips as he tugged down his jeans and boxers.
You closed your eyes as you felt him lift you. You wrapped your legs around his waist as his bare cock hit you.
“Peter please.” Your voice was broken with need and he would forever replay that sound in his head.
“I’ve dreamed of this moment, played it out in my head several times.” He told you as he rubbed his cock against your wetness.
“Show me please Peter.” You begged and you felt him right at your entrance.
You were ready to beg, tell him that you needed this. But he wasn’t going to tease you, he’s needed this for a long time. He entered you and nearly came again. Both of you made a noise of pleasure. You were warm and tight, squeezing him for dear life like you had his finger.
He groaned, “You’re squeezing me like you don’t plan to let me go.” He groans and you squeeze him purposely, “What if I don’t?” You teased and that was all it took for him to start thrusting.
He gasped, each thrust you were gripping him tight and it felt too good. You were gasping for air at his thrusts. Each one taking your breath away. You felt him in your gut and it was making you hold onto him for dear life. You were the one with powers and yet it seemed that he was more powerful.
“Waited forever for this.” He groans in your ear as you hug him close. His hands moved to your ass, cupping it and pulling you closer.
“Peter.” His name echoed in his brain.
Hearing you moan it over and over again made him thrust harder. He was so close already. He couldn’t help it. You were letting him fuck you, he got to taste your pussy and drown in it as you moaned his name. Just the thought alone could make him cum but the way that you’re squeezing him so tight.
He couldn’t help but lose his steady rhythm and whimper as his hips stutter, “I’m cumming fuck.” He cried out in your ear and you felt it.
Felt him twitch, felt him cum inside of you.
“You feel so good.” You slurred as you started thrusting with him, milking him for every drop as your high approached.
Peter didn’t leave you but whined as the sensitivity hit him hard. He felt you clench and pulse as your breathing turned to pants as you get closer.
“Cum for me baby I need you to cum.” He begs and you nod hard.
Your thrust turned weak and you gasped loudly cumming all over his dick.
“Shit.” He groaned as he felt it and it was perfect.
Your sweaty bodies clung to each other in the dark alley. The smell of sex lingered to you as you refused to let him go. You hum and kiss his neck, snuggling into it. Peter was happy, the happiest he could ever be and he was so thankful that you let him do this.
“We have to get dressed.” You say as you you get down and he pulls away.
Before you get dressed he pulls you in for a kiss. You kissed him back and sighed, he was your biggest fan and now hopefully your boyfriend but that was a conversation for a different day.
Warnings → Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Breakdown, Post-No Way Home, Grief, Mentions of Injuries, Nudity (Non-Explicit), Fluff, Established Relationship
Summary → After seeing Ned and MJ move on, Peter comes home shattered, where your quiet embrace reminds him he's still loved and never alone.
A/N : This was written before Brand New Day released.
The rain of New York City always had a way of drumming a rhythmic beat against the grime-streaked window of Peter Parker’s apartment. It was a tiny, cramped space near the Empire State University campus—just enough room for a sagging bed, a cluttered desk overflowing with circuit boards and textbooks, and a makeshift kitchen setup. But tonight, the ambient noise of the city and the soft hum of the old refrigerator were completely eclipsed by the quiet rhythm of your breathing.
You were completely asleep, buried beneath a tangle of dark, worn blankets. The radiator clicked and hissed in the corner, throwing just enough warmth into the drafty room that you had kicked the heavy comforter down, lying completely bare underneath the soft top sheet. Your skin caught the faint, amber glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, casting soft shadows across your shoulders and the gentle curve of your back.
To anyone else, this room was a forgotten corner of a loud, uncaring city. To Peter, it was the only sanctuary he had left in the entire world.
He had met you at ESU, a casual collision of dropped notebooks and shared exhaustion in the library during midterms. What started as quiet studying evolved into coffee runs, which turned into late-night walks, which inevitably turned into something Peter hadn’t thought he’d ever be allowed to have again: love. You didn't like your loud, inconsiderate dormmate who blasted music at three in the morning, so you had gradually drifted into his space. Your toothbrush was in his cracked ceramic mug; your favorite oversized sweaters hung over his single chair.
On your six-month anniversary, trembling and terrified that the truth would drive you away or put you in danger, he had sat you down on this very bed and told you everything. He told you about the bite, the responsibilities, the mask, and the ghosts of a past that a spell had erased from everyone else's minds but his own. You hadn't run. You had just held his face, kissed his eyelids, and told him you weren't going anywhere.
But tonight, the weight of those ghosts was crushing him.
Peter had slipped out for a late-night patrol after you fell asleep, leaving the warmth of your body for the biting chill of the midnight air. It had been a routine night—a few broken up carjackings, a mugging stopped in an alleyway—leaving him with nothing more than a bruised rib and a shallow cut along his cheekbone. Nothing big. Nothing he couldn't handle.
But it wasn't the physical toll that brought him to his knees. It was what he had seen on the roof of a coffee shop near the center of town.
He had been perched on a brick ledge, mask pulled up just past his nose to catch his breath, when he saw them. Ned and MJ. They were laughing under the awning of a late-night diner, vibrant and full of life, completely untouched by the darkness that constantly hovered over Peter's shoulders. They were happy. They were safe.
And there was someone else with them. Another guy, laughing at a joke Ned made, casually resting his hand on MJ's waist. MJ didn't pull away. She smiled up at him, a bright, easy smile that Peter used to know by heart. She had changed. Her hair was styled differently, her laugh carried a different cadence, and the space Peter once occupied in her life was seamlessly, completely filled. The universe had moved on without him, leaving him behind like a ghost haunting the periphery of a life he used to own.
Now, Peter sat on the edge of the mattress, the dark fabric of his Spider-Man suit pulled down to his waist, leaving his scarred, lean torso bare to the cold air of the room. His mask was clutched tightly in one hand, dangling toward the floor.
He was slumped forward, the exact picture of absolute, bone-deep exhaustion. His elbows rested on his knees, and he slowly raised a hand, burying his face in his palm, pressing his fingers against his eyes as if he could physically push the images of his past life out of his head. The silence of the apartment was deafening, amplified by the heavy ache in his chest. He felt entirely invisible, a shadow scraping by on the margins of a city that demanded everything from him and gave back nothing but bruises.
The shift in the mattress was subtle, but Peter’s heightened senses caught it instantly.
Behind him, you stirred. The rustle of the sheets signaled your transition from a deep sleep back into reality. You blinked against the dim light, your eyes adjusting to the silhouette of the man sitting on the edge of your shared bed.
"Pete?" you murmured, your voice a soft, raspy whisper that carried the heavy weight of sleep.
When he didn't answer right away, too locked inside his own head, you sat up. The blanket slipped entirely from your body, pooling at your hips, leaving your chest completely bare to the cool air of the apartment. You didn't care. Your focus was entirely on the tense, trembling line of his shoulders.
Moving instinctively, you slid across the mattress until you were directly behind him. You wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your bare chest firmly against the hot, tense muscles of his back. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, your warm breath fanning across his collarbone, your head resting comfortably on his shoulder.
"You ok?" you asked, the words muffled against his skin, thick with sleep but laced with an undeniable, protective tenderness.
The moment your skin touched his, a visible tremor ran through Peter’s spine. The icy wall of isolation he had built around himself over the last few hours instantly began to thaw. The contrast of your soft, bare skin against his calloused hands and bruised back was an immediate grounding wire to reality.
"I'm ok," Peter whispered, his voice thick, cracking slightly under the weight of emotions he was trying desperately to suppress. He immediately reached down, his rough hands wrapping securely around your wrists, holding your arms tightly against his waist as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I woke you up."
"Don't be sorry," you mumbled, kissing the tense muscle where his neck met his shoulder. "Never be sorry."
Peter didn't want to be a burden, but the sheer gravity of his loneliness was too much to carry alone tonight. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his body within the circle of your arms. He caught the edge of the blanket, pulling it loosely over your shoulders to shield you from the chill, before reaching down and lifting you entirely into his lap.
You let out a soft, contented sigh, shifting your weight easily as he pulled you against him. You straddled his thighs, your bare legs wrapping around his waist, your chest pressed flat against his heartbeat.
He looked up at you then, and in the dim amber light, you could see the faint purple bruising along his jawline and the profound, aching sadness swimming in his brown eyes. He looked so young, yet so impossibly tired.
Peter leaned up, his lips finding yours in a quiet, unhurried kiss. It wasn't fueled by passion or urgency, but by a desperate, silent need for reassurance. He kissed you to remind himself that he was alive, that he was real, and that he was loved. You responded softly, parting your lips just enough to welcome him, your hands moving up to cup his jaw, your thumbs gently tracing the edge of his new bruise.
When he pulled back, he didn't go far. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, pressing his forehead against your collarbone. He took a deep, shuddering breath, breathing in the scent of your skin, the cheap lavender soap you used, and the comforting warmth of the bed. He just held you, his arms locked around your waist, his fingers digging slightly into your back as he grounded himself in the reality of your presence.
"They're doing so well," Peter whispered into your skin, the confession finally tearing its way out of his throat. He didn't need to name them; you knew exactly who he meant. "I saw them tonight. They're happy. She's... she's with someone else. And they don't know me. They looked right through the mask like I was just another part of the city."
You felt the sharp pang of sympathy in your chest, your heart aching for the boy who had sacrificed his entire identity to keep the people he loved safe. You tightened your hold on him, running your fingers through his messy, damp curls, gently massaging his scalp to ease the tension locking up his frame.
"I know, Pete," you whispered softly, your chin resting on the top of his head as you rocked him slightly on the edge of the bed. "I know it hurts. It's okay for it to hurt."
"Sometimes I feel like I'm just a ghost," he admitted, his voice cracking completely, a single tear escaping his eye and wetting your collarbone. "Like Peter Parker doesn't actually exist anymore. Like I'm just a suit that swings between buildings."
You pulled back just enough to force him to look at you. You took his face in both of your hands, making him meet your gaze in the dark room.
"Look at me," you commanded gently, your voice steady and fiercely certain. "You are not a ghost. You are Peter Parker. You are the boy who helps me with my physics homework, the guy who hoards old tech parts under the bed, and the most fiercely loving person I have ever met in my life. They might not remember, but I know you. I see you. Every single part of you."
Peter looked at you, his eyes scanning your face, finding absolute truth in your expression. The crushing weight on his chest didn't vanish—it never truly would—but the burden suddenly felt manageable. He wasn't entirely alone in the dark anymore.
He leaned forward again, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing finally slowing down to match the steady, calm rhythm of your own.
"Thank you," he breathed, his hands smoothing over your bare back, pulling you so close there was no space left between you. "Stay right here?"
"Always," you whispered against his lips, pulling the blanket tight around both of your shoulders as the rain continued to wash over the city outside, leaving the two of you safe in the quiet sanctuary you had built together.
Earth-2 | Atonement Timeline | Earth’s first alternate universe
Summary: When the world’s governed by bad people, it takes worse ones to eliminate the threats— by any means necessary.
After the massacre of his wife and two children in a sacrifice an elite cult—The Order of the Red Dragon—called necessary fate, Frank Castle was saved by an underground militia of combat agents—Citadel—sworn to a life of obedience, service and secrecy for the greater good of humanity.
And you… You’re an FBI agent who will soon figure out why your nightmares always come to fruition, why misfortune follows you like plague, and why the man—The Punisher—that abducts you makes you feel… whole.
Citadel is a home—a prison—and it’s where you’ll spend your new life with Frank, protecting humanity from interdimensional threats… against your will.
Warnings not limited to: Dark, mature themes throughout ; 18+ only, MDNI. Major sci-fi/occult/horror/fantasy AU. Soul mates AU. Morally grey characters and institutions. Blood, gore. References and adversaries in religion, demonology, metaphysics, mysticism as grounds for discussing fate, free will, humanity, souls, and antagonists. Reader has psychic abilities. Coercion, gaslighting, graphic violence, body horror, deception, eventual smut (and lots of it), slow burn romance, forced proximity, trauma bonding hardcore, physical & mental abuse (inflicted on reader & Frank, never onto each other).
SUMMARY - the whole team pretends to forget its peter's birthday, plus peter juggling to hide his feelings for you from tony, who happens to be your dad
CONTAINS - 2020-2022 marvel fics, established found family, not proofread at all this was made in a jiffy
A/N - partly insipired by @/summr.am's post on tiktok. And also bcs i just miss old marvel fics so much im sobbing. Late happy birthday to peter!!
The smell of coffee and butter drifts down the floor of the kitchen at eight in the morning. Sunbeams stream through the glass, illuminating the domesticity of the Avengers Tower.
Steve stands at the stove in a fitted t shirt, flipping pancakes onto a mountain of a platter. Beside him, Thor sits at the marble island, casually devouring his fourth bowl of cereal alongside a box of pop tarts while Clint lounges on a high barstool, tossing blueberries into the air and catching them in his mouth.
Natasha rests her elbow on the counter next to Bruce, calmly swiping through a glass tablet with a mug of black coffee in hand, while Wanda hums quietly near the pantry, wiping a stray smudge of flour off her cheek.
At the head of the island sits your father. Tony has a pair of glasses perched on his nose, a greasy smudge on his cheek from an all-nighter in the workshop, and his eyes tracking your every movement as you pour yourself a mug of tea.
“You’re up early,” Tony mutters, not looking away from his holographic blueprint. “Usually I have to send someone in with an air horn to drag you out of bed before ten.”
“I have things to do, Dad,” you say lightly, flashing him a smile as you lean back against the counter. “Unlike some people...”
“Excuse me,” Tony replies, adjusting his glasses. “Did you just–”
The elevator chiming at the end of the hall breaks the air.
Peter steps out onto the floor, clutching his backpack by one strap. His brown curls are neatly brushed, his hoodie slightly wrinkled, and there is a bright, hopeful spark in his eyes that he is trying—and failing—to hide. He pauses on the threshold of the kitchen, taking a subtle breath, his chest lifting as if bracing for a chorus of cheers or a party popper.
Instead, Steve doesn't even turn around from the griddle. “Morning, Peter. Don’t touch the top pancake, it’s burnt.”
Peter blinks, his smile wavering just so at the edges. “Oh. Morning, Cap.”
Clint continues eating his grapes. “Hey, kid. Pass the orange juice if you’re standing by the fridge.”
“Uh–yeah. Sure thing, Mr. Barton.” Peter reaches into the fridge, grabbing the pitcher and handing it over. He lingers by the island, his gaze darting from Natasha—who gives him an upwards nod—to Thor, who simply beams and takes another massive spoonful of cereal without saying a word about the date.
Tony finally lowers his glass tablet, resting his chin in his hand. He looks Peter up and down with terrifying precision. “Parker. You’re late. I expected those web fluid reports on my desk by seven.”
Peter’s mouth opens slightly. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, his fingers tightening on the strap of his bag. “Right. Sorry, Mr. Stark. I... I got caught up. I thought maybe today we were...” He trails off, eyes instinctively flicking toward you.
Your heart tugs in your chest, but your face remains unchanged, taking another sip of tea. “Morning, Peter.”
“Morning,” he says softly, the word carrying a faint, wounded dip. He searches your face for any sign, any tiny hint of a secret, but you give him nothing.
“So…” Peter tries again, clearing his throat and attempting a casual lean against the marble island that almost results in his elbow slipping off the edge. “Big day today, huh? August ten. Very... notable date on the calendar.”
Tony doesn't even look up from his screen. “If by notable you mean the quarterly board meeting at three, then yes, kid, it’s a thrill a minute. Don't forget to eat the pancakes.”
“Right,” Peter murmurs. The spark in his eyes dims into defeat. He drops his bag onto an empty chair, sliding onto the stool right next to yours.
Beneath the marble counter, out of Tony’s line of sight, Peter’s hand drops down to his knee, his knuckles tense and restless.
You don't hesitate. Under the cover of the furniture, your fingers slide over his, lacing through his hand and giving it a grounding squeeze.
Peter stiffens for a split second before his fingers instantly wrap tight around yours, anchoring himself to the touch. He doesn't look at you directly, keeping his head turned toward the stove, but the faint crimson flush rising up the back of his neck gives him away completely. A tiny, imperceptible breath of relief escapes his lips.
“Anyway,” Tony’s sharp voice cuts through the room, his eyes narrowing across the island as he catches the slight shift in your posture. He leans forward, resting both forearms on the marble. “Kid.”
Peter jumps, nearly pulling his hand out of yours, but you hold fast under the table. “Yes, Mr. Stark?”
“Why were you on the eighty fifth floor near the residential quarters at one in the morning last night?” Tony asks, his tone dangerously smooth. “FRIDAY logged a security ping outside my daughter’s door.”
Nat’s head immediately turns.
Peter turns red, his thumb pressing hard against your palm under the counter as he tries to make up an excuse. “I–well, sir, the–the water pressure! In my quarter’s bathroom. It was... making a super weird noise. Like a whistle. And so I was... checking the pipes. In the wall. Externally.”
Tony stares at him for five long seconds. “The pipes.”
“The pipes,” Peter repeats, his voice pitching up an octave.
“Right,” Tony says slowly, pulling his glasses off and twirling them by the stem. “Because you’re a plumber now. Next time you feel the urge to inspect things in the middle of the night, don’t.”
“Understood, sir,” Peter squeaks. He slowly disengages his hand from yours, grabs a single dry piece of toast from the rack, and stands up so fast his chair screeches against the tile. “I have a lecture in twenty minutes. I’ll just... go.”
“Have a good day at school, man of spiders,” Thor booms cheerfully, giving him a heavy slap on the back that nearly sends Peter flying into the doorframe.
“Yeah. Thanks, Mr. Thor.” Peter slings his bag over his shoulder. He shoots you one last long, hopelessly puzzled look before the elevator doors slide open and swallow him whole.
The moment the elevator chime signals his descent, the kitchen explodes into suppressed laughter.
Tony drops his glasses onto the counter and turns to you, pointing an accusing finger. “He was checking the pipes? The pipes? That kid is a terrible liar. What is he doing lingering outside your room?”
“He’s harmless, Dad,” you laugh, hiding your amusement behind your mug.
Natasha sets her tablet down with a faint smirk. “The poor boy looked like he was gonna cry.”
“Did you see his face?” Clint snorts as he leans over the island. “He really thinks we all forgot. He looked like a kicked puppy.”
“It was painful to watch,” Bruce admits with a sympathetic smile, adjusting his glasses. “Are we sure the surprise tonight isn’t too cruel?”
“Are you kidding?” Tony scoffs, leaning back with a smug grin. “He should get a little psychological warfare before he gets the actual loot. Speaking of which, Wanda, how’s the cake coming?”
Wanda smiles softly as she wipes her hands on an apron. “Three layers of dark chocolate with raspberry filling. It’s sitting in the other kitchen cooling right now.”
“Perfect,” Tony says. He turns back to you, his eyes narrowing again with suspicion. “And as for you... if I find out those pipes had anything to do with why you were smiling into your tea all morning, Peter’s gift gets downgraded to a bicycle.”
You just laugh, stepping away to rinse your mug as the team starts whispering about the final party details for tonight.
By seven in the evening, the sun has dipped below the Manhattan skyline, painting the lounge walls in warm shades.
Down in the residential hallway, you stand near the main lounge entrance, bouncing slightly on the tips of your feet. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the irrepressible grin threatening to spill across your face. Every few seconds, you check your watch, making sure your poker face is locked in place.
When the elevator doors finally chime and slide open, Peter shuffles out.
He is practically dragging his feet, his backpack hanging low off one shoulder. His hair is a wild, fluffy nest from a late afternoon patrol.
“Hey, Peter!” you greet softly.
Peter blinks, stopping in his tracks. His tired brown eyes light up the second he sees you, a helpless warmth spreading across his face.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice fond while carrying an exhausted sigh. “How... how was your day?”
“Pretty good,” you shrug. You step an inch closer and reach up, gently smoothing down a stray, messy curl sticking up near his temple. The affectionate touch makes him melt on the spot, his eyes fluttering slightly as he leans into your hand. “You sound exhausted.”
“Yeah, something like that.” His lips form a thin line. “Just... a really long day. Honestly, I think everyone in the building is having an off day.”
You offer him a sympathetic look, hiding the wicked little glint of amusement glimmering in your eyes. “Aw, rough patrol?”
“Something like that,” he sighs, “Mr. Stark had me reviewing reports, Steve gave me a burnt pancake, and Wanda didn't even say two words to me. I don’t know, just... felt like one of those days where everyone’s totally checked out.”
“Well, I’m not checked out,” you murmur softly, giving his wrist a gentle tug. You loop your arm tightly through his, pressing yourself close against his side. “Come on. My dad left some useless blueprint files in the lounge and asked me to grab them. Walk with me? I could use the company.”
Peter’s chest hitches slightly at the warmth of your arm hooked in his, the tension draining out of his posture as he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Lead the way.”
He has no idea. He doesn't suspect a single thing. He just leans into your side, completely content just to have you walking next to him down the hallway.
You guide him right up to the heavy double doors of the main lounge. You grab the brass handles, give Peter one last innocent, cheerful glance out of the corner of your eye, and throw both doors wide open.
“SURPRISE!”
The roar echoes off the high ceilings. Banner poppers explode in a shower of red and blue glitter.
Peter actually jumps two feet off the ground, his spidey senses clearly activating under the sheer volume of everyone's energy. He freezes dead in the doorway, his mouth forming an ‘O’ as his eyes take in the scene.
The entire lounge has been decked out. A massive banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY PETER hangs from the mezzanine, supported by web shaped balloons.
Steve stands near a table stacked high with food while holding a sparkling party horn. Natasha has a smile on her face as she leans against the bar, raising a glass in his direction. Clint is sitting on top of the sofa, letting out a piercing whistle, while Bruce claps warmly alongside Thor, who lets out a thunderous laugh that rattles the windowpanes.
Right in the middle of the spread, Wanda steps forward holding a magnificent, three tiered dark chocolate cake decorated with a bunch of candles. “Happy birthday, Peter.”
Peter’s head whips around to look down at you, his eyes wide with utter shock. “Wait—what—you—all of you?!”
You can't hold it back anymore—a bright laugh bursts from your chest as you squeeze his arm tightly. “Happy birthday, Peter.”
“I—you—you lied to me!” Peter breathes a laugh as he points a finger at you before clutching his hands over his face with a breathless laugh. “You were literally just acting like it was a normal day, I thought you all forgot!”
“And you fell for it so easily,” you tease, nudging his side playfully.
“Forget?” Tony questions as he steps out from the crowd. “Kid, please. We spent three weeks orchestrating this.”
A huge smile slowly breaks across Peter’s face, so bright and genuine it makes your heart swell. “I actually thought I was going crazy.”
Tony walks over and loops an arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Now, before you gorge yourself on Wanda’s masterpiece, time for gifts.”
Clint hauls a ridiculously huge box onto the coffee table with a loud thud. It’s covered in star wars wrapping paper with a messy red bow slapped on top.
Peter dives over the back of the sofa, dropping to his knees in front of the table. “Is this... wait, no way.”
He tears through the paper and beneath the wrapping is the massive, ultimate lego star wars millennium falcon box.
“No way,” Peter breathes, fingers tracing the box. “No way. Mr. Barton, this is... this is the real one!”
Clint chuckles. “I know kid, I bought it.”
“I’m gonna build all of it tonight,” Peter declares.
“You’re gonna build it after you see the main event,” Tony corrects, taking a sip of his drink and nudging Peter’s shoulder. “Up. Hangar floor. Let’s go.”
The team files into the elevator, Peter glowing with excitement between you and Tony. Under the lights of the elevator, you reach down and give Peter’s hand a quick squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your hand before reluctantly letting go as the doors open into the sleek garage floor.
Parked right in the center of the polished concrete floor, sitting beneath a spotlight, is a custom built, black supercar. It gleams with subtle red details, looking impossibly expensive.
Peter stops dead in his tracks. His mouth drops open so wide you think his jaw might hit the floor.
“Uh,” Peter chokes out, pointing a trembling finger at the vehicle. “Is... is that...?”
“It’s nothing big,” Tony says casually, waving a hand in the air as if he were talking about a used toaster. “Just a little daily driver. Custom Stark-tech engine under the hood, bulletproof glass, run flat tires, full AI integration with your suit. You know, basic starter car stuff. Nothing crazy.”
“Mr. Stark,” Peter says with disbelief, turning around slowly with a look of absolute terror and awe. “This–this is a supercar.”
“It’s a safe car,” Tony corrects sternly. “And consider it a late payment for all the times you’ve saved the city without sending me an invoice. Keys are on the dash.”
Peter looks like he is about to burst into tears. He throws his arms around Tony in a tight hug. Tony freezes for a second, looking over Peter’s curls at Thor and Steve, before slowly bringing a hand up to pat the kid’s back with more affection he would dare show on any other day.
“Alright, alright, don’t get emotional on me, kid. You’re ruining my reputation,” Tony mutters, though the smile on his face says otherwise.
When Peter finally pulls back, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, his gaze lands right on you.
You walk over with a warm smile, holding out a small, velvet box from your pocket. “I know it’s not a supercar,” you tease, eyes shining, “but... happy birthday, Peter.”
Peter takes the small box, his hands pulling the ribbon. Inside sits a simple, beautifully crafted silver spider engraved with his birthday.
His eyes soften into something so tender that the rest of the noisy garage seems to fade into background noise. “I think this is my favourite,” he smiles, tone dropping low enough so only you can hear. “By far.”
You let out a soft laugh, reaching up to gently hold his cheek. “Don't let my dad hear you say that.”
“Hear what?” Tony’s sharp voice suddenly slices between the two of you as he steps up, his eyes darting suspiciously between Peter’s flustered face and your hand on his face. “What are we whispering about over here?”
“Nothing, Mr. Stark!” Peter explains instantly, taking three dramatic steps backward. “Just thanking her for the gift.”
Tony narrows his eyes. “I’m watching you, kid. I have sensors in that car. If the heart rate monitor spikes past a hundred while my daughter is in the passenger seat, the ejector seat activates.”
Steve shakes his head, slinging an arm around Tony’s shoulders. “Leave the kid alone, Tony. Let him enjoy his car.”
A bright chorus of laughter ripples through the whole team while Peter just looks back and forth between the supercar, Tony, and you, still in disbelief.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” you tease, “turn it on already!"
Yall I just rewatched Spider-Man: Brand New Day for the 4th time, this time on 4DX definitely have to say I enjoyed this experience alot more and will be working on part 2 of my story very soon. Its a work in progress but the movie has inspired me to keep writing along with reading some bombass fanfics/writers recently. So please expect more from me very soon. Thank you to everyone who has already read part 1 to I'll always be mine to protect, something is better than nothing so thanks again. Part 2 hopefully will be out later next week, fingers crossed, coochie lips crossed. Byeee
WARNINGS: FLUFF, Y/N SITS ON PETERS LAP, TONY BEING NOSY DAD, SHORT (and probably cringe), lmk if i forgot anything
A/N: my writing has been so ass lately and im blaming it on my period idk
studying together was not a new activity for peter and y/n. they’d been doing it since they were 15 and became friends, and now they were seniors that had been dating for 5 months. after 3 years, peter had finally built the courage to ask out his boss’ daughter (who was also his best friend), and since then, not much had changed.
the study sessions hadn’t changed, minus tony occasionally spying on them through friday and not being allowed to close the door. they still ordered entirely too much taco bell, or fell asleep on the floor building legos. dating hadn’t changed their relationship, it only added to the good parts.
kissing and cuddles were definitely some of the good add-ons, always resulting in cuddly naps or giggly makeouts. it was basically a perfect highschool relationship.
there was many things that still flustered peter, such as soft kisses and random hugs. the worst? when y/n sat in his lap. for whatever reason, it made him freeze and become practically paralyzed. he could never explain why, but everyone, his eyes widened and he froze.
“does it need to be MLA format?” peter asked at her desk, reading over the history syllabus. the two had procrastinated the assignment that was now due in 3 days, so they really needed to work on it.
y/n padded over from her bed, sitting in peters lap while looking over her taken notes. she barely noticed how he stilled under her, steady hands hovering over her legs. his cheeks flushed a warm hue, radiating off his smooth skin. the answer he asked was given to him, but he definitely didnt hear it. “peter? did you hear anything i said?” she sighed, giving him a slightly annoyed look after putting her notebook on the desk.
shyly, he shook his head. “um…sorry.” the apology came with a weak, adorable smile. his eyes finally lifted to his girlfriends face, sighing and trying to form words. “s-so…MLA?”
“mhmh, double spaced.” she confirmed. even though he was still semi frozen, she wrapped her arms around his neck and cuddled her head against his shoulder. when she finally realized he hadn’t moved in 3 minutes, she smiled up at him from where she was curled against him. “peter?”
he hummed, snapping out of his gaze. “hm, yeah?” once he realized how stupid he looked, his arms slowly looped around her, barely resting against her skin. everytime he touched her, he was hesitant. he didnt want to overstep boundaries…or worse— tony walk in and make fun of him. which was a very real possibility, and it had happened. according to the older man, peter hugged like he was in a second grade playground relationship.
“you know you can…touch me, right?” she giggled. “everytime i sit in your lap, you act like you cant even hug me. its kinda funny.” as she spoke she continued to nuzzle her nose against his neck, smiling against his warm skin.
embarrassment flooded peter, flushing his features to a brighter red. “sor-sorry, i just. um. i didnt wanna make you uncomfortable.” he smiled, small and awkward. his hands settled, one on her hip and the other on her calf where she was curled against him. “and your dad scares me.” he whispered jokingly.
the joke filled y/n with uncontrollable giggles, her hands covering her mouth. “hes not that scary, baby!” she smiled, gently smoothing his hair back.
even if tony wasn’t ironman, he would still be scary to peter. girlfriends dad was a scary person in any teenage boys life, and his girlfriends father being tony stark just made it worse. “yes, he is. first off, hes my boss. second, hes my girlfriends dad!” peters voice cracked. “third…i dont know. just makes me kinda nervous when you climb on me.” he finally grumbled out, trying to hide how flustered he got.
y/n listened to him, her face still cuddled into his neck. “i can get off if you want…” her voice came whispered softly.
“what? no!” peter immediately protested, hugging her closer to his body. he felt her shifting for a moment, and he settled when she did.
silence filled the room momentarily, and peter held her as close as he could without squishing her. “do we have to do history? i wanna nap…” y/n sighed, letting her eyes flutter shut.
before peter could speak, friday startled them both. “mr. stark says: get the hell off each other and do your homework. love, tony.” his monotone voice broke through the quiet bedroom. when the loud voice came over the speaker, peter flinched, almost knocking y/n off his lap.
through more giggles, she climbed off his lap. “fine, fine. god, if you wanted me to get off, you could’ve just asked.” she joked, dragging him to her bed all while abandoning their homework. they’d deal with it later.
A/N: due to a few requests for a part 2, I hope you guys enjoy it!!!
WARNINGS: pt. 2 of "your eyes!", NSFW, mdni, f!reader, some internal angst, rough sex, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, creampie, web restraint, arachnid!peter taking control :O
WC: 2.2k
SUMMARY: After Peter’s eyes go black mid-orgasm and you're left stunned, Peter has to figure out how to explain things to you without scaring you away, or risking his anonymity. But unbeknownst to him, you take the news well. Very well.
"P-Pete... Your eyes!"
"What?" He moans.
"Your eyes are black!"
Well, fuck-! It's not supposed to happen like this, he knew his arachnid abilities had a tendency to take control when he was overwhelmed, but he thought it was just from stress or emotions, not overstimulation during sex. He squishes his eyes shut, stops his thrusts, grunts as he pulls out of you, and rubs his face against his palms. "Shit." He mutters under his breath.
"Peter, I think I'm really drunk." You say shakily through a small laugh, you're caught off guard; he understands. You're a bit frightened seeing that up close and personal, he was a great fuck but seeing his eyes glisten black completely right in front of you was intimidating. Maybe you were just so drunk on alcohol and sex that you imagined it.
Peter's reaction made you think otherwise.
"N-No," he stammers, when his hands move, his eyelashes bat open, slightly watery from the aggressive rubbing; but they're normal again. "I'm sorry." He exhales.
You sit in silence, more confused than scared. Your thighs are still shaking from the incredible highs he's taken you to, your pussy still aching from his size, his load, his passion. Peter runs his hands through his curls, which are a bit sticky from his sweat. "I can explain it to you when you're sober, i-it's going to be a lot to take in. Is that okay? You can stay the night... Please don't leave.. I'll sleep on the couch." You stare at his pitiful puppy face, hesitantly, you nod. Your heart's racing a thousand miles an hour, carefully, Peter tugs the comforter over your naked form, so gentle compared to the beast he'd been moments ago. God, was he a monster? He felt like a monster.
He moves away quickly, wiping the sweat from his forehead before yanking up his boxers. His brain messed up from the sex, the arachnid hormones fogging his senses, his dick was still twitching– alive with need but he was too embarrassed to even look at you right now. He can't believe you had to see him like that.
Internal doubt crept into his heart that he would never be able to experience these things again, maybe it wasn't a huge deal because he never went out of his way to hook up with anyone. This felt special with you, even though he was pretty sure you'd sneak out after he fell asleep, and it was nothing more than a drunk fling to you. He owed you an explanation but he didn't want to overwhelm your brain until he knew you'd be able to process it. He didn't want you to go home alone and was stunned from the fact he went arachnid on you mid-orgasm. He hated this. Why can't his body just stay normal? A way he can still be Spider-Man, but also Peter Parker. Maybe there's a way, he's too tired now to think about it. He's more worried about you than himself.
Peter doesn't sleep a wink all night, he's too anxious about the following day, what you'll think, what you might say, would you think he's a monster?
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
The dawn peered through the windows of Peter's apartment sooner than he would've preferred, though sleep came easy to your intoxicated self, when you awoke, your head had a diabolical pain. Hangovers, one of the worst things to curse mankind. A little before noon is when you finally muster yourself out of the unfamiliar bed which is not your own, putting the pieces together, it's obvious you had a drunk hookup, and your memories are a little fuzzy. You find a t-shirt laid over a chair and tug it over your bare body, it fits nicely, but it isn't yours. If you had an "I survived my trip to NYC" shirt, you'd wear it more often. Your feet pad against the cold floor as you exit the unfamiliar bedroom, into the small living room area. You find someone laying on the creaky couch, and an odd amount of tech to your left.
"Hello?" You say softly, in case he's asleep.
Peter perks up quickly, turns to look at you. Somehow, more beautiful than last night. He smiles awkwardly.
"H-Hey... You sleep okay?"
"Yeah, good. Thanks."
There's tension, you're not sure why, but Peter looks like he's five seconds away from bolting right off the edge of the fire escape. "Are you okay...?"
"Um, yeah? Yeah. Fine." Now he's confused, do you not remember anything? He notices a small limp in your step as you move to sit on the couch beside him. Oh man, he wish that wasn't attractive, knowing that he fucked you enough to leave a lasting impression. He covers his recovering boner with a throw pillow. "Did... sorry I did that." He gestures to your limp.
"Mm, it's okay. Means you did something right."
"D-Do you remember anything?" He asks shakily.
"Like what? The sex? The party?"
"B-both."
"Sort of. Why didn't you sleep next to me?"
"Look, I'm just going to be honest with you, I promised I would last night..." Peter's eyes dart to his hands in his lap as you sit next to him more comfortably.
"Okay..."
"When we- finished," he clears his throat. "my body got really overwhelmed. I have- different DNA."
"What do you mean?"
"You have to promise me you will not tell anyone!"
"I don't have much of a circle, it's more like a triangle. Maybe a really short line."
"Promise!!"
"Okay! I promise!!"
Peter exhales, shoulders slumping. "I'm Spider-Man. And last night whenever I– like- finished my eyes turned black and you got really scared, and I felt horrible because you didn't deserve to see that. And I wanted to be honest because it doesn't feel right taking advantage of you like that and not explaining myself, and, I'm sorry."
Okay that was a lot to take in. You sit there for a minute, stunned by both his words and the pounding in your temples. "You're really Spider-Man?"
"Yeah. I guess I'm like going through stages or something, my body's been changing, I sense things more than I could before, and my webs are literally coming out of my wrists! It's disgusting!!"
You can't help but chuckle a little. "You can do that?" He nods, blush blooming over his freckled cheeks. "That's cool..."
"You're not weirded out?"
"No, why would I be?"
"I feel like most people would've gotten freaked out and like... ran out the door."
"To be fair, if I hadn't been drunk, I probably would have. I banged Spider-Man, so...That's a win in my book. I won't tell anyone, I promise."
Peter's face washes with relief as your words sink in.
"So... Did your new senses peak out last night?"
"Yeah, it was kinda embarrassing. I was like... Out of my mind."
"Clearly, I'm limping." You joke. "I think it's attractive."
"Y-you do?" His voice cracks.
"Yeah, you used your new abilities to fuck me. Tell me, what did you do to me, Spider-Man?" His breath hitches, he gulps. Then something makes him smirk,
"I'll just show you."
"Really?"
"Maybe now that you're sober you'll appreciate it more."
Just like that, he swept you off of the couch, and back to his bed. You felt a bit more in control now, alcohol couldn't fog your brain. Peter bent down sliding your panties down your legs. Then his face disappears between your thighs, "Pete-!" His tongue drags along your slit, making you shudder, your body tensing from that sweet, first contact. "Oh my god." You moan.
He isn't sure if the chill that runs down his spine is his own or his arachnid senses. He feels that thrum again, the same one that made him snap last night and pound into you to cause the limp you have today. Damn, you tasted like perfection served on a silver platter, his hands pushing your thighs back a bit to expose your pussy to him, his tongue going to work while his nose brushed against your clit, making you tremble. He's honestly so addicted to eating you now, all of a sudden, when your legs jerk back, he grunts and sits up. "You gotta quit movin' baby," he mutters, pressing your legs back as far as you're comfortable with, he makes you hold them in place, and he shoots a web over both of your hands.
"Pete!!" You exclaimed at the sticky feeling trapping your hands against the underside of your knees.
"Gotta stay still." He mumbles, and dives back in. Slowly slurping, like a man starved for weeks on end and this pussy is the only hope of keeping him alive. He edges you closer, and closer, until you're right on the brink of a precious orgasm, he can feel it in the way the hairs on his arm stand up. He bites his lip and pulls away, leaving you wet and ready for more. Suddenly, he stuffs his finger inside your pussy, gently pumping it in and out making you dizzy. It's so pleasurable. You let out soft whimpers as his fingers hit that gushy spot that takes you out of this world, and you can't help it when you squirt on his hands. He almost stops but it's such a beautiful sight that he genuinely can't stop thrusting his fingers into you until you've probably squirted every juice left in your body. He just stares, amazed that your body could do that. His eyes twinkle with want.
Peter lifts his fingers to his mouth and gently sucks them clean.
He discards his boxers onto the floor, pushing his body between your thighs and rubbing his cock along your wet slit. His precum mixes with your juices tenderly before he pokes his tip in once, then twice, and a third time. His body hunches until your chests press together, his hands carefully rip his webs from your thighs. He wraps them around his waist and starts rocking his hips desperately into you. "I'm s-so glad you're not scared of me." He whines, his thrusts are a bit sloppy at first, he's still getting used to these heightened feelings. It's so not fair that he can feel every muscle inside of you clenching and clinging to his cock, it's wonderfully miserable for him. "I hear it- feel it- all." He whimpers in your ear and he grips your thighs, pounding your pussy like he personally owned it. (He didn't).
Your moans bonded together to create an intimate atmosphere, between the heavy breathing, the squelches of your hips meeting and Peter practically fucking your cervix right now- it was the best sex either of you have had your entire lives.
"You're so, so, so good. Thank you." He whines, he really can't control it, maybe it's a mix of human and arachnid hormones, he wasn't sure if it was even genetically possible it could enhance his sexual performance, but clearly, it seemed to be because his pace was unmatched. His brows furrowed, hyper-focused of fucking you until you couldn't leave his bed. In the back of his mind, maybe he'd web you up and keep you like his own mate. But rational, sweet Peter could never do that to a sweet girl like you.
"I'm close," you moaned. He nods, keeping this pace, but his brain is getting cloudy, by choices that aren't his own. Then- he just starts pounding harder, making you squeal. "Mmh! Peter!" Mate. A real one? Perhaps. When you squirm under his pistoning hips, you tried to slow him down, not that you didn't like it. He grabs your wrists and webs them to his headboard.
"Stay." He growls.
Good grief! Your eyebrows knit together, mouth gaping as he impossibly fucks you in a way no person should be able to. His hands slide beneath your ass, gripping it and angling it up slightly, eliciting a sweet whine from your throat as he hits your g-spot, and more. Your walls squeeze his cock so wonderfully, his eyes are clenched shut again, fighting an internal battle between his arachnid self, and regular Peter Parker. When his eyes flutter open, you're gazing back into voidless, black eyes that are taunting and controlling. When you cum, he groans loudly, still thrusting through your unbearable tightness.
And when he cums?
He moans, and moans; and normal Peter Parker would pull out, but arachnid Peter held you still as his cock released his thick load right against your womb. He pants, head hanging as sweat trickles down his cheek and his eyes daze back to normal, his cock is swollen inside of you, and he lets out a pathetic whine as your walls continue to clench and pulse against his dick. "Oh, I didn't mean to- fuck!" His voice cracks as your pussy walls trap him inside you when he tries to pull out of you.
"Holy shit." His eyes widened a little as his cock finally popped out, watching as his semen dripped out of you. They dart from your pussy, to your face. "You're so beautiful."
"Thank you..." You smile, blushing.
He moves up and kisses you.
It's gentle, the perfect post-sex kiss.
"Can you get these webs off me now, please?" You smirk.
"Oh, no. I think I'm gonna keep you like this for a while."
𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄 : after a long patrol, peter climbs through your window exhausted, bruised and still half in the spider-man suit. a stupid joke about whether spider-man could eat you out while hanging upside down turns into peter taking the question far too seriously, and what starts as teasing curiosity becomes a filthy little experiment neither of you wants to stop. 18k
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : 18+ . adult!peter parker x fem!reader . established relationship . porn with little plot . spider-man suit kink . upside down oral . cunnilingus . panties kink . overstimulation . multiple orgasms . spit + cum play . messy kissing . face licking . blowjob . handjob . riding . boob worship . nipple play . neck biting . vocal needy peter . floor humping . cum leaking . eating cum out
navigation : kofi .
PETER PARKER HAD DEVELOPED the deeply irritating habit of treating your apartment window like the front door, although calling it a habit made it sound newer than it really was. Somewhere during the months you’d been together, you’d stopped jumping whenever something landed against your fire escape after dark,
stopped reaching instinctively for whatever heavy object happened to be nearest when the window frame suddenly scraped upward, and started recognising the difference between Peter arriving normally and Peter arriving after the kind of patrol that had gone badly.
Tonight landed somewhere in the middle. There was a heavier thump outside than usual, followed by several long seconds of silence, then the faint metallic rattle of somebody getting their footing before your window finally began creeping upward from the bottom.
You were curled beneath a blanket at one end of the couch with some terrible action movie playing on television, and instead of turning around, you merely glanced toward the reflection in the darkened glass across the room as one red-gloved hand appeared around the frame.
Peter was apparently attempting to enter quietly, which might’ve worked considerably better if his shoulder hadn’t knocked against the side of the window and made him mutter something irritated beneath his breath. You waited until half his body had disappeared through the opening, one leg still awkwardly outside while he tried not to catch the suit on the frame, before you finally called, “You know normal boyfriends use the door.”
Everything behind you stopped. Completely. For a second, there wasn’t even the sound of fabric moving, and when you finally turned your head slightly, Peter’s masked face had appeared around the side of the curtain, one white lens narrowed at you while the other remained slightly wider in a look that somehow managed to communicate exhausted offence without revealing an inch of his actual face.
He stayed like that just long enough to make your mouth twitch before finishing his climb inside, landing carefully with one boot against the floor and pulling the second over the sill. Peter straightened with a small roll of his shoulder, glanced down at himself as though checking he hadn’t brought half the fire escape in with him, then looked toward you again.
“Normal boyfriends don’t usually have to explain why there’s blood on their shirt to the neighbour in 4B,” he said eventually, his voice slightly muffled beneath the mask and flatter than the dramatic defence you’d expected.
The word blood made your amusement disappear at once, your gaze dropping instinctively across the red and blue suit as you searched for whatever tear or stain he was referring to, and Peter noticed before you could even sit upright.
Both of his hands lifted immediately in a placating gesture, palms facing you while he shook his head once. “Not mine.” The tension left your shoulders almost as quickly as it had arrived, and even beneath the mask you could see the tiny shift near his mouth that told you he’d noticed.
Peter looked back toward the still-open window, hooking one hand beneath the frame before pulling it shut with considerably more care than he’d shown while climbing through it. “Also,” he added as the latch clicked into place, turning back toward you with the faintest shrug, “the window’s faster.”
You snorted and sank deeper into the cushions, watching him pretend that was the entire explanation. “You mean you don’t want Mrs. Alvarez asking whether you’ve eaten recently.”
Peter’s posture changed immediately, shoulders slumping by half an inch as though you’d found the actual weak spot. He stared at you for a second through the mask, then lowered his chin in reluctant defeat. “That too.”
He reached behind his head and caught the edge of the mask between his fingers, peeling it upward with a tired exhale until his face finally appeared beneath it, and the teasing comment already sitting on your tongue died before it could leave your mouth. Peter looked exhausted.
Not badly injured, not dangerously so, but worn down in the particular way you’d become increasingly familiar with since Spider-Man had stopped being something he squeezed between all the other pieces of his life and started becoming the thing his life seemed to orbit around.
His hair was damp around his forehead, flattened beneath the mask in some places and sticking out stubbornly in others, and a faint bruise was beginning to darken along one cheekbone beneath a streak of grime that travelled almost to his jaw. Peter caught you staring almost immediately.
His eyes flicked over your face, registered the concern there and then moved away before you could say anything, one hand rubbing awkwardly over the back of his neck while the other folded the mask between his fingers. “It looks worse than it is,” he murmured, even though you hadn’t asked, his attention suddenly fixed on the crumpled fabric in his hands.
You didn’t answer straight away. Instead, you slowly raised one eyebrow and let your gaze travel deliberately back toward the bruise. Peter caught the expression from the corner of his eye, closed his mouth and released a quiet sigh through his nose. His shoulders sagged a little more before he looked back at you.
“Actually,” he corrected himself, voice softer now, “that’s probably not true. It looks pretty much exactly as bad as it is.” The dryness of it made the corner of your mouth pull upward despite the lingering concern, and Peter’s expression softened when he realised he’d managed to get even that much of a reaction from you.
You shifted beneath the blanket and patted the empty cushion beside you, expecting him to drop there, but Peter only looked at the space for a moment before walking toward you instead. His steps slowed once he reached the couch, and for several seconds he simply stood between your knees, eyes lowered as if he were deciding whether he wanted to talk about whatever had happened outside.
Then something in him seemed to give. His shoulders dropped, his hands loosened, and Peter bent forward until his forehead came to rest against your stomach. The sudden weight of him made you sink slightly into the cushions, but your hands were already moving before you thought about it, fingers sliding through his sweaty hair and scratching gently against his scalp.
Peter’s eyes closed. His hands settled loosely against either side of your waist, not quite holding you and not quite willing to move away either. “Bad night?” you asked quietly, your fingertips moving more slowly through his hair when you felt the tension still gathered at the base of his neck.
Peter remained silent for a few moments. You could feel him breathing against your shirt, each exhale gradually becoming less tight, before he finally muttered, “Guy threw a parking meter at me.” Your fingers stopped.
Peter must’ve felt it because one eye opened and he tipped his head just enough to look up at you without fully lifting it. “Missed,” he added quickly, almost sheepishly, like he knew exactly where your mind had gone.
You stared down at him for a long second, your expression caught somewhere between concern and disbelief, until the faintest smile finally appeared at the corner of his mouth. Your hand resumed its path through his hair, gently tugging a stubborn strand away from his forehead, and Peter let his face settle against you again.
Several quiet seconds passed before his voice came once more, considerably more bitter this time. “Pigeon got my sandwich, though.” That finally made you look down properly. “Again?” The question came out with enough disbelief that Peter’s eyes squeezed shut. His forehead pressed more firmly against your stomach like he was trying to hide from the humiliation entirely. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Eventually you convinced him to eat the leftovers you’d saved, although convincing might’ve been generous considering all you really had to do was remind him they existed.
Peter disappeared into the kitchen with the heavy, reluctant steps of somebody who’d only just become aware of how hungry he actually was, and when he returned carrying the container, he dropped onto the couch beside you with the quiet weight of someone whose body had finally realised it was allowed to stop moving.
He didn’t change out of the suit. He didn’t even remove his boots at first, stretching his legs out and settling them dangerously close to the edge of your rug until you turned your head and stared pointedly at them. Peter noticed after only a second.
His gaze moved from your face to his boots, then to the rug beneath them, before returning to you with a tired expression that made it clear he knew exactly what you were asking without you saying a word. “Really?” he asked, eyebrows lifting slightly as if tonight of all nights should’ve granted him immunity. You merely continued looking at him.
Peter held your gaze for another second, then sighed and leaned forward, tugging both boots off before dropping them neatly beside the couch. “Happy?” He looked over at you while straightening, the exhaustion around his eyes making the question sound more resigned than annoyed.
You smiled sweetly and adjusted the blanket over your legs. “Very.” Peter’s lips pressed together in a way that told you he had several responses and had decided none of them were worth the energy. Instead, he sank back into the cushions, shifted the food container into one hand and reached for your ankle with the other without seeming consciously aware that he was doing it.
His fingers closed loosely around you, drawing your legs across his lap before he adjusted the blanket over them with a small tug. It had become one of those quiet habits neither of you had discussed. Peter had grown quieter after patrol over the years, less inclined to fill every empty second with nervous chatter and half-finished thoughts, but the silence never meant he wanted distance from you.
If anything, he touched you more when he wasn’t speaking. A thumb moving over your ankle. Fingers finding yours underneath a blanket. His shoulder resting against yours until he practically leaned half his body into you. Tonight was no different. He ate with one hand while the other remained curled around your lower calf, his thumb moving absently over your skin whenever his attention wandered from the television.
Several minutes passed before your gaze caught the flash of red beneath the coffee table. One of his gloves had somehow ended up there, discarded carelessly enough that you had no idea when he’d even removed it. You nudged his thigh with your heel, making his hand tighten reflexively around your ankle before relaxing again.
“You’re leaving Spider-Man everywhere again.” Peter followed your gaze toward the glove. He stared at it for a second, chewing slowly, then looked back at you with an expression of complete seriousness. “Evidence.” You frowned, waiting for the explanation that clearly wasn’t coming on its own. “Evidence of what?”
Peter swallowed, lowered the container slightly and considered the glove like he was seeing it for the first time himself. “That Spider-Man has poor organisational skills.” The complete lack of expression on his face made you laugh before you could help it, and something around Peter’s eyes softened at the sound.
He glanced back toward the television, but you caught the tiny upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That’s not exactly breaking news,” you told him, settling more comfortably against the cushions. Peter nodded once, accepting the criticism with surprising dignity. “Fair.”
The movie had become mostly background noise by the time Peter finished eating, although he watched considerably more of it than you did. Every now and then you’d feel his thumb stop moving against your ankle whenever something particularly stupid happened onscreen,
and then you’d glance sideways only to discover him staring at the television with that increasingly troubled expression he got whenever inaccurate physics seemed to personally offend him.
He’d mostly stopped correcting everything out loud after you threatened to ban him from choosing movies following one particularly unbearable evening involving a collapsing suspension bridge, but his face still betrayed him completely. When one character somehow survived being launched through a concrete wall, Peter’s brow furrowed so deeply that you could almost hear the lecture happening inside his head.
A few seconds later, his eyes slid toward you. You didn’t even look at him fully. “No.” Peter’s eyebrows climbed. He shifted slightly beneath your legs, his mouth opening as though he was genuinely offended by the accusation. “I didn’t say anything.” You finally turned your head and pointed toward his face with one finger. “Your face did.”
Peter stared at you for a beat, clearly considering whether this counted as a fair argument, then pressed his lips together and looked back toward the screen. The movement didn’t hide the little smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. A few minutes later another character ended up dangling upside down from the edge of a rooftop, their body swinging dramatically above several floors of open air, and your attention lingered there longer than it had on anything else in the movie.
Slowly, almost without meaning to, your gaze drifted toward Peter. He was leaning deeper into the couch now, one arm stretched along the back cushions while his other hand continued resting loosely around your ankle. The bruise remained visible along his cheek. His hair was still a complete disaster. The upper half of the suit remained annoyingly tight across his chest and shoulders, every shift of his body making the fabric move with him.
A completely unnecessary thought entered your head. You recognised immediately that it was unnecessary. You also knew that Peter would never let you forget it if you actually said it aloud. Unfortunately, restraint had never been your greatest quality around him. “Can you actually stay like that?” you asked eventually, nodding toward the screen while keeping your tone as casual as you could manage.
Peter followed your gaze. His eyes moved from the dangling character back toward you, and he tilted his head slightly as though making sure he understood the question. “Upside down?” You nodded, pretending you hadn’t given the question much thought. Peter’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Yeah.”
You looked back toward the screen while his thumb began moving against your ankle again. “For how long?” This time he didn’t answer immediately. His brow furrowed slightly while he considered it, gaze drifting somewhere past the television as though he was mentally checking his own limits.
“A while,” he said finally. There was another pause. Peter’s lips pressed together, and then he corrected himself with the kind of reluctant honesty that always betrayed him. “Probably as long as I wanted.”
You hummed beneath your breath and kept looking toward the television, although you could feel Peter’s attention remain on you. He knew you too well. Worse, years of relying on tiny movements and split-second changes in body language to stay alive had made him obnoxiously difficult to fool, which meant your attempt at appearing casually interested had probably failed before you’d even opened your mouth.
Still, you pushed your luck. “Wouldn’t all the blood rush to your head?” you asked, keeping your eyes forward while you shifted one shoulder deeper beneath the blanket. Peter’s fingers slowed against your ankle. The scientific part of his brain visibly took over for a moment, his eyebrows drawing together as he considered the question properly despite the growing suspicion in his eyes.
“Not the way it would for you,” he explained, his thumb resuming its movement as his attention drifted briefly toward the ceiling. “Circulation’s different. Everything compensates pretty quickly.” You nodded slowly as though this information had been exactly what you were after.
For approximately two seconds, you almost got away with it. Then the corner of your mouth twitched. Peter’s hand stopped dead against your skin. You didn’t look at him immediately, which only made it worse, because you could practically feel his gaze move over the side of your face.
Several long seconds passed before he finally spoke. “What?” There wasn’t much amusement in his voice yet. Mostly suspicion. You shook your head, pressing your lips together harder in an attempt to flatten the smile. “Nothing.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly. His grip around your ankle loosened, but his hand remained exactly where it was. “That wasn’t nothing.” The certainty in his tone made you glance toward him at last, and you immediately regretted it.
Peter was watching you with the calm, patient expression of somebody who had already realised you were guilty and was simply waiting for you to confess. You shrugged and looked back at the television. “I was just thinking it could have practical applications.” Peter went completely still.
There wasn’t an immediate joke, and that was the first thing that made warmth curl unexpectedly through your stomach. The younger Peter would’ve stumbled over five different responses before eventually choosing one, but this Peter had learned how to let silence sit between words instead of panicking and trying to fill it. His thumb remained motionless against your ankle while he stared at you, face unreadable for several long seconds.
Then his gaze moved toward the television. After another beat it travelled upward toward the ceiling. You watched the tiny crease form between his eyebrows and immediately knew his brain had started working. “Don’t,” you warned, sitting a little straighter beneath the blanket.
Peter turned his head toward you again, blinking once as if genuinely confused by the accusation. “I didn’t say anything.” You gave him a pointed look, because silence had never stopped Peter Parker from being obvious. “You’re thinking.”
One eyebrow lifted. He looked almost offended by the concept. “Usually happens.” You pushed his thigh lightly with your foot, but his hand closed more securely around your ankle before you could actually land the kick, the movement effortless and almost automatic.
A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth when you narrowed your eyes at him. “Peter.” Hearing his name in that warning tone only seemed to encourage whatever was happening behind his eyes. He looked toward the ceiling once more, gaze tracking the exposed beam crossing part of the room before returning to you.
“What practical applications?” The question was delivered so calmly that for a second you simply stared at him. Your confidence began disappearing now that he was actually making you explain yourself. Peter waited. He didn’t rush you or start talking over the silence. He simply watched, fingers resting warm around your ankle while his expression remained deceptively neutral.
“You know what I mean,” you muttered eventually. Peter’s eyebrows rose another fraction. “I really don’t.” He absolutely did. The amusement had already started showing around his eyes even if the rest of his face remained composed. You stared him down for another few seconds before releasing a defeated breath through your nose.
“I was wondering if Spider-Man could eat pussy upside down.” The words came quickly once you finally forced them out, and the second they landed between you, your face heated enough that you immediately covered part of it with one hand.
The apartment fell painfully quiet except for the dramatic soundtrack still playing on television. Peter didn’t move. You could feel him staring at you through the spaces between your fingers, and embarrassment rushed in quickly enough that you groaned. “Forget I said anything.”
Peter didn’t laugh. Somehow that was considerably worse. Instead, his gaze slowly travelled upward toward the exposed support beam running across part of your ceiling, and his expression became genuinely thoughtful.
You lowered your hand enough to peek at him through your fingers, disbelief replacing some of your embarrassment when you realised he was actually considering it. “Oh my God.”
Peter glanced toward you. There was the faintest pull between his eyebrows, like he didn’t understand why his reaction was surprising. “What?”
You dropped your hand completely and sat straighter. “You’re actually thinking about it.” His mouth pressed into a line that was very obviously concealing something, although whether it was amusement or embarrassment you couldn’t immediately tell. Peter’s gaze drifted back toward the beam for another second before settling on you. “You asked.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh and shook your head. “As a joke.” Peter didn’t answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on yours, and something quieter shifted behind them. Eventually, he tilted his head slightly. “Was it?” The question was soft enough that your body betrayed you before your mouth could, heat climbing further into your cheeks while you shifted beneath his stare.
You crossed your arms defensively. “Yes.” Peter gave one small nod. “Okay.” That should’ve been the end of it. Instead, the ease with which he accepted your answer irritated you instantly. Your eyes narrowed. “Why did you say it like that?” His brow furrowed, but the movement was a little too innocent. “Like what?”
You stared at him in disbelief. Peter’s thumb had started rubbing against your ankle again, slow and absent, while he tried very hard to look like he genuinely had no idea what you were talking about. “Like you don’t believe me.”
For a second he looked down at where his hand rested against your skin. When his eyes returned to yours, his expression remained calm, but the smallest spark of amusement sat behind it. “Because you’re blushing.” Your mouth fell open. Peter gave you a tiny shrug. “Observation.”
You grabbed for the nearest cushion without thinking. Peter caught it before you got halfway through the swing, one hand closing around the edge with ridiculous ease. A quiet laugh escaped him as your expression sharpened, the sound warm and surprised, like he genuinely hadn’t expected you to resort to violence.
“You’re annoying,” you informed him, tugging once at the cushion before giving up when he didn’t budge. Peter pushed it gently back into your lap. “Yeah,” he said, settling back against the cushions with a tiny smile. “I’ve heard.”
The teasing should’ve ended there, but Peter’s attention travelled toward the ceiling again, and this time you watched him properly. His eyes tracked the exposed beam, then the distance between it and the couch, and something in his expression shifted so subtly that you almost missed it.
The Spider-Man part of Peter had always been different from the Peter everyone else met. Not a separate person exactly, but a version of him stripped of some of the hesitation that followed him through ordinary life. Lately, the line between the two had become thinner. He didn’t need to posture or brag about what he could do.
Confidence simply settled over him whenever he knew exactly what his body was capable of. “It would work,” he said eventually. The statement came so casually that it took you a second to realise what he meant. You blinked and shifted your legs slightly across his lap.
“What?” Peter looked back down at you, as though the answer should’ve been obvious from the entire conversation. “What you asked.” His fingers loosened from your ankle and travelled absently higher along your calf before coming to rest near your knee.
The movement wasn’t overtly sexual, but your attention dropped toward it anyway. “Physically, I mean.” Your stomach tightened slightly at the matter-of-fact tone. “You’ve put thought into this remarkably fast.” Peter’s shoulders lifted with a small shrug. “Occupational hazard.”
You stared at him until his expression finally cracked, the corner of his mouth pulling upward. “And you’re the one who asked.” Your eyes narrowed. “I’m starting to regret it.” The response came before Peter could stop himself.
“No, you’re not.” It was quieter than everything else he’d said, immediate enough that both of you paused. Peter seemed to hear himself a second late. Something shy flickered over his face and his gaze dipped toward your legs before returning to you. He cleared his throat softly.
“I mean,” he added, suddenly looking far less certain than he had two seconds earlier, “you don’t look like you regret it.” There he was underneath the maturity, still Peter enough to talk himself straight into embarrassment and get faintly pink around the ears once he realised it.
“You’re getting awfully confident for somebody who climbed through my window ten minutes ago complaining about a pigeon,” you murmured, and the comment made Peter breathe out a laugh as he gently shifted your legs away from his lap.
He pushed himself upright and stood, stretching one shoulder until something clicked quietly beneath the suit. His face tightened for half a second at the feeling before relaxing again, and then he looked down at you.
“The pigeon caught me off guard.” His delivery was so completely serious that your mouth twitched. You gave him a pointed look anyway. “Sure.”
Peter stepped closer until his knees nearly touched yours, and the humour remained in his expression even as something warmer started settling underneath it. He rested one hand against the back of the couch beside your shoulder, leaning forward only slightly, but enough that you had to tip your chin upward to keep looking at him.
Up close, you could see every sign of the night he’d had. The small cut near his temple. The bruise along his cheek. The shadows beneath his eyes that told you sleep had probably been optional far too often lately. Yet his attention had narrowed entirely onto you now.
“You know,” he murmured, his gaze flicking briefly over your face, “you’re making fun of me, but this was your question.” You tried to maintain the same unimpressed expression even as your pulse picked up. “A hypothetical question.”
Peter’s eyes dropped toward your mouth. They stayed there for one brief second before returning to yours. “Right.” You swallowed without meaning to. His gaze sharpened immediately, because of course he noticed that too.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Very hypothetical.” You placed one hand against the centre of his chest and pushed lightly, though he barely shifted beneath your palm.
“Don’t be smug.” Peter’s brows lifted, his expression instantly innocent. “I’m not.” You gave him a look. Peter lasted approximately another second before his mouth twitched. “Maybe a little.”
His hand moved from the back of the couch to your jaw slowly enough that you felt every second of it, fingertips settling lightly beneath your chin while his thumb brushed once across your cheek. There was nothing rushed about Peter anymore when he touched you like this.
Even when some lingering patrol adrenaline remained beneath his skin, even when you could feel the strength he constantly kept restrained whenever his body moved near yours, there was a deliberate patience to him that hadn’t existed when he was younger.
He leaned closer until his forehead nearly touched yours, but he stopped just short of actually kissing you. His eyes moved between yours, waiting. You were the one who closed the distance. The first kiss was soft, almost frustratingly so considering the conversation that had led to it, Peter’s mouth moving slowly against yours while his fingers remained warm beneath your jaw.
Your hands caught the front of his suit and pulled him closer, bunching the material beneath your fingers, and a quiet breath escaped through his nose as he let the kiss deepen. His other hand settled against your knee, palm warm through the thin fabric covering you, before sliding gradually higher along your thigh.
He stopped well before reaching anywhere intimate, but the weight of his hand there was enough to make your body shift beneath him. Peter noticed. You felt the tiny pause in his mouth against yours before he pulled away just far enough to look at you.
His lips remained close enough to brush yours whenever either of you breathed. “Still hypothetical?” he asked softly. Your eyes opened fully and found him watching you with restrained amusement, his thumb still moving slowly against your cheek.
You tightened your grip against his suit. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” Peter’s eyes dropped toward your mouth again while he considered that. “A little.” Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of your lips, followed the line of your jaw and stopped beneath your ear. His breath warmed your skin there, and when your shoulders shifted involuntarily, Peter’s hand flexed lightly against your thigh. “Mostly I’m curious.”
“You’re such a fucking nerd,” you whispered, although there wasn’t much conviction left behind the insult with his mouth still lingering against your neck. You felt him smile rather than saw it, the movement pressing faintly against your skin before he lifted his head. “You brought science into it.”
You laughed softly and let your hands slide higher along his chest. “I asked whether you could eat pussy upside down. I didn’t exactly submit a research proposal.” Peter looked at you for one long beat, his eyes darkening with amusement before he murmured, “Could’ve fooled me.” You pushed his shoulder again on instinct.
Peter caught your wrist automatically before your hand travelled more than a few inches, his fingers closing around it with almost insulting ease. He didn’t pin it anywhere or tighten his grip. Instead, he turned your hand over slowly and pressed his mouth briefly against the centre of your palm.
The affection of the gesture caught you so completely off guard that whatever retort you’d been preparing disappeared. Peter seemed to notice the way your expression softened, because his own did too before he released your wrist.
He stayed standing between your knees, close enough that the fronts of his legs brushed yours whenever either of you shifted. “There are variables,” he said after a moment. You stared up at him. “There absolutely are not.”
His brows rose, and some of the scientist returned to his face. “There absolutely are.” He wasn’t babbling through the thought process anymore the way he once might’ve. Instead, he considered each thing before saying it, gaze moving briefly around the room as though he were actually planning the logistics.
“Height,” he said first, looking toward the ceiling. His eyes moved downward again, briefly measuring the space between you and the beam. “Angle. Where you’re sitting.” Then his gaze returned to your face and lingered there. “How much you move.”
Heat rushed into your cheeks immediately. “How much I move?” Peter nodded once, maintaining complete seriousness for approximately half a second before the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“That seems relevant.” You stared at him. “You’re impossible.” His expression softened into something almost unbearably fond. “You like me.”
Before you could give him the satisfaction of answering, Peter stepped backward and tilted his head toward the ceiling again. His gaze locked onto the exposed beam, and in that instant there was another subtle change in him, the tired boyfriend who’d been sprawled across your lap quietly making room for the man who spent every night calculating distances in fractions of seconds.
He lifted one wrist. The movement was casual, practised enough that he barely needed to look before firing a strand of webbing upward with a sharp thwip, the line attaching cleanly around the beam overhead. Peter gave it one firm tug, testing the hold, then glanced toward you when you immediately sat straighter on the couch.
“Peter.” His hand stopped around the web. He looked at you over his shoulder, expression open but carrying that small spark of amusement he’d been trying and failing to hide for the last ten minutes. “What?”
Your eyes travelled from his face to the line stretching toward the ceiling and then back again. “You’re seriously doing this.” Peter didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped briefly toward your legs, then moved back to your face, and despite all the quiet confidence from seconds earlier, a faint flush began creeping along the tops of his ears.
That tiny betrayal made your mouth curve. He caught the smile immediately and narrowed his eyes just slightly. “You started it,” he reminded you, voice softer now. Then Peter caught the web firmly with one hand, planted the other palm against the wall and stepped onto the vertical surface as naturally as somebody else might climb a staircase.
There wasn’t any theatrical flourish to it. One second he was standing beside you, and the next his body moved smoothly upward, muscles shifting beneath the suit as his hands and feet stuck effortlessly to the wall. You watched him climb, your eyes travelling farther than you intended before Peter stopped halfway toward the ceiling.
He turned his head and looked down at you. His gaze immediately caught yours somewhere around his waist before you could drag it back toward his face, and the little smile that appeared told you he’d noticed exactly where you’d been looking.
Peter adjusted his grip around the web, briefly glanced toward the ceiling as though genuinely checking the logistics one final time, then looked back down. “For the experiment,” he started, trying for clinical and failing because his voice had gone noticeably lower,
“I’m probably gonna need your underwear out of the way.” The words hung there for a second. Peter’s expression shifted almost immediately afterward, confidence giving way to sudden self-awareness as he visibly replayed the sentence inside his head.
His lips pressed together. His cheeks warmed another shade. Then he looked off toward the wall and muttered, “That sounded better in my head.”
You should’ve laughed at him, because the faint colour spreading over Peter’s cheeks after his own terrible choice of words was painfully endearing, but the amusement caught somewhere in your throat when you realised how fast the atmosphere in the room had changed.
The oversized shirt you’d thrown on earlier suddenly felt considerably less innocent where it hung loose around your body, its hem barely covering the tops of your thighs and leaving nothing underneath except the soft cotton panties already clinging wetly to your cunt.
There wasn’t a bra beneath the shirt either, because there hadn’t been any reason for one when your original plans involved a couch, leftovers and probably falling asleep against Peter before the movie finished, but now you were painfully aware of your nipples tightening beneath the thin material
and the way the shirt shifted against them whenever you breathed. Peter noticed too, because of course he did, his eyes dropping for half a second before flicking guiltily back toward your face as though getting caught staring somehow mattered after the conversation you’d just had. That tiny flash of embarrassment only made the heat curling through your stomach worse.
You shifted against the cushions without meaning to, thighs pressing together beneath the hem of your shirt, and the movement made you feel exactly how wet you’d become. Your panties were warm and damp against your pussy, slick spreading through the cotton where it pressed between your folds and dragging against your clit every time you moved, making the ache beneath it noticeably sharper.
It had happened gradually enough that you hadn’t properly noticed at first, beginning as nothing more than a little warmth when Peter started taking your stupid question seriously, building every time his voice dropped or his hand lingered against your thigh or that quiet Spider-Man confidence replaced the awkward embarrassment in his face. Now there was no ignoring it.
Your cunt felt swollen beneath the thin fabric, your clit throbbing against the soaked cotton, and squeezing your thighs together only forced the material tighter against you in a way that made your breath catch. Peter’s eyes dipped toward the movement, and the way his jaw tightened told you he knew exactly what was happening.
He was still clinging halfway up the wall when his gaze settled on your thighs properly. You watched the exact second he noticed the damp centre of your panties beneath the loose hem of your shirt, because his expression changed so slightly anyone else might’ve missed it, the amusement fading into something heavier while his mouth parted around a silent breath.
You swallowed beneath the weight of his stare and slowly let your knees fall apart by a few inches, the oversized shirt sliding higher over your skin until more of your bare thighs were exposed to him. Peter’s eyes followed the movement helplessly before darting back to your face, almost like he was trying to pretend he hadn’t just stared straight between your legs.
You let him struggle for another second before tilting your head and asking, “You gonna keep analysing it from up there, Parker, or are you actually planning on proving something?”
The words came out more confidently than you felt, and Peter’s lips parted immediately like some smart response had occurred to him, only for his gaze to fall between your thighs again and apparently wipe the thought straight out of his head.
He forced himself to look toward the ceiling instead, taking one slow breath that expanded his chest beneath the tight suit while he visibly tried to collect himself.
The pink across his cheeks didn’t disappear, but something else settled over his expression, quieter and more focused, that familiar shift where Peter stopped looking like the tired man who’d climbed through your window and started looking like Spider-Man calculating exactly what his body needed to do.
He tightened one hand around the strand of webbing he’d attached to the exposed ceiling beam and planted his opposite palm firmly against the wall, fingers adhering instantly to the surface. Peter gave the web a hard downward tug to test the hold, then another, his forearm flexing beneath the suit while he checked the angle and distance above you.
Even though both of you knew his webbing could support far more than his weight, he still treated the setup seriously, eyes travelling along the line to the beam before returning to the open space in front of the couch. Watching him turn something so filthy into a genuine logistical problem made your pussy pulse again.
Once Peter was satisfied, he pushed himself upward. One foot stuck to the wall, then the other, his knees bending as he climbed higher with that unnerving ease that always reminded you his body didn’t obey the same rules as yours.
He moved slowly enough that you could watch every controlled shift of muscle beneath the suit, hands and feet alternating against the wall until his head was nearly level with the ceiling. Peter paused there, twisted enough to look over his shoulder at you and immediately caught your gaze somewhere lower than his face.
The suit had pulled tight across his stomach and hips from the position, leaving very little to the imagination, and the slight lift of his eyebrow told you he knew exactly what you’d been looking at. He didn’t tease you for it, though. He only swallowed, glanced down toward your spread thighs again, then deliberately turned his attention back to what he was doing before either of you embarrassed yourselves further.
Peter shifted both feet from the wall onto the ceiling itself, one after the other, until he was crouched completely above you like gravity had simply stopped mattering. Both palms pressed flat against the ceiling while his knees bent beneath him, and his messy brown hair had already started falling away from his forehead.
He repositioned one hand, then slowly rotated his hips, moving one foot and then the other until his back faced the wall and his body was aligned directly above the space between your knees. The movement was controlled and strangely graceful, every adjustment precise enough that you could tell he was already thinking about where his mouth needed to end up.
Then Peter caught the webbing again with both hands and released his feet from the ceiling. His legs unfolded above him as his body gradually lowered beneath the beam, gravity pulling him straight until he hung fully upside down in front of you.
His hair dropped toward the floor immediately, soft brown strands hanging messily away from his forehead and making him look unmistakably like Peter despite the Spider-Man suit covering everything else.
He gave the web another firm pull, tested his weight, then released one hand and twisted his shoulders slightly to make sure he wasn’t going to rotate once he started moving against you. His free palm briefly pressed against the wall beside him, steadying his body while he adjusted the webbing around his wrist and lowered himself another few inches.
Peter’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he measured the distance between his face and the edge of the couch, then looked at you, down toward the floor from his inverted perspective and back toward you again. “Too high,” he muttered quietly to himself, releasing a little more web until his upside-down face was almost level with your knees.
The seriousness of it should’ve been funny, but there was something obscene about watching Spider-Man carefully calibrate the exact height he needed so he could eat your pussy comfortably.
You couldn’t help smiling at him while he made one final adjustment, and Peter caught it from the corner of his eye. His brows pulled together as he stretched one arm toward the wall again, using his palm to stop the last slow swing of his body before becoming almost perfectly still.
“What?” he asked, a faintly defensive edge slipping into his voice as though he suspected you were about to make fun of him. You shook your head slowly, letting your gaze wander down his inverted body again because there was something unfairly attractive about how comfortable he looked hanging there.
“Nothing,” you murmured, and Peter’s mouth twitched because neither of you believed that for a second. Once he was satisfied with the position, he released the wall and let both hands drop toward you, flexing his fingers experimentally while checking whether maintaining the position took any actual effort.
Apparently it didn’t. He looked almost irritatingly relaxed hanging upside down in front of you, like this was simply another perfectly reasonable way for him to spend an evening.
“Okay,” Peter murmured eventually, and his voice had gone noticeably rougher than before. His eyes travelled from your face down toward the oversized shirt pooled around your thighs, then lower still until his gaze settled on the damp cotton between them. You watched his throat work when he swallowed.
The change in him made you scoot forward without being asked, the couch cushions compressing beneath your weight as you moved toward the edge, and Peter immediately adjusted in response. He released tiny lengths of webbing at a time, lowering himself inch by inch until his face lined up perfectly with the space between your thighs.
Every time you shifted forward, he compensated automatically, like some part of his brain was mapping the distance before you even stopped moving. You’d watched Spider-Man judge impossible gaps between buildings in fractions of seconds, twist through traffic and catch himself midair without hesitation, and now every bit of that ridiculous coordination was being devoted to putting his mouth exactly where you wanted it.
When you finally reached the edge of the couch, Peter’s upside-down face was directly between your knees. His hair almost brushed the floor beneath him, and his shoulders hovered close enough that your thighs could touch them if you spread a little wider. The humour disappeared from his expression the moment you did.
You let your knees fall apart slowly, deliberately, watching his reaction while the hem of your oversized shirt slid higher and exposed more bare skin until the soaked centre of your panties was completely visible to him. Peter’s eyes followed every inch of the movement.
His lips parted when he saw how dark the cotton had become between your legs, and his breathing changed before he said anything, one deeper inhale expanding his chest before he released it slowly through his nose.
You felt another warm pulse of slick leak from your cunt into the fabric under his stare, making the already damp cotton cling more tightly to your folds.
Peter looked back toward your face for a moment, then down again like he simply couldn’t stop himself. When your own gaze travelled down the inverted length of his body in return, tracing the suit over his chest and stomach before reaching his hips, you immediately noticed the shape beginning to push against the fabric between his thighs.
Peter was getting hard just from watching you spread your legs for him. His cock thickened beneath the suit until the material stretched visibly tighter around it, the outline becoming harder to ignore every time his eyes returned to the soaked cotton covering your pussy.
Seeing that reaction made your cunt clench. Peter noticed where you were looking and let out a tiny, embarrassed sound in the back of his throat, but the flush crawling over his upside-down face did absolutely nothing to stop his cock from straining harder against the suit.
He reached for you carefully once you were settled. Both hands slid around the backs of your thighs, palms warm against your skin as he gently pulled you a little closer toward the edge until your covered pussy hovered only inches above his mouth.
The strength in his grip was obvious despite how careful he was, fingers spreading against your thighs while he adjusted you into exactly the position he wanted and then immediately loosening again. His eyes returned to your panties.
Peter’s tongue dragged slowly over his bottom lip before he hooked two fingers beneath the waistband at one hip, his knuckles brushing your skin and making your stomach tighten. “Lift up for me,” he murmured,
and the slight roughness in his voice made the request sound considerably dirtier than it needed to. You planted your hands against the couch and raised your hips, watching Peter’s gaze darken as he started pulling the cotton slowly downward.
The panties peeled away from your pussy with a damp little drag that made heat rush straight into your face. Peter’s eyes snapped toward the movement, watching the fabric separate from the slick caught between your folds before he guided the waistband over your ass and down your thighs.
You lifted one leg, then the other, allowing him to slide them completely free, and cool air hitting your bare cunt made you inhale sharply. Your thighs twitched around his head while your pussy clenched around nothing.
Slick immediately gathering glossy between your swollen folds now that nothing covered them. Peter stared. For several seconds he didn’t seem capable of doing anything else, your panties held loosely in one hand while his eyes traced every wet inch of you.
You expected him to throw the panties somewhere. Instead, his attention dropped to the fabric in his hand. The centre was visibly soaked, dark with your arousal, and Peter’s fingers tightened around the cotton almost without him realising it.
His eyes flicked toward you briefly, something embarrassed already creeping across his expression, before he lifted the panties toward his nose and inhaled. His lashes fluttered shut.
The pathetic little whimper that escaped him sounded completely involuntary, soft and needy enough that his entire body went still the instant he heard it. Peter’s eyes opened again, cheeks burning while he stared at the underwear still held against his face like he couldn’t believe his own reaction.
You bit your lip to stop yourself laughing, but Peter caught it immediately. His eyes narrowed in warning, though whatever dignity he was trying to recover disappeared when he pressed the soaked cotton more firmly beneath his nose and took another slower breath. His mouth parted.
Another tiny, broken sound caught somewhere in his throat, and his cock visibly twitched beneath the suit at the same time. “Peter,” you breathed, his name coming out somewhere between disbelief and a moan, and the sound made his eyes snap back toward yours.
There was embarrassment in them, plenty of it, but there was something hotter underneath now, a kind of needy fascination he clearly couldn’t hide.
He lowered the panties from his face but didn’t let them go. Instead, Peter’s gaze travelled between your legs again, settling on your exposed pussy where your folds were already shiny with slick.
Your lips were swollen from arousal, parted enough that he could see the wet little opening lower down and the way your cunt clenched every time his eyes lingered there.
Peter stared openly. His tongue moved across his bottom lip while his breathing grew a little heavier, and you watched another visible throb travel through his cock beneath the suit. “Fuck,” he whispered almost absently,
the word slipping out before he seemed aware he’d actually spoken. When your pussy clenched again in response, a fresh bead of slick gathered at your entrance and began sliding downward through your folds, and Peter’s eyes locked onto it instantly.
He leaned closer, but instead of putting his mouth on you immediately, the hand still holding your panties moved between your thighs. Peter folded the soaked cotton loosely around two fingers, his eyes lifting toward yours as though checking your reaction before he touched you.
The first drag of fabric over your clit was almost unbearably light. Damp cotton brushed across the swollen little bud, carrying your own slick with it, and your hips jerked forward before you could stop yourself. Peter’s lips parted around a quiet breath. He did it again, slower this time, rubbing the wet fabric directly over your clit in a small circle while watching your face with intense concentration.
The texture made everything feel filthier. The panties were already soaked from being pressed against your cunt, and now Peter was using that same wet patch to stroke your clit, dragging the soft cotton over it until the fabric became even slicker.
Your thighs spread farther around his head, and Peter’s cock twitched visibly beneath the suit when he saw you deliberately open yourself wider for him. He rubbed the panties against your clit again, applying a little more pressure this time, and a shaky moan slipped out of you before you could swallow it.
Peter’s expression changed immediately. Something pleased and slightly wrecked moved across his face, his eyes dropping toward the way your pussy glistened beneath the fabric.
He shifted the panties lower for a second, dragging the soaked cotton through your folds and pressing it lightly against your entrance before pulling it back toward your clit.
The sensation made your cunt clench against the fabric, smearing more slick into it, and Peter’s eyes went almost painfully dark when he watched your body wet the panties even further.
He brought them back toward his face without thinking, took another breath against the newly soaked cotton and whimpered again, louder this time. The sound made your stomach tighten so hard it almost hurt.
Peter looked genuinely pathetic about it, hanging upside down with your panties clutched in one hand, cheeks flushed, cock straining against the suit and eyes half-lidded because apparently smelling and touching your wet cunt at the same time had overwhelmed whatever remaining dignity he possessed.
“You like that way too much,” you murmured breathlessly, watching Peter’s expression tighten in embarrassment before his gaze returned between your thighs. He didn’t deny it. Instead, he dragged the panties once more across your clit, slow enough to make your hips chase the pressure, then let the fabric fall away from you while keeping it clenched in his fingers.
Your pussy looked even messier now, slick spread over your swollen folds and clit from the rubbing, and Peter stared at the shine covering you. His mouth opened slightly. The tip of his tongue appeared against his bottom lip. You could practically see the moment restraint disappeared.
Peter leaned closer without touching at first. Warm breath rolled across your exposed cunt, making your thighs twitch around his shoulders, and his eyes lifted toward yours from between them. The look on his face made your pulse jump.
There was still a little awkward Peter beneath it, still that faint flush along his cheeks, but the confidence had settled back over him now that he knew exactly what he wanted to do.
He closed the remaining distance and pressed his mouth directly against your pussy. The first contact was open and wet, his lips settling over your slick folds before his tongue dragged slowly from your entrance upward.
He started at the wet little hole already leaking for him, catching the slick there with the tip of his tongue before flattening it against you and licking all the way through your folds. When his tongue passed firmly over your clit, your entire body jerked.
One hand flew into Peter’s hanging hair and closed around a fistful of it while your thighs threatened to clamp around his head. Peter groaned straight into your cunt when you pulled him closer, the vibration travelling through your clit
and making your hips buck hard enough that both of his hands immediately returned to your thighs. He steadied you with effortless strength, fingers digging carefully into the soft flesh while his mouth stayed exactly where you wanted it.
Being upside down didn’t hinder him in the slightest once he found the angle. If anything, Peter seemed fascinated by figuring out what worked from the position, lowering himself another fraction on the web and turning his head until he could bury his mouth comfortably against you without straining his neck.
His tongue pushed between your folds again, licking through the slick coating you before dipping lower toward your entrance. He collected everything your body gave him before dragging it back toward your clit, smearing your arousal over the swollen bud with broad, messy strokes.
You could hear how wet you were every time his mouth moved. Soft, filthy sounds filled the apartment beneath your breathing, and Peter seemed to fucking love every one of them.
His nose brushed against your clit when his tongue slid lower, nudging it accidentally before he realised the reaction it caused. Your hips jerked. Your fingers tightened painfully in his hair. Peter’s eyes opened wider and immediately did it again on purpose, pressing the bridge of his nose against your clit while his tongue worked lower through your folds.
The combination made a broken sound tear from your throat, and Peter groaned directly against your pussy like hearing you lose control was affecting him just as badly. His cock jerked visibly inside the suit. Even upside down, you could see the thick outline trapped against the fabric, painfully hard and twitching every time you moaned his name.
When Peter finally wrapped his lips around your clit, your back arched away from the couch. He sucked slowly at first, tongue pressing against the sensitive little bud inside his mouth while your thighs shook around him.
Your grip in his hair tightened until you were practically using it to hold him exactly where you wanted him. Peter let you. More than that, the pathetic moan that vibrated against your cunt when you pulled his hair told you he fucking liked it.
His hands spread your thighs wider, fingers firm but careful, and he buried his face deeper between them until his mouth and chin were shining with your slick.
Every time you forced yourself to look down, the sight made the pleasure worse. Peter looked obscene hanging upside down between your legs, messy hair falling toward the floor while his mouth worked relentlessly against your cunt.
Your pussy was visibly swollen around his face, wet folds spreading around his tongue every time he licked upward, slick coating his lips and gathering along his chin.
Whenever he pulled away just enough to breathe, you could see your arousal glistening across his skin. Then his mouth would immediately return, like even a few seconds away from tasting you was too long.
Peter’s eyes were half-lidded but intensely focused. Whenever you made a particularly desperate sound, they opened wider and fixed on your face, watching for the exact movement that had caused it before he repeated whatever he’d done.
His tongue slid back down to your entrance, circling it slowly before pushing inside just enough to make your cunt tighten around him. Peter whimpered when he felt you clench. The sound came muffled and needy against your pussy, followed by another little twitch of his hips in the air as if his body was searching automatically for something to grind his cock against.
Your gaze travelled down his inverted body again, following the tight suit over his stomach and hips until you found the thick outline straining between his thighs. Peter was fully hard now. Painfully hard from the look of it, the fabric stretched tight enough around his cock that every involuntary twitch was obvious.
He hadn’t touched himself once. He was getting that worked up purely from being between your legs, from licking your cunt and smelling your wet panties and feeling your pussy clench around his tongue. The knowledge made another rush of slick spill from you.
Peter caught you staring at his cock. His eyes followed your gaze as much as his inverted position allowed, and for a second embarrassment flashed visibly across his face. It didn’t last long.
Something filthier replaced it, something hot and needy and almost proud when he realised you were watching exactly how hard eating you out had made him. He held your gaze as he lowered his mouth back toward your pussy. Then he wrapped his lips around your clit again and sucked hard enough to make your whole body arch.
The cry that tore from you was loud enough that Peter’s eyes widened for half a second. Then something pleased flickered across his face. He sucked again, slower this time, tongue pressing insistently against your clit while his lips pulled around it.
Your thighs shook so badly against his hands that he tightened his grip enough to keep you comfortably spread. Your fingers twisted deeper into his hair, and you ground shamelessly against his mouth, using him while he hung there between your legs. Peter moaned like the idea of being used for your pleasure was doing something terrible to him.
His cock twitched again. Hard. The movement was obvious enough that you couldn’t stop staring, and when Peter noticed your eyes drop there, another pathetic little sound vibrated against your cunt. “Fuck, Peter,” you gasped, voice breaking around his name while your hips rolled harder against his tongue.
He answered by dragging one long stroke through your pussy, licking from your entrance all the way over your clit before immediately repeating it. Your own slick coated his tongue, lips and chin, and every time he licked you clean your body seemed determined to make another mess for him.
He looked completely gone on it now. Flushed, breathless, hanging upside down with your soaked panties still twisted around one hand and his cock straining desperately beneath the Spider-Man suit while his tongue worked over your cunt like he couldn’t make himself stop.
Every few seconds his fingers tightened around the panties, almost like he’d forgotten he was still holding them until the smell reached him again. Once, he brought them briefly back beneath his nose while his mouth hovered inches from your pussy and took another deep breath, eyes closing as a shaky whimper escaped him. The sight was so fucking filthy that your cunt clenched hard enough for Peter to see it.
His eyes snapped open. He watched your pussy contract around nothing, slick shining at your entrance, and immediately dropped the panties away so he could put his mouth back on you. His tongue pressed against your clit with quicker little strokes now, then slowed deliberately whenever your hips started moving too frantically.
Peter was learning you too easily, teasing without even seeming to mean to, changing rhythm every time he felt your thighs tremble or heard your breathing break. The pleasure tightened lower in your stomach, hot and heavy and increasingly difficult to ignore.
Your head fell back against the couch. The oversized shirt had ridden high over your stomach from all the movement, leaving most of your thighs and lower body completely exposed while Peter kept you spread open for him. Your mouth stayed open around helpless sounds that only seemed to encourage him.
Every time you whispered or moaned his name, Peter’s cock jerked beneath the suit and another needy sound escaped into your pussy. He was so hard from eating you that it looked genuinely uncomfortable, but he still never reached down to touch himself.
When your thighs began shaking harder around his head, Peter tightened his grip just enough to steady them. His eyes lifted toward your face from between your legs, his expression flushed and desperate despite the control in every movement of his mouth.
His lips were wet. His chin was slick. Your panties were still clutched in one hand. His cock was painfully hard beneath the suit. He looked utterly wrecked by your pussy and somehow still completely determined to keep going until you were worse.
Whatever stupid joke had started this had disappeared completely. There was nothing hypothetical about Peter hanging upside down between your legs anymore, mouth buried against your dripping cunt while your thighs trembled around his head and your fingers pulled at his hair.
The experiment had stopped being about whether Spider-Man could eat pussy upside down somewhere around the moment he’d whimpered into your soaked panties. Now it was just Peter licking, sucking and grinding his mouth against you with his cock painfully trapped inside his suit, apparently determined to find out exactly how badly he could make you fall apart before he finally had to come back down.
Peter was so completely lost between your thighs by that point that whatever embarrassment he’d carried into the whole thing had burned away, leaving him flushed, needy and devastatingly focused on your pussy. His tongue kept working over your swollen clit in slow, wet circles before flattening firmly against it, and every time your thighs trembled around his head his fingers flexed into the soft flesh to keep you spread exactly where he wanted you.
Your hips had stopped pretending to stay still, grinding shamelessly against his mouth whenever he found the right pressure, and Peter took every movement without complaint, letting you push yourself harder against his tongue while he moaned beneath you. The slick noises coming from between your legs were impossible to ignore now, wet and messy every time his mouth dragged through your folds, and Peter seemed to get more worked up with every sound.
Your gaze kept slipping down the inverted length of his body toward the cock straining inside his suit, and this time you noticed the fabric over the head had begun to darken. A tiny wet spot had appeared where his tip pressed against the material, followed moments later by another glossy bead of precum soaking through when his cock twitched violently at the sound of you moaning his name.
Peter noticed exactly where you were staring, his eyes following your gaze as much as the upside-down position allowed, but instead of becoming shy again, he let out a pathetic little whimper directly against your cunt.
The vibration rolled through your clit and made you jerk against him, your fingers tightening in his hair while another bead of precum seeped through the suit, leaving the fabric visibly damp around the head of his cock.
He hadn’t even touched himself, hadn’t reached down once despite how painfully hard he looked, and knowing that eating your pussy alone had him leaking into the Spider-Man suit made your stomach pull tighter with pleasure.
Peter felt you getting close before you managed to tell him. Your breathing had become uneven and broken, your thighs trembling constantly instead of occasionally, and every slow circle of his tongue made your cunt clench helplessly around nothing. Your fingers twisted harder into his hair when his lips closed around your clit, and Peter answered with a hungry moan, sucking the swollen little bud while the tip of his tongue rubbed firmly over it.
Your stomach tightened painfully. Heat gathered lower and lower until your entire body felt wound around the sensation of Peter’s mouth, and when he sucked again while his tongue flicked against you, the pressure finally broke. Your orgasm hit hard enough that your body went rigid before immediately falling apart beneath it, hips bucking into his face while your pussy clenched and pulsed through each wave. Peter didn’t stop.
He groaned against you as you came, keeping his lips and tongue pressed against your clit while fresh slick spilled across his mouth, coating his tongue, lips and chin as he licked you through every trembling aftershock.
Your thighs tried to close around his head, but his hands held them apart with gentle strength while you cried his name and ground against him, too overwhelmed to care how messy you were making his face.
The sight of you cumming seemed to hit Peter almost as hard as it hit you, because his cock jerked sharply beneath the suit and another wet bead of precum pushed through the fabric, joining the dark patch already spread around the tip.
By the time the orgasm began fading, your whole body had gone loose and shaky against the couch, your clit still twitching with sensitivity every time Peter’s tongue passed over it. You had to tug gently at his hair before he finally understood that you needed him to stop, because he’d become so absorbed in licking the last of your slick from your folds that he seemed genuinely reluctant to pull his mouth away.
Peter left one final kiss against your pussy before lifting his head, and the sight of him made something hot stir inside you all over again despite how sensitive you still were. Your slick was smeared all over the lower half of his face. His lips were wet and slightly swollen from eating you, his chin glistened beneath the light from the television, and there was even a faint shine along the edge of his cheek where your arousal had spread while you ground against him.
Peter looked up at you from his inverted position, breathing heavily, hair hanging messily toward the floor and expression completely satisfied with what he’d done to you. You reached toward him before you’d even fully decided what you wanted, fingers sliding beneath his jaw and turning his upside-down face slightly toward you.
His eyebrows lifted in question, but Peter stayed perfectly still when you leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly across his chin. The taste of your own slick hit your tongue immediately, warm and intimate from where it coated his skin, and Peter’s mouth fell open around a soft sound when you licked another stripe upward toward the corner of his mouth.
You cleaned your arousal from his face slowly, tongue passing across his jaw, chin and swollen lips, deliberately gathering every wet trace he’d left there until his skin was almost clean.
Peter watched you the entire time. His eyes were darker now, following the movement of your mouth with obvious hunger while his cock continued twitching helplessly inside the damp suit. You licked the final streak of slick from his bottom lip and sat back just enough to let the mixture of your arousal and saliva collect deliberately in your mouth instead of swallowing it.
Peter’s expression shifted as he realised what you were doing, his eyes widening slightly before dropping toward your lips. You kept one hand beneath his jaw and tipped his face toward yours. “Open your mouth,” you told him softly. Peter obeyed immediately, lips parting and tongue visible while he looked at you with the same needy openness he’d shown when he’d sniffed your panties earlier.
You leaned closer until your faces were only inches apart, held his gaze and spat the slick mixture straight onto his tongue. Peter made a quiet, breathless moan when it landed in his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he closed his lips, swallowed everything you’d given him and then ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip like he didn’t want to waste even the taste left behind.
You watched his throat move as he swallowed, and his cock jerked beneath the suit hard enough that another tiny bead of precum soaked through the already damp material. The reaction pulled a satisfied smile from you, and Peter looked almost dazed when you brushed your thumb across his wet lower lip before telling him, “Come back down.”
Peter reacted immediately, although he was noticeably less composed than he’d been when he originally positioned himself above you. He reached upward along the webbing and pulled himself toward the ceiling with one arm, the muscles across his stomach tightening beneath the suit as he brought both feet back against the surface above him.
His palms adhered beside them while he twisted his hips and shoulders, carefully turning himself from the inverted hanging position into a crouch against the ceiling. He released one hand, planted it firmly against the wall and transferred one foot onto the vertical surface before the other followed, movements still controlled despite the obvious erection trapped painfully between his thighs.
Peter climbed downward quickly, peeling one hand and foot from the wall at a time while the remaining limbs kept him anchored, until he was low enough to simply push away and land softly on the floor in front of you.
He had barely straightened before you stood. Your legs immediately betrayed you, knees wobbling from the orgasm strongly enough that Peter’s expression changed and one hand shot instinctively around your waist to catch you.
A quiet, breathy laugh escaped him, but it lasted barely a second because you grabbed the front of his suit, pulled him toward you and kissed him hard. Peter stumbled half a step before recovering, one arm tightening around your waist while the other hand slid behind your neck, and then his mouth opened against yours without hesitation. You could still taste yourself faintly on his tongue when it met yours, the knowledge of what he’d just swallowed making the kiss feel filthy in a completely different way.
There wasn’t any of Peter’s earlier shyness left once you were standing together. He kissed you with an open hunger that made it obvious how long he’d spent desperately hard while concentrating entirely on you, tongue pushing against yours while his hands moved restlessly over your waist and back.
Your body pressed flush against his, and the instant his cock was trapped between your stomach and his suit you could feel exactly how hard he’d become. You slid one hand down between your bodies and covered the thick bulge through the fabric, pressing your palm firmly against his cock. Peter immediately broke the kiss with a loud, helpless moan against your mouth, hips jerking forward into your hand before he could stop himself.
He’d never been particularly quiet when sex was involved, and now that the embarrassment was gone he didn’t bother holding back anything. Every slow stroke of your palm over his cock pulled another sound from him, sometimes a rough groan from deep in his chest, sometimes a higher broken moan when your fingers rubbed directly over the damp fabric covering his sensitive head.
You could feel the heat of him even through the suit, his cock solid beneath your hand and twitching hard whenever your thumb circled the tip. Peter rested his forehead against yours for a second, eyes squeezing shut while his mouth remained open around another needy sound, then immediately kissed you again like he couldn’t stand being separated from you for even that long.
You kept palming him while you kissed, fingers tracing the full outline of his cock through the suit from the base to the leaking tip. The wet patch of precum had spread enough that the material felt faintly damp beneath your fingertips, and when you rubbed over it Peter shuddered visibly.
His hips rolled forward on instinct, pushing his cock harder against your palm while his hand tightened against your waist. “Keep doing that,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough and broken, and you barely gave him time to finish before dragging your palm slowly down the length of him again.
Peter moaned openly into your mouth, completely unconcerned with hiding how good it felt. There was something incredibly sexual about how expressive he was, the way every touch pulled an immediate reaction from him, whether it was his breathing catching, his stomach tightening beneath the suit,
his cock jumping against your hand or another sound spilling straight into your kiss. The shy colour remained faintly across his cheeks, but it wasn’t embarrassment anymore. He wanted you to know what you were doing to him.
The oversized shirt still hanging around your body suddenly felt like far too much clothing. You pulled back just enough to catch the hem with both hands and dragged it slowly upward over your stomach, and Peter’s attention immediately dropped toward the movement.
The fabric rose past your ribs, exposing more bare skin, and his breathing changed when the lower curves of your boobs appeared. You pulled the shirt completely over your head and tossed it somewhere behind the couch, leaving yourself naked from the waist up in front of him. Peter went completely still for a second.
His cock was still pressed against your hip through the suit, his lips remained wet from kissing you, but his eyes dropped straight toward your boobs with such naked appreciation that your nipples hardened beneath the attention alone.
His hands lifted slowly, almost reverently, palms settling around the soft weight of your boobs before his thumbs brushed across both nipples. The contact made you inhale sharply, and Peter’s eyes immediately lifted toward your face to watch your reaction before returning to your chest.
He touched your boobs like he couldn’t get enough of them. His hands squeezed gently, thumbs rubbing across your hardened nipples before his fingers spread underneath and lifted them slightly in his palms. Peter leaned forward and kissed the upper curve of one boob, then another kiss lower, then another closer to your nipple until his tongue finally dragged slowly across it.
Your fingers slid into his hair as his lips closed around the sensitive bud and sucked, and Peter groaned softly into your skin when you pulled him closer. His free hand kept kneading your other boob, thumb circling the nipple before pinching it lightly enough to make your back arch toward him.
He switched sides after a moment, kissing his way across your chest and taking the opposite nipple into his mouth while his hand returned to the first. Peter looked almost drunk on touching you, mouth warm and wet over your boobs while his cock repeatedly twitched against your body.
Every little sound you made encouraged him, and between kisses he murmured how soft you felt, how pretty your boobs looked in his hands and how badly he’d wanted to get your shirt off since you’d spread your thighs for him earlier.
Eventually you had to pull him away by the hair because Peter seemed perfectly willing to spend the rest of the night with his face buried against your boobs. He lifted his head reluctantly, lips swollen and damp, eyes unfocused for a moment before landing on your face.
Your fingers travelled down the front of his suit, and the second Peter realised you were trying to get it off, his own hands immediately joined yours. He peeled the upper half away from his shoulders first, dragging the tight material down his arms and exposing his chest and stomach inch by inch.
You ran your palms over the warm skin as it appeared, feeling the lean muscle underneath while Peter breathed harder beneath your touch. The suit gathered around his hips, and he hooked both thumbs under the fabric before pushing it farther down.
You helped, dragging the material over his hips and thighs while Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other until the suit finally released what it had been compressing for the last several minutes.
Peter sucked in a sharp breath the second his cock sprang free. It was hard enough to stand heavy against his lower stomach, thick and visibly flushed from being trapped inside the suit while he ate you out. The head was darker than the rest, glossy with precum, the slit wet enough that another clear bead gathered while you stared before slowly rolling over the rounded tip.
A thick vein ran visibly along the underside of his shaft, disappearing near the base where dark curls spread above it, and every few seconds his cock gave another involuntary twitch toward his stomach. The skin looked stretched tight around how full he was, his balls drawn close beneath the shaft from how painfully aroused he’d become without touching himself.
Peter looked down at you watching him and let out a shaky breath, but there was no attempt to cover himself or hide anymore. His chest rose and fell quickly, his hair was still ruined from your hands, his lips remained swollen from your kisses and your slick, and another bead of precum had already formed at the tip of his cock by the time your eyes returned there.
You watched it swell slowly at the slit before dragging your gaze back up Peter’s body and meeting his eyes. His throat moved in a hard swallow when he saw the expression on your face, and without breaking eye contact, you slowly lowered yourself onto your knees in front of him.
Peter went completely still when your knees touched the floor, his entire body seeming to lock around the sight of you looking up at him from beneath your lashes. For all the confidence he’d carried once he had his mouth between your thighs, this was different, because now there was nowhere for him to hide from how badly he wanted it.
His cock stood hard and heavy in front of you, thick enough that your fingers barely looked like enough when you wrapped one hand around the base, and the heat of him against your palm made your stomach tighten all over again. Another bead of precum gathered at the slit while you watched, glossy and clear, swelling slowly before beginning to slide down over the flushed head.
Peter’s breath hitched when you leaned forward instead of touching it with your fingers, and the sound broke into a low moan the second your tongue caught the bead from his tip. He tasted salty and warm, the precum spreading across your tongue as you dragged it slowly around the head, taking your time with the sensitive ridge until Peter’s hand shot out and braced against the wall beside him.
His mouth had fallen open already, eyes fixed on you like he couldn’t look away even if it killed him, and when you licked over the slit again, his hips jerked forward so sharply he immediately choked out, “Sorry, sorry.” The apology only made you smile around him, because he looked ruined before you’d even properly started.
You kept one hand around the base of his cock while the other settled against his thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath your palm as you dragged your tongue down the underside of his shaft. He was so hard that every vein stood out beneath your mouth, the thick one underneath pressing against your tongue when you licked slowly from the base back to the tip.
Peter made a broken sound above you, not quiet or restrained, just openly needy, his fingers spreading against the wall as if he needed something solid to keep himself upright. You circled the head with your tongue again, then kissed the slick tip in a deliberately soft, filthy little gesture that made his cock twitch against your lips.
“Don’t tease,” he breathed, voice rough and already unsteady, and when you glanced up at him, his face was flushed so deeply that even his ears were red. You rewarded the plea by taking the head of his cock into your mouth, lips sealing around him while your tongue pressed firmly against the underside.
Peter’s reaction was immediate and loud, a full moan spilling out of him as his head tipped back, throat exposed, chest rising hard with every breath. The sound made your pussy clench even though he wasn’t touching you anymore, and you hummed around him just to feel the way his whole body shuddered.
The vibration nearly took his knees out. Peter’s other hand flew into your hair, not pushing, not forcing, just grabbing like he needed to hold onto something before his body forgot how to stand. You took him a little deeper, jaw stretching around the thickness of him while your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t fit yet, twisting slowly at the base.
His cock was hot and heavy on your tongue, precum smearing against the roof of your mouth as you worked him in shallow, wet pulls. Peter kept making sounds with every motion, soft gasps turning into rougher moans whenever your lips tightened or your tongue dragged over the sensitive head on the way back up.
He tried to watch you, but every few seconds his eyes squeezed shut like the sight was too much, only to open again almost immediately because he clearly couldn’t stand missing it. Your free hand slid higher up his thigh, nails lightly dragging against his skin, and his cock jumped in your mouth hard enough to make you pause.
Peter looked down quickly, breath catching when he saw the way your lips were stretched around him, and the hand in your hair tightened before loosening again in the same second.
You pulled off just enough to breathe, letting your lips drag slowly over the head before he slipped free with a wet sound. Peter’s hips twitched toward your mouth again, desperate for the warmth he’d just lost, and you looked up at him while stroking him with your hand instead.
His cock was slick now from your mouth and his own precum, your fingers gliding more easily as you pumped him from base to tip, thumb circling the flushed head each time you reached it. “Look at you,” you murmured, voice low as your gaze travelled over his flushed face, his open mouth, the way his chest kept lifting quickly. “You were so noisy eating my pussy, and now you’re even worse.”
Peter let out a strained laugh that broke halfway into another moan when your thumb pressed directly over the slit. “Can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice rough and breathless. The honesty in it made heat lick up your spine.
He wasn’t trying to be controlled now, wasn’t trying to make some awkward joke or act composed, and when you leaned forward to lick a slow line up his shaft again, he moaned your name so openly that you felt it between your legs. You took him back into your mouth before he could say anything else.
This time you pushed deeper. Your lips slid down over him inch by inch while your hand tightened at the base, and Peter’s entire body went rigid above you. His fingers threaded through your hair again, trembling slightly as he fought the instinct to buck into your mouth, and you could feel the restraint in every tense line of him.
You hollowed your cheeks and dragged upward slowly, then sank back down, wet heat closing around him while your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock. Peter swore under his breath once, sharp and helpless, then immediately fell into a string of broken sounds that barely formed words at all.
His hips began moving in small involuntary rolls, not enough to take control, just enough to chase the rhythm of your mouth, and you let him because the desperation of it made your thighs press together. Saliva gathered at the corners of your lips, mixing with the precum leaking from him until every stroke sounded slick and obscene.
When he looked down again, his face went utterly wrecked, eyes dark and unfocused as he watched his cock disappear into your mouth. “You look so good like that,” he said, the words uneven and breathless, like they’d been dragged out of him against his will.
You moaned around him at the praise, and Peter nearly folded. His hand left the wall and landed on the back of the couch instead, gripping it hard while his other hand stayed buried in your hair. You pulled back, breathing through your nose, then took him deeper again, relaxing your jaw until the head of his cock pressed farther into your mouth and made your eyes water slightly.
Peter noticed instantly, his expression flashing with concern through the haze of pleasure, and his hand loosened in your hair as if he was ready to pull you off. Instead, you looked up at him and kept going, letting your tongue move against him while you held his gaze. That did something awful to him.
His mouth fell open, no sound coming out for half a second before a loud, broken moan finally escaped. His cock pulsed against your tongue, precum spilling thicker now, and you swallowed around him just enough to make his thighs tense beneath your hands. “Baby,” he gasped, the pet name sounding almost ruined, “you’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing that.”
You pulled back again, but only to lick across the head and smear the mess over your lips before taking him back in. Peter looked down at your mouth, then at your eyes, and the flush across his face deepened into something almost feverish.
You stroked the base with your hand while sucking the head, tongue flicking over the slit each time more precum gathered there, and his hips began to shake with the effort of keeping still.
Every sound he made was raw and immediate. A gasp when you tightened your lips. A moan when you dragged your tongue underneath.
A broken little whimper when your hand slid lower and cupped him gently while your mouth kept working over the tip. His cock throbbed heavily in your grip, the skin slick and hot, and you could feel how close he was by the way his body kept tensing, releasing, then tensing again.
Peter’s fingers curled through your hair without pulling, his eyes never leaving your face now, and the naked want in his expression made your own body ache. He looked like he wanted to apologise for how desperate he was, but every sound coming out of him said he didn’t want you to stop.
You didn’t. You sank down again, slower this time, taking him as far as you comfortably could while your hand worked the rest in a tight, wet rhythm. Peter’s head tipped back, throat working around a helpless moan as his stomach muscles tightened sharply.
His cock pulsed hard against your tongue, and you felt the exact moment he started losing control, the rhythm of his breathing breaking apart while his hips gave another restrained little thrust.
“I’m close,” he warned, voice strained and shaky. You answered by moaning around him and looking up, letting him see that you’d heard him and weren’t moving away. Peter’s eyes snapped back down to yours, stunned and overwhelmed, and the sight of you on your knees with your lips wrapped around him seemed to push him right to the edge.
His hand tightened in your hair, not guiding, just holding on, and he made the softest, most wrecked sound when your tongue pressed firmly along the underside of his cock. Then his whole body shuddered, his cock swelling against your tongue, and he came with a loud, broken moan, spilling hot into your mouth while his hips jerked forward once before he caught himself.
You kept your mouth on him through it, taking every pulse while Peter trembled above you. His cum coated your tongue in warm, salty bursts, and his sounds turned softer but no less desperate as you slowly worked him through the aftershocks.
His hand slid from your hair to the side of your face, fingers shaking slightly as he looked down at you with his mouth open and eyes blown wide. You didn’t pull away until his cock softened only a little against your tongue and his breathing had turned ragged enough that each exhale sounded almost pained.
When you finally let him slip from your mouth, a thin string of spit and cum connected your lower lip to the flushed head for a second before breaking. Peter stared at it like the sight might actually finish him all over again.
You swallowed slowly while looking up at him, and the tiny sound that left him afterward was almost pathetic. His thumb brushed over your cheek, tender despite the filth of the moment, and for a second neither of you moved.
Then you leaned forward and pressed one last slow kiss to the sensitive tip of his cock, just enough to make him twitch and suck in a sharp breath. Peter’s knees actually bent slightly that time, his hand dropping back to the wall for balance while he gave you a breathless, almost wounded look.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he said, voice hoarse and uneven. You smiled up at him, still on your knees, lips wet and swollen, your thighs sticky from your own earlier orgasm and your chest bare beneath the dim light of the room.
Peter looked at you like he didn’t know whether to pull you up and kiss you or collapse right there in front of you. His cock was still slick between you, sensitive and flushed, a little cum still glistening near the slit, and even though he’d just finished, the way his eyes moved over your face and boobs made it obvious he wasn’t done wanting you.
He reached down carefully and slid his hand beneath your chin, tilting your face up with a softness that somehow made the whole thing feel even dirtier. Then he bent, caught your mouth in a deep, messy kiss and moaned when he tasted himself on your tongue.
The kiss didn’t stay soft for even a second. Peter bent over you with one hand still beneath your chin, mouth opening immediately when yours did, and the taste of him on your tongue made his whole body tense like the filth of it had travelled straight through him. You rose from your knees slowly, legs still unsteady, but the second you were upright your hands went to his chest and pushed.
Peter let you move him without resistance, stumbling backward until the backs of his knees hit the couch and he dropped onto it with a breathless little sound. His cock was still flushed and slick from your mouth, softer than before but not fully down, lying heavy against his lower stomach with the head still wet and sensitive.
Peter looked up at you with messy hair, swollen lips and a dazed kind of hunger still all over his face, like he should’ve been spent but wasn’t even close to done wanting you. You climbed over him before he could say anything, one knee sinking into the cushion beside his hip and then the other until you were straddling his lap, your pussy hovering over his cock while he stared down between your bodies.
His hands immediately went to your waist, fingers spreading over your skin like he needed to feel you everywhere at once. You wrapped your hand around him, feeling him twitch weakly in your palm, still wet with spit and cum, and Peter’s breath caught when you dragged the softened head through your folds.
He made a broken sound when you pressed the tip against your entrance, his eyes snapping up to your face as if he hadn’t expected you to move so quickly. You didn’t give him much warning. You sank down slowly, pushing the slightly soft head inside your wet pussy and feeling your body stretch around the thickness of him even before he was fully hard again.
Peter’s mouth fell open. His fingers tightened on your waist, and the noise that came out of him was low and helpless, almost overwhelmed by the sensation of your slick cunt surrounding him while he was still sensitive from cumming in your mouth. “I wanna feel you get hard inside me,” you murmured, leaning down until your mouth brushed his ear, and Peter’s hips jolted upward beneath you at the words.
You took him deeper inch by inch, your pussy hot and soaked enough to pull him in despite the softness still lingering in his cock, and every little squeeze of your walls made him swell more against you. Peter’s head fell back against the couch, throat exposed, chest rising sharply as he tried to breathe through it.
You could feel the change happening in real time, his cock thickening inside you, filling you more completely with each pulse, going from pliant and sensitive to heavier, harder, more insistent as your body clenched around him. The feeling was filthy enough to make your own breath shake, because you could tell exactly when he tipped over from recovering into needing you all over again.
Once Peter was hard inside you, the stretch became almost too good. His cock filled you properly now, thick and hot, pressing deep every time you lowered your hips until your thighs trembled around his lap. You started riding him slowly at first, hands braced on his shoulders while you lifted yourself almost to the tip and sank back down with a wet, aching drag.
Peter groaned loudly, not bothering to hold back, his hands sliding from your waist to your ass so he could help guide the movement. His fingers kneaded into you, spreading you slightly each time you took him back in, and the pressure made his cock feel even deeper as your pussy swallowed him over and over.
“You feel so good,” he breathed, voice rough against your throat as he leaned forward, mouth dragging along your neck. You tipped your head to give him room, and Peter immediately took advantage, kissing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw before biting down just enough to make you gasp.
His cock jerked inside you at the sound, and you answered by rolling your hips harder, grinding down until your clit rubbed against his body and your cunt tightened around him. Peter’s mouth opened against your neck in another moan, loud and unrestrained, his teeth scraping your skin before he sucked a mark there like he wanted you to feel him even after this was over.
His hands couldn’t seem to settle in one place. They gripped your ass, slid up your back, then came around to your boobs with a kind of greedy tenderness that made your rhythm falter. Peter cupped them while you rode him, thumbs brushing over your nipples as your hips moved in slow, filthy rolls over his cock.
Every time you sank down, his palms squeezed the soft weight of your boobs, and when you lifted again his thumbs circled your nipples until they tightened beneath his touch. You moaned his name and leaned back slightly, giving him more room to look, and Peter’s eyes dropped immediately to the way your chest moved with every bounce of your hips.
He looked wrecked by it, flushed and open-mouthed, his cock twitching deep inside you as he watched his hands cover your boobs. You shifted your own hands down from his shoulders to his chest, dragging your thumbs over his nipples in return. Peter’s reaction was instant.
His stomach tensed, his hips jerked up into you and a sharp moan broke out of him before he could swallow it. You did it again, slower this time, brushing both thumbs over his nipples before pinching lightly, and Peter’s head tipped back with another loud, helpless sound as his cock pulsed inside your pussy.
You rode him harder after that, spurred on by every noise he made. The couch creaked beneath you both, the slick slide of his cock in and out of your pussy growing louder as your arousal mixed with what was left of his cum and your spit.
Peter’s hands returned to your ass, gripping you tighter now, fingers digging in while he helped pull you down onto him. You could feel him everywhere, deep in your stomach, dragging against every sensitive place inside you, and each time your clit rubbed against him another pulse of pleasure tightened low in your belly.
Peter kept kissing and biting your neck between moans, sometimes missing your skin entirely because his head would drop forward when your pussy clenched particularly hard around him.
“I can’t,” he gasped at one point, though he didn’t sound like he wanted you to stop. His hips kept rising into you, sloppy and eager, meeting every downward roll of your body like he couldn’t stand not being as deep as possible.
You threaded one hand through his hair and pulled his head back so you could kiss him, and Peter moaned into your mouth when your thumb brushed his nipple again. For a while it was just that, your bodies moving together on the couch, your pussy taking him again and again, his hands on your ass, his mouth on your neck, both of you getting close but not quite falling over the edge.
Then Peter seemed to decide he needed more. His grip on your ass shifted, fingers spreading wider, and before you could fully process the change, he planted his feet more firmly on the floor and stood with you still wrapped around him. The movement made you gasp, arms flying around his shoulders as his cock drove deeper inside you from the sudden lift.
Peter held you easily, one arm locked beneath your ass while the other hand gripped your hip, and the sheer strength of him made your pussy clench so hard that his eyes squeezed shut. “There,” he breathed, voice strained and wrecked, adjusting his hold until your back was slightly arched and your thighs were tight around his waist. Then he started fucking up into you.
The first thrust knocked the air from your lungs, his cock driving into you from below with a force the couch hadn’t allowed, and Peter’s moan broke apart against your neck as he did it again. His hands gripped your ass, spreading and lifting you so he could fuck upward into your pussy in deep, rough strokes that made your whole body bounce against him.
You clung to his shoulders, nails dragging over his skin, while his mouth found your neck again and bit down through another loud groan. Every thrust pushed him deeper, every upward snap of his hips dragged a helpless sound from you, and Peter’s control seemed to unravel completely when he realised this was what would make you both cum.
It happened fast once he was standing. Your body was already oversensitive from the first orgasm and from riding him, and now every upward thrust punched pleasure through you so sharply that your thighs started shaking around his waist. Peter felt it immediately. His grip on your ass tightened, holding you open and lifted while his hips worked up into you with desperate rhythm.
His mouth moved messily over your neck, biting, kissing, breathing your name against your skin in broken pieces. You could feel his cock swelling even harder inside you, the head dragging against that deep sensitive spot until your whole body started to go tight. “Peter,” you gasped, and the way his name broke out of you made him moan loudly against your throat.
His thrusts got rougher, less controlled, his stomach pressing against your clit every time he drove up, and that final pressure was what sent you over. Your orgasm hit while he was still holding you off the floor, your pussy clamping down around his cock so hard that Peter nearly stumbled back into the couch.
He caught himself, swore softly under his breath, then came with you, hips jerking upward as he buried himself as deep as he could and spilled inside you. His cum filled you in hot, heavy pulses while your own release soaked around him, the mixture making every tiny aftershock wetter and messier as he held you through it.
Peter collapsed back onto the couch with you still in his lap, both of you breathing hard, his cock still buried inside your trembling pussy. For a few seconds neither of you moved. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his hands spread over your ass and lower back, and every little twitch of your cunt around him made him exhale shakily against your skin.
You lifted your head first, dazed and sticky and aching in the best way, then shifted your hips carefully until just the tip of his cock remained inside you. Peter looked down between your bodies, still breathing hard, and you followed his gaze.
Cum immediately began to drip out of your pussy around him, thick and white, mixing with your slick as it slipped down over his cock and gathered messily between your thighs. The sight made Peter’s mouth part around a silent breath. You lifted yourself another fraction, letting more of it spill out of you in a slow, obscene drip, and his fingers tightened on your hips like he was trying not to lose his mind.
You slid two fingers through the mess, scooping up the mixture of his cum and your release before bringing it to your mouth. Peter watched, completely transfixed, as you licked your fingers clean slowly, tongue dragging between them until nothing remained.
You didn’t let him recover from the sight. You leaned in immediately and kissed him, pushing your tongue into his mouth so he could taste the mixture you’d just licked from your fingers. Peter moaned into the kiss, arms tightening around you as his tongue met yours, and the cum-slick taste moved between you in slow, filthy swirls.
You kissed him deeply, letting it coat both your tongues while you still hovered over his softening cock, your pussy dripping onto his lap. Peter didn’t pull away. If anything, he kissed you harder, one hand sliding up your back while the other cupped the back of your head to keep your mouth against his.
When you finally separated, his lips were wet and his eyes were unfocused, his chest rising quickly beneath yours. You stayed there in his lap, legs weak, body sticky, your boobs pressed against his chest and his cum still leaking slowly from your pussy.
Peter looked down between you one more time, then back up at your face, and the ruined little sound he made told you he was already thinking about putting his mouth back there to clean up the mess himself.
Peter didn’t just think about it. He did it.
One second he was staring down between your bodies with that ruined, hungry look still all over his face, eyes fixed on the slow mess of his cum and your release dripping from your pussy and slipping over his softened cock, and the next his hands were already moving. There wasn’t much teasing left in him now, not in the clever, shy, almost nervous way he’d had earlier.
He was too far gone for that, too warm and wrecked and needy, and the little sound he made when more cum slipped out of you was almost pained. His hands tightened around your hips, and before you could even ask what he was doing, Peter shifted beneath you and turned you carefully, one arm braced around your waist so he didn’t let you fall while he guided you down onto your back across the couch.
Your body was loose and heavy from both orgasms, legs still trembling, and Peter handled you like he knew exactly how sensitive you were, even as his expression made it painfully obvious he was barely holding onto his own restraint.
He moved between your thighs with a kind of eager clumsiness that felt so completely Peter, rushed because he wanted it so badly, gentle because it was you.
He pulled your legs up over his shoulders, one at a time, kissing your calf as he settled you open beneath him. The position folded you back just enough that your pussy was completely exposed to him, wet and swollen and messy with everything both of you had left there.
Peter stared for a second longer than he needed to, his mouth parting as his eyes followed the thick drip of cum slipping from your entrance and sliding down through your slick folds. His cock, already softening but still heavy and flushed, twitched weakly against his stomach as he leaned closer.
You saw it happen, saw the way his hips shifted against the couch cushions below him before he even reached your pussy, and the sight made your breath catch in a tired, breathy little laugh. Peter’s eyes flicked up toward your face, cheeks red, but this time he didn’t apologise.
He only turned his head and pressed a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, then another a little higher, mouth warm and messy against your skin while his hands held you open.
The first lick made both of you shudder. Peter dragged his tongue slowly through your folds, catching the mixture of his cum and your slick where it had gathered against your entrance before licking upward with a deep, open-mouthed hunger that made your stomach tighten even though you were already oversensitive.
You gasped, fingers grabbing at the couch beneath you, and Peter groaned directly into your pussy like the taste had hit him harder than expected. He did it again, slower, tongue pressing between your swollen lips and collecting everything messy and wet from you as though he couldn’t stand the idea of wasting any of it. His eyes fluttered for half a second, and then his hips rolled downward against the floor beneath him.
The motion was small at first, almost involuntary, his body chasing friction while his mouth stayed buried between your thighs. Your legs tightened over his shoulders when you realised what he was doing, and Peter made a needy sound into your cunt as his cock rubbed against the carpet with another desperate little grind.
He licked you clean like it mattered to him. Like it was something he needed. His tongue moved slowly over every slick inch of you, dragging through your folds, circling your entrance, then sweeping upward toward your clit with enough care that he didn’t overwhelm you but still made your whole body twitch beneath him.
Each time he tasted more of the mess, his hips pushed harder against the floor. You could hear the rough little breaths he dragged in between licks, hear the quiet, broken moans he tried and failed to smother against your pussy, and every one made the scene feel dirtier. Peter Parker, still half on his knees, still bare and flushed and sticky from you, was eating his own cum out of your cunt while rutting against the floor like he couldn’t help himself.
His hands stayed locked around your thighs, thumbs rubbing your skin in little soothing strokes that didn’t match the desperation of his mouth at all. You looked down at him through heavy lashes, exhausted and turned on all over again, and whispered his name so softly it barely made it past your lips. Peter answered by pressing his face closer, tongue pushing gently into your entrance while his hips gave another needy grind beneath him.
You were too sensitive to take much more, but Peter seemed to know that without being told. He didn’t try to make you cum again. He didn’t suck hard at your clit or push you past what your trembling body could handle. Instead he cleaned you with slow, filthy devotion, licking away the cum that slipped from you, kissing your folds when your thighs shook too much, murmuring soft, breathless little sounds against your skin whenever you squirmed.
His mouth was wet with both of you now, lips shining, chin slick again, and when he finally pulled back to look at your pussy, his expression had gone almost dazed with satisfaction. There was still a little mess at your entrance, and Peter’s eyes fixed on it instantly.
He leaned in one more time, tongue dragging carefully over the spot, and his hips rocked against the floor again with a low, helpless groan. The sound made your chest tighten, fondness mixing with the heavy satisfaction still buzzing through your body. He was completely shameless now, noisy and needy and wrecked, but still so careful with you that it made your heart ache in the middle of all the filth.
When Peter was finally satisfied, he didn’t move away from you immediately. He pressed a lingering kiss to your inner thigh, then another to the other one, mouth soft and warm where he’d just had you shaking. His hands slid down from your thighs to your hips, thumbs brushing lazily over your skin as he lowered your legs from his shoulders.
You were limp enough that he had to help guide them back down, and he did it with a tired tenderness that made you want to pull him up and keep him there. Peter kissed the inside of your knee, then the top of your thigh, then slowly made his way upward. His lips travelled over your hip, across the lower curve of your stomach, and then higher still, leaving warm little kisses over every inch he could reach.
He looked exhausted now, properly drained, his hair a complete disaster, his mouth still wet, his eyes half-lidded with that soft post-sex haze that made him look younger and sweeter again. By the time he reached your ribs, his body had already started to sag with the weight of everything you’d both done.
He collapsed beside you on the couch with a heavy, breathless exhale, half on his side and half against you because there wasn’t really enough room for both of you to lie comfortably. Neither of you cared. Peter’s arm immediately found your waist, dragging you closer until your bare skin pressed against his, warm and sticky and familiar.
His face tucked into the side of your neck, and for a moment all you could hear was both of you breathing, the movie still playing uselessly in the background, completely forgotten. You were sure the apartment was a disaster.
His suit was probably in a half-peeled heap somewhere near the couch, your shirt had been abandoned behind it, your panties were still somewhere in the wreckage, and the blanket had slid halfway onto the floor. Peter shifted like he might attempt to sit up, always so painfully ready to take care of things even when he looked like he could fall asleep mid-breath, but you caught his arm before he could go anywhere.
You reached down blindly until your fingers found the blanket and pulled it up over both of you, covering your bare bodies in a crooked, warm mess. Peter let out a soft sound when the fabric settled over his shoulders, his arm tightening around you as if the permission to stop moving had finally reached him.
You tucked yourself against his chest, your legs still weak, your body still sticky, your throat still a little dry from everything you’d said and moaned, and you felt Peter press one final lazy kiss to the top of your head. “We can clean up later,” you mumbled sleepily, barely managing to get the words out before your eyes started drifting shut.
Peter’s quiet laugh rumbled against you, tired and warm and completely spent. His fingers traced one absent line up your spine beneath the blanket before coming to rest against your back, holding you close. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough from all the sounds he’d made for you. “Later.”
‘this is totally not my world’ ⭑.ᐟ peter park / spiderman x fem!spiderwoman!reader
summary ⭑.ᐟ when a fight with her arch nemesis dr. kahli gets her sent into a whole nother dimension that she has no idea what to do in, but a few things remain the same.
warnings ⭑.ᐟ past/shared trauma, spider-humor, fighting(blood, guns, knives), dumbed down super smart talk, angst, short story, suggestive ending, fluff, reader has personality, half-hidden identity.
a/n this is a test run to see if anyone wants a part two before I continue sooo lmk!
wc ⭑.ᐟ 2k
“Come on, Doc! We fight all the time!” Y/n yelled as she webbed a nearby broken piece of building that she was previously thrown into and hurled it at the Doc, who only blocked it with his power.
“Ah, Spider-woman, always with the jokes.” He angrily sighed as she only shrugged her shoulders with a head nod of agreement.
“Well yeah, who else is gonna keep the mood light since I know you won’t?” Just as she finished her sentence, another power surge threw her into another building that she managed to twist her body to avoid.
Sighing heavily as she jumped into the air so that she could web onto something, she started feeling that tenseness in her mind. Hurrying and moving in another direction, just as she did she watched a newspaper box fly by.
“Hey! Don’t throw mail at me!” She yelled, finally managing to get somewhat behind him, her legs coming around his shoulders as she hit his face repeatedly with her fist; he spun around in pain.
Webbing his hands and legs as he tried to spin her loose, Y/n suddenly felt the building below her jolt down.
“I have told you time and time again, spider-girl–”
“Woman! It’s woman!” She yelled, looking around at the sudden change of scenery. Not wasting time, she jumped down and tried to do for his source of power, the infuser that he had running on ten all the time that injected him with power.
“I have no time to have you in my way.” He cut through with anger. Seething at her as she let her eyes slowly widen, a source of power throwing her back into a nearby wall as he pierced it with a piece of fallen building.
“Hey!” Y/n groaned as she tried to push it away from her, but it didn’t help once she felt the pain and exhaustion fill her body.
“So, you will be no more.” The doc finished with a wicked grin as Y/n looked at him with furrowed eyebrows.
“What?” She coughed. Watching as he stabbed himself with a new power.
“No! Doc, think about what you’re doing! The people you’ll hurt!” She whined, watching as he only smiled at her.
“I don’t care. Bye-bye, spidergirl.” He’d laughed as he suddenly shot at the brick wall behind her.
Suddenly, she let her eyes widen, feeling the surface behind her disappear completely before she was thrown into a world of stars.
“Whoa, I think he shot me with a drug or something!” She yelled as she fell farther and farther down wherever she was. The purple and pink filling around her before it suddenly turned into a tunnel.
Yelling as the light in front of her turned brighter and brighter, she squeezed her eyes as tight as she could.
༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･
The next thing she felt was a dog licking the side of her face.
Letting her gloved hand move up to her face as she blinked behind the mask, forcing her eyes on the outside of her suit to move as well.
“Thank you, dog, but please.” She groaned while sitting up. Forcing her hand to rub the back of her head as she blinked in pain.
“Ugh, I have the back of a grandma,” Y/n complained while standing completely.
She looked around where she had been and noticed it was just a nearby alley that she fell into. So whatever the Doc gave her must have just put her to sleep so he could get away.
Stretching her arms a bit, she went to wrap up the building and looked around. She tried to pull out her phone but saw it was completely busted.
“Shit.” She whispered to herself before looking around the skies and buildings below. Hearing the people and sirens all around.
“Stacey?” She spoke to her AI assistant that he created.
The voice started breaking in and out.
“Hello?” She winced a little, looking down to see a wide scratch on the side of her suit and ribs where she could see an evident mark of oozing blood.
Staycey’s busted and she's bleeding, amazing. Her healing factor was a little slow overall, but when she was really moving, it went faster.
“I have to get home.” She whispered to herself before webbing to another building and swinging away into the skies.
As the music in her earpiece played, Y/n groaned to herself in pain, trying to ignore it for the most part.
“Help!” She heard someone yell. This caught her attention very quickly. Looking down as the broken ends of her suit zoomed in on what was happening. She saw a large number of people dressed in all black.
Hurrying her way down with a few flips and all, she landed with a small stumble.
“I’m here!” She yelled, shooting webs at several people and pushing them back into the floor and walls of buildings.
“Who even are you?” One of them yelled, making her turn around in a hurry.
“Wow! That actually really hurt. I slept for a few hours over, and suddenly everyone forgot me?” She playfully winced, looking at the masked men before she took a deep breath.
“You are not spiderman!” Another yelled in the other direction.
“When was I ever a man?” She scoffed, looking around as other people started to crowd the surrounding area.
“Okay…” She breathed, feeling the sudden pain come back before she blinked to try and reground herself.
“Are you a new superhero?” Someone asked, turning around in several directions to show even more people.
“I’m…I’m me? Come on, guys.” She nervously laughed. Looking at people as they held up their phones.
Seeing that this wouldn’t get any better, she sighed to herself and swung up to another building so she could try and find home.
But the more she went, the more she swung, the more lost she got.
It was like her home, the city, and the air that she would breathe in time and time again where she would find comfort. But there were different corners, different buildings, and people she had never seen before.
She couldn’t find home, and she couldn’t understand anything anymore.
Where the hell was she?
༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･
Turning around, Peter looked at his phone, which showed this new hero that people are already starting to love.
“E.V?” He slowly asked, looking around the room that had been dark and gloomy. A severe difference from what he used to live in.
The comfort of light and love that was given to him from his aunt and his best friends. Ever since things happened with Strange, he had been whipped from everyone's minds as Peter Parker.
But he was still Spiderman.
“Yes, Peter?” E.V spoke as he hurried to the computer chair and dek to look into whoever this new person was.
“Do we have any face identification on this new spidergirl?” He asked, typing away as E.V pulled up her own work on a separate screen.
“No. It seems she has no trace of existence.”
“How does that even work?” Peter whispered to himself as he looked at the computer screens of surveillance that he had access to.
Zooming into the woman's suit that looked just like his but in a different color, he tilted his head a little and suddenly heard a commotion on the roof above him.
Looking up and thinking it was a nearby cat, he looked back down before it happened again.
“E.V?”
“Yes, Peter?” She hummed.
“Check the cameras on the north cameras, please.” He spoke quietly, itching over to his suit and looking around at the screen.
“It is the woman.” She spoke. This made him hurry his actions and open the window facing the city.
As he walked slowly on the walls, Peter looked around and squinted his eyes in focus.
“Scan the surfaces,” Peter spoke quietly. Just his image ran clear before turning completely black.
He was able to see the brightly colored silhouette of this new spidergirl.
“She seems to share the same abilities and symbiote as you,” E.V spoke into his ear as he finally came to look over the edge of the building with his eyes only, squinting ever so slightly.
The same?
But as far as he knew, he’d been the only one with this power.
Suddenly he heard a groan. Looking at the girl as she looked around in frantic circles, he observed as she moved her hand to her ribs.
She had been bleeding, and he could tell it hurt just for the fact he’d been hurt there before too.
Getting onto the roof quickly and quietly, he made a noise out of all possibilities.
“Who’s that!” She yelled; he could hear the worry and fear in her voice.
“Hello?” She yelled once more.
Holding his hands up above the power box first, suddenly a string of webs forced his hands down.
“Whoa! I surrendered! I held my hands up; come on! Not cool!” Peter yelled as he stood up and could see a full view of her, ready to fight.
The image of him being in her view now made her slightly falter.
“Sorry! I’m…Okay, what is this prank day? Nobody knows me, and you’re wearing that?” She groaned, holding her hands on her head in stress.
“Says you? How long does this take to loosen?” He groaned, pulling at his stuck hand as she stepped back.
“I don’t know; it’s organic.” She said dismissively while turning back around to search her surroundings.
“Organic?” Peter wondered, catching her attention once more. The outside eyes of her suit were exactly like his.
“Yeah! Like, it actually is really good; it comes from my wrist, and I don’t use web-shooters anymore–wait! Okay, don’t throw me off! Who’re you?” She shook her head before getting too deep into her conversation.
“I’m spiderman! You’re the spidergirl?”
“Woman! Woman! I’m twenty-two, and I’ve been doing this for way too long to be called girl. I mean, I get back sores in the middle of the night.” She stressed once more as Peter finally felt the web soften.
“Okay, sorry. I’m sorry. Spiderwoman. Uhm…do you know where you are?” He asked softly.
Holding up his hands as he heard her heart slow.
“No. No, i’m lost. I need…I need a bed.” She suddenly collapsed, making Peter hurry to her side to catch her.
“E.v?” He breathed nervously, holding the still woman in his arms as the eyes to her suit now closed.
“Yes?”
“Run a test. Is she okay? Is she breathing?” He’d worried for her for no particular reason; he just knew that he felt something was off, but not with her in general.
“She has lost a significant amount of blood. Her vitals are steady, and her body is trying to regenerate the lost blood and cells. She has a healing factor just like yours. She just needs some rest.”
Peter sighed once more, looking down at her in his arms before he decided that he couldn’t just leave her out here.
༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･
Sitting in a chair nearby as he watched her. Peter did the best he could to try and stitch her up through the suit while still maintaining secrecy since he didn’t know who she was.
She didn’t know if she had been a villain or someone in secret trying to find out who he was so they could stalk and torment him.
But the more she slept the more curious he got of her.
Who was she? How’d she magically show up? If she had this power for long, she defidnatly kept it under secrecy. But if she hadn’t they would have been bound to run into each other sooner or later.
So why hasn’t he?
In the bathroom while he washed his hands, Peter decided to change out of the suit but keep the mask on so that he could still remain secret.
“Whoa! Okay, am I being kidnapped right now?” He heared her yell from the room outside.
Hurrying and see her now frantically looking around the room, he held up his hands once more.
“Hey!It’s okay! You passed out on my roof from blood loss and I stitched you up. Nobody is kiddnappng you.” He reassured her as she slowly let her heart rate come down.
“Where am I?” She breathed nervously.
“My house? Well, apartment. Well…attic? Storage unit? That’s what it used to be until I took over.” He explained as she paid him no mind with her eyes but he could tell she was listening.
“It’s a mess.” She groaned, kicking over a nearby empty bag of chips.
“Okay, rude? Sorry, I wasn’t expecting guests.” He’d rushed to pick it up as she stepped back from him.
“I need to get home.” She muttered, bringing her hand up to her masked face as he nodded.
“Okay, I can try and help you. Do you know where it is? The address.” Peter started his journey to his computers as he waited for her to talk.
“Yeah, it’s here.”
“Yeah, we all live here, I guess? Like a universal thing, but I mean–”
“No, like, I live here. This is where my home is. Or was? It’s like everything changed when Dr. Kahli–”
“Doctor who?”
“Kahli, Otto Kahli?” She tried to jog his memory, only for Peter to move his hands in a shrug.
“Oh god…I’m lost; this isn’t right; something isn’t right. He did something, and I fell in this portal thing and…I’m lost.” She groaned, covering her eyes once more as Peter turned to face her directly.
“Portal?”
“Yeah, he shot something at me, and at first I thought it was drugs or something. But then I woke up in an alley, and nobody remembers me, and there's another me? But it's you, and I’m definitely not a guy last I checked.” She rambled while he listened closely.
“Okay. This Dr. Kahli guy cast a spell, you’re here and–”
“This isn’t my world. My dimension. I thought this stuff was made up, but that explains a lot. There's no me, there's no home.” She finally realized as Peter did too.
He would have asked someone; he could have asked Dr. Strange, but he was away, and he had nobody other than himself and E.V.
“I have to go home. I have people who need me! They’re in danger.” She stressed, looking around the room so she could leave.
“Okay, wait, you have no idea where you are. This spell that whoever you said cast isn’t here. How will you get home?” Peter tried to reason as she sighed.
“I don’t know! I just need to get home; I have to! They’re all I have left.” Her voice started to falter. He sadly watched as she looked around the room so she could leave.
“Wait! I can try and help.” Peter cut through as if his voice suddenly had a life of its own. Her movements stalled as she turned to him.
pairing bnd!peter parker x reader
summary years ago when Peter refused to tell you the truth after Strange's spell, he thought it would be for the better. but fate brings you together when you take the apartment next to his after graduating from MIT. Peter tries so hard to distance himself from you, but he just can't, until you're sobbing in front of him and calling him selfish for doing that to you.
warning angst but with comfort, a sprinkle of yearning, tension, peter has a good ending because i'm tired of this boy always having sad endings, a few cursewords, MJ and Ned are mentioned a few times.
word count 7k
main masterlist here
Nothing about today was fine.
It was a really rough day. You’d planned on meeting Ned and MJ in the morning, but unfortunately the elevator wouldn’t open meaning you got stuck with your weird neighbour that you barely know the name of.
You’d moved in last week, right after graduating from MIT with Ned and MJ. During those years, it was the best time you’d ever had, studying and meeting new people in a different place. It’s all you have ever wanted in your life, but still, it was like something was missing in your life.
You don’t understand what it was, what was missing from your heart, ever since you went to MIT, it was like there was an ache in your heart, a missing gap in your heart that someone used to fill.
You’d ignored it for years, but being back in NYC, it just makes you sick to your stomach everytime you pass a familiar restaurant or cafe, even talking to MJ makes you feel like something’s wrong. Whenever you order a coffee from the cafe next to you, it always feels like someone used to stand beside you and laugh. It makes you shiver every time you think someone is talking to you, but turn your head to the side and find no one.
It becomes worse when you’re alone lying in your bed. There’s something bugging you that you can’t place your finger on. You’re sure your mind is playing tricks on you just because you miss high school, but still this thing. . . is just unexplainable. Even years of engineering can’t describe or explain what was happening.
Now, back to the present, you missed your hangout with your friends because of that stupid elevator your landlord won’t fix. It’s driving you mad, and when you look up at the man in front of you he visibly twitches, wearing. . . juicy couture?
You pull out your earbuds from your ears, looking at him in perplexion, he averts his eyes quickly, clears his throat and tries to play it off cool before you ask him, “where’d you get them? I have wanted a pair since forever.” It’s more of a joke, but you have been looking for something like that for a while now.
When the boy’s voice comes out, it sounds like a squeak, curly hair falling on his forehead. “Uh, they’re my girlfriend’s. I-I promise, not like I stole them from the washroom downstairs or anything.” Hm, familiar. You try not to think about his eyes for too much. They look sweet as honey, which makes your heart ache even harder. What the hell was going on?
You nod, sliding to the ground because you know it’s going to be a while until someone cracks the door open.
You offer him a half-smile, “My name’s name. Yours?”
“Uh, pet- Ned! Ned. It’s Ned.” He stutters, trying to maintain eye contact with you, but failing.
“Chill, dude, you look like you’ve seen ghosts. I have a friend called Ned too. Didn’t know it was a famous name.” You attempt a joke, because the look on his face is worrying.
Peter, on the other hand, is absolutely losing his shit right now. His mind can’t comprehend the fact that after all these years you’re standing in front of him looking angelic as ever. His heart starts pounding faster, and he stammers, “I live right by you..”
“You stalking me or something?” Your eyebrows draw upward, turning your head to the side to find him trying, but failing to, to stop his shaky hands from shaking, but it’s obvious he’s extremely nervous. Maybe he has a job interview or something? Or maybe he’s claustrophobic. There has to be something that’s making him shake like the world was gonna end.
But for Peter, his world already ended a lot of time ago when you were out of his life. He found no will to let his heart continue beating when he couldn’t hear the sound of yours beating beside him.
He couldn’t find the will to get up in the morning after you were no longer by his side.
He couldn’t find the will to live anymore.
“Dude, you’re shaking like hell. Are you okay? You need to calm down a bit.”
But before he could reply, a light started to shine inside between the doors. The firefighters had finally managed to open the door. You let out a breath of relief and stand up, muttering under your breath, “finally!”
And when both of you are out of this elevator, one of the medics tries to wrap a blanket around you but you refuse stubbornly, and Peter finds himself watching you from afar, tears starting to form his eyes. When nobody notices Peter anymore like always, he squeezes himself out of the room, walking up the stairs until he’s in his gloomy room, that was devoid of any light, once more.
Unfortunately, MJ and Ned had gone separate ways before you could even meet up with them. You still find yourself at the coffee shop, sitting by the window with a confused expression on your face. Meeting Ned, no, not original Ned, new Ned, has made a pounding headache form in your head.
Sighing, you find multiple notifications from MJ on your phone asking if you were alright. You’ll reply later when the headache goes away, but right now, you don’t have any energy to even send her a text.
You’re halfway through your coffee when you hear the loud shrill screams from people around you. Eyes widened, you find yourself running out of the coffee shop, heart pounding from fear without even knowing what’s wrong. All you know is that someone was harming people considering you could hear the cracking of bones behind you.
While pushing people out of your path, you find an old woman on the ground, not being able to sit up without assistance. Stopping briefly, you look at the woman with hair as fluffy as snow in the middle of winter.
Speaking of Winter, you remember walking through the snow with someone beside you. The memory crushes you like a train weighing down on you and pushing you downward until you’re in the dirt. It hurts, and it feels like your heart will explode. You blink, head moving in different directions.
You see figures completely black everywhere. Next to the woman helping her, on the rooftop dangling their legs, even in front of you with their hands on your cheeks. You’re about to fall to your knees from the overwhelming surge of thoughts that make no sense, but you remember the woman in front of you.
You place a gentle hand on hers and help her up, she thanks you in spanish, or italian, you don’t know. While you’re helping her up, she kisses your cheek and rubs her hand on your cheek, like she knew the turmoil happening inside of you.
She walks away slow-paced in comparison to the people pushing you and running away. You’re about to start speeding down the street, back to your apartment for safety, until a whole bus is thrown in your direction. You try to move, but your feet are planted on the street, unwilling to move.
Freezing, you shut your eyes and prepare yourself. It all happens too quickly. One second you’re preparing for your death, the other your legs are wrapped around Spiderman’s waist soaring through the skies of New York City. Is this the American dream?
You scream when you look down and notice how high up you are, but Spiderman just tightens his arm around your waist, and tells you, “don’t panic! It’s okay! You’re gonna be fine.”
Both of you land on a rooftop of a random nearby house, and you almost immediately start thanking him, muttering thanks over and over again until Spiderman is looking at you like you grew two heads which is funny considering he’s a half-spider half-human.
“It’s fine, sweet-, ma’am. I’m glad to be of assistance.” He replies. The word sweetheart almost slips out of his mouth out of habit. He fakes a cough awkwardly and you tilt your head at him.
“You sound familiar.” You comment. There’s something funny about his voice, like you’ve heard it before.
“Uh. . .you hear me on the news everyday?” The sentence comes out of his mouth as more of a question than a statement.
You nod, “touché.”
But you feel like you know him.
Your head is still spinning from what had just happened until Spiderman cuts your train of thoughts and offers if you want him to take you back to his apartment, and since your apartment is far away from here, you agree and that’s how you find yourself flying through the sky while Spiderman shoots webs around buildings, swinging both of you as you yell directions in his ear.
Spiderman and you land on the rooftop of your apartment. You don’t land on your feet steadily, wobbling but Spiderman wraps his arms around your waist to prevent you from falling.
His hands on your waist are the only thing you can think about right. It feels right, like it had always been there.
“Uh, uh, so this is you, right? Nice-nice building.” He stammers, retrieving back his hands to his side. Under his mask, embarrassment floods through his cheeks, painting it a light pink.
“Yeah this is me.” You can’t deny that there were butterflies in your stomach, and when his hands left, your body was filled with disappointment at the emptiness you felt.
You’re about to turn your back on him before you half-turn and clasp your fingers in front of you, “do you want to come inside? I’ll make you tea. . .as a thank you.”
Spiderman wants to say no to you politely. If he goes down that road, he might never find his way out. He can’t let you remember him. He just can’t let it happen.
But there he is, inside of your apartment adored with posters on the wall and takeout on the counter.
“Sorry, I didn’t clean up. Didn’t know I’d be having Spiderboy in my apartment.” You tell him grabbing the takeout boxes and throwing it in the trashcan. You try to clean up as much as you can before putting the kettle on the stove.
It softly hisses, steam escaping the silver kettle. You clear your throat, “you can sit down by the way.” You motion at your couch. He sits down and looks around again at your apartment. His heart aches from the way he misses you. Something inside of him begs him to tell you the truth, to say the words he has memorised, but his heart won’t let him do it. He won’t put you in the danger he put Aunt May in ever again.
Outside your window, there was a breath-taking display of the kaleidoscopic colours in the sky. It just reminded him that the world doesn’t stop turning and everything continues even when you have a minor issue or a big issue in your life.
You hand him the tea, and he thanks you. Both of your hands brush for a second, too long to be accidental, and he removes it like he was burned.
Peter could have never believed that he’d have the confidence to be standing in front of the person he used to love years later. He doesn’t know what hurts more, the fact that he still loves you but he’ll never be able to experience your love and touch again, or the fact that you don’t even remember him as a friend.
You sit across from him on your lazy boy, watching criticisingly under your gaze. Without a second thought, you throw an orange that was in your fruit basket. His eyes widened, “what was that for?”
“Don’t you have spider senses? Aren’t you supposed to know that I’m going to throw an orange at you?” Your eyebrows draw upward accusingly.
“Yeah, but not for oranges. I’ve never met a villain that threw oranges at me.” Under his mask, wrinkles adorned his forehead from the way he was furrowing your eyebrows.
You throw another orange at him, hitting him straight in the forehead. Your eyebrows draw upward, expecting him to sense and duck if that’s even how his senses work. “You’re supposed to duck.”
“Next time.” He says in amusement.
The next hour, Peter finds himself missing you more than ever. His untouched tea grows cold, too invested in talking to you. You’re right there, but he can never have you. He’s already decided to put you in a protective glass box from harm’s way, but still, he can’t find it in himself to move his legs and walk away when this is the closest he’s been to you in years. Peter has been watching you from afar, or from Ned’s videos that he loves to watch in his free time. All he feels is love for you right now, nothing less and nothing more; he knows when goes home he’ll be looking out the window, looking out the universe and begging it to let him have something for once. All his life, Peter has known sacrifice. He always put people first, in hopes of the universe looking back at him and rewarding, but when he grew older and much wiser, he knew all of that was child’s play. The universe does what it wants whether you like it or not. It doesn’t care about your feelings. It doesn’t care about your emotions. It doesn’t care about you at all. You’re the one who has to learn to make your place even when you have nowhere to go.
Your voice fades into the background, his ears starting to ring from the amount of sudden sadness and homesickness he feels for a place that once existed but can never exist anymore. It’s like visiting your childhood home that had been sold to another family making their own memories. The new family doesn’t know the old family, and vice versa. It’s a loop in some twisted way.
You’re talking about what you have done the past years, graduating from MIT, trying to look for a job and all of that. You don’t know why you’re telling Spiderman all of that, but there’s this invisible connection that you feel connects both of you together and you feel so drawn to him you’ve never felt it before in your whole life.
And when he finally finds the will to move, he opens the window and looks back at you, watching your face glisten in the moonlight, eyes drooping when he remembers reality.
You latch onto his arm and beg, “come back, will you? I’ll make you more tea.”
And how can Spiderman say no to such a pretty face?
That’s how he Peter finds himself at your apartment again and again and he’s in high school all over again where you find out he’s Spiderman by accident, how you’re patching him not because he asked you but because you were adamant on helping him while you told him, “let someone save you for once.”
Then he’s in high school again asking you out with flowers in his shaky hand, stammering over his own words before you place a tender kiss on his cheek. That shuts him off immediately. You smile at him, “yes, and stop shaking so much will you? You’re making me nervous.” You grab his hands in yours, and that’s all he needed for him to stop shaking.
Oh, how Peter would give anything just for you to hold his hands for once last time.
You have changed so much, so has your personality. You’re a bit colder now, even though you were so warm, but time does change people. It carves them into the people they never want to be. Some good people turn wicked, not because they want to, but because time has ruined them, run their dirt all over them and buried their soul six feet under. And when they push themselves out of the dirt, they’re called immoral.
But you’re so much wiser that Peter nicknames you ‘Aspasia’. You remind him so much of Aunt May too.
Your ways of hanging out have become more simple. Years ago, you’d invite Peter to feed pigeons, or even beg him to swing you through the skies of New York City just because it felt cool. Now, you and him are eating tubes of ice cream from the container itself on the rooftop. His mask isn’t removed completely, but he’s become a bit comfortable to the point where he curls it above his lips, shoving ice cream in his mouth.
“Don’t you get tired of the secret? Hiding who you really are, I mean.” You question. It’s been bugging you for weeks now because you’re a person who talks too much. You spoil secrets before you even know what you’re talking about. He must be extremely patient to hide his identity for all these years alone.
“Does anyone know?” You continue, eyes turning to him.
The answer to that question is complicated. Spiderman mixes the ice cream inside the container absent-mindly. He sighs, and his shoulders hunch forward like he’s been carrying the whole of NYC on his shoulder, and maybe, in a way, he is. He’s been lowering crime rates, but it must get lonely, doesn’t it?
“Sometimes it gets boring, but at least I have you, right?” He blurts out. That sentence has been lodged in his throat, shuffling and begging to leave his throat so badly. It was like there was a heavy blanket on his heart that was removed immediately. Spiderman looks to the side, and you hope you didn’t make him angry.
You put the ice cream container on the side, grabbing his hands in yours. At that moment, Peter felt like the universe was maybe thanking him for his good deeds. Peter’s been nothing but good his entire life, and maybe the universe finally decided it’s time for his reward. Tears start to form in his eyes and thankfully you can’t see anything under his mask.
“Hey, listen. I’m sorry, but of course you have me. I’m your friend, Spiderboy.”
‘You used to be more,’ Peter thinks.
“Thanks,” Peter mumbles, as your fingers lace with his. They then move around them, wrapping around his body, giving him a much needed hug. He hadn’t felt the touch of a hug in so long. That makes it worse and better at the same time. He coughs when you remove your arms, muttering an excuse under his breath until he’s on his feet, shooting webs on buildings to swing away from you considering he literally lives right next to you. He ignores the people screaming his name on the streets this time. The sound of NYC becomes an annoying hum in his ears, and he finds himself wondering why he was even doing this anymore when there’s no one by his side.
Spiderman doesn’t stop by at your apartment the next few days which makes your heart beat faster in worry while you twitch on your nail, watching the news as Spiderman saves the day again. You hope you didn’t ruin what you had with him.
You just. . .it’s unexplainable. You can’t explain why you’re trying to push him gently. It feels like he’s hiding something from you, something you desperately wish you can understand or even know. You’re going crazy, trying to connect the dots and remembering the memories before you can sleep. You even see the black figure beside you sleeping on your bed in your beds.
But during those days, you see New Ned not Original Ned more often, greeting you in the hallways with a bright smile. You wonder how someone could be this bright and cheery this early.
In the elevator, it’s awkward, silence fills the gap that your voice should fill, but you don’t speak to him.
The next day, you find yourself asking him if he’d like coffee. He looks like he’s about to refuse, but the words refuse to be uttered out of his mouth so he accompanies you to coffee. He even offers to pay it for you like a gentleman, but you refuse.
“You’re Ned, right? I just get a bit confused ‘cause my best friend’s name is also Ned.” You ask, hoping you weren’t being rude or anything while both of you were sitting in the cafe.
He always looks nervous for some reason, like he was hiding some super secret thing in his life.
“Yeah, Ned.” He nods, hands wrapped around his cup of coffee.
And then you find yourself bickering with him like both of you were childhood friends, talking about your common interests. He lies to you, though. He tells you a random university he graduated from, but you don’t notice, nodding along to his words.
When both of you part, you start to miss him, so you make it your mission to get to know him better.
The next day, you see him in the elevator again, smiling and waving at him as he repeats your actions. He was going to the park for a random walk (he wasn’t but he knew you’d accompany him), and you actually did.
Peter walks through the towering trees that casted shadows over both of you, walking with you by his side, just like old times in high school. He glances at you every now and then while you talk, hands moving around in the air. All Peter can think about is how he feels like a weight on his heart has been lifted.
When he’s back home, he spends hours looking at your social media, scrolling endlessly with love that wouldn’t go away, pounding in his heart when he sees your pictures again online.
And you find yourself missing him for no particular reason.
One night, during a sleepless night, you’re tossing and turning until you hear a knock on your window. Before you could even look at your window, it’s being opened, and someone enters. Gasping, you sit up, before running over. It’s Spiderman with his suit torn at his chest, bleeding all over your floor. You start panicking, “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!” You place a hand on his shoulder as you walk him to your bathroom, letting him lean against your bathroom floor.
“I don’t have a first aid kit!” You whisper-yell, looking at Spiderman who mumbles incoherently under his breath in pain. You’re supposed to be helping him, but right now all you can do is panic like a maniac, pacing through your apartment looking for a clean cloth and some alcohol.
“What do I do? What should I do?” You repeat over and over again. You’re panicking because of the way Spiderman looks, you’ve never seen someone covered in this much amount of blood. You feel like you want to throw up all over yourself and then faint.
“Breathe. Deep breath.” Spiderman orders, hand on his stomach and the other on your shoulder, trying his best to comfort you.
“Pour some alcohol on the cloth, yeah? That’s so good. You’re doing so good. Now put it on a wound you see. Any wound you see.” Spiderman tells you.
Peter shouldn’t have come to you, but it’s been a really dark time and he knows no one better to be by his side even though it goes against all he did just for you, just to protect you. He could do this by himself, but miss your touch? That’s an easy choice.
Peter hisses when the alcohol lands on his wound, you wait a few seconds before asking, “aren’t you supposed to stitch them up? I can’t- I don’t know how to do that.”
You’re about to start panicking again, before Peter places a hand on your shoulder again, “that’s fine, sweetheart, I’m gonna be fine.” He doesn’t even notice his stupid slip up, too busy in pain while trying to make you not panic again while trying to make himself not kiss you right there in your bathroom
Oh, how he misses you. What could’ve been.
When you’re done, he’s about to leave, but you glare at him and start arguing about how he woke you up in the middle of the night to clean up after him, and you start to throw your hands in the air frustratingly so much that he drags his feet to the couch. You hand him a pair of clothes, a very tight pair of pants with a crop top because you quote ‘were washing up all of your clothes and that’s what you had left’.
When he’s all dressed up, he lays on your couch, no longer bleeding but still aching from inside. You grab a pillow and a blanket and sit in your lazy boy, opting to sleep there.
He blinks at you, “I’m not going to escape I promise.”
You look at him like he cursed your entire bloodline, “just making sure. If you do, spiderboy, I’m hunting you down myself.” It’s an empty threat, but he’s not sure of that.
He scratches at his cheek and grimaces, “got that.”
However, both of you catch no sleep. He didn’t mean any offense towards you, but your couch was extremely uncomfortable that it could probably break his back if he slept the wrong way on it. His mask is still on and he looks at you to find you also not asleep. He catches lingering glances at you, admiring you from afar.
“Do you have any neighbours?” He decides to tread softly on that line, not trying to be suspicious.
“Yeah, someone called Ned.” You reply, opening your eyes to look at him. He’s laying on his back on the couch, and he looks extremely uncomfortable in that position, grimacing every time he moves his back.
“Do you like him? Not. . .romantically I mean.” He questions as if it was an interrogation which was weird because why would anyone ask that? Even MJ never asked you if you were romantically involved with anyone.
Furrowing your eyebrows in confusion, wrinkles appearing on your forehead, you look at him and ask, “why do you care? He’s fine.”
In response, he nods, lips slightly curling into a frown. You seem to notice his discomfort at your reply. Maybe you were a bit too rude or mean. Sighing, you tell him, “he’s a bit cute.” The tip of your ears go hot. At what you said, he sits up in a split second. You swear his back was about to bend and break from the sudden movement.
“You like him romantically then?” He almost demands, words coming out of his mouth in such a fast way it’s like they were racing each other, each one of them begging to get out.
“A little bit, maybe,” you shrug, “but I don’t think he feels the same way honestly.”
In that second, another memory slaps you in your face, brown eyes looking at you in despair, holding your arms, telling you everything was going to be fine. Those same eyes belonged to New Ned, your neighbour who you've been hanging out with the past few days in the Park or at the Cafe. They’re the same ones you glance into every time you greet him in the hallways with a warm smile.
Standing up, your breath starts becoming faster, everything’s not fine. Every memory you’ve ever remembered where there is a black figure inside of it, is replaced with New Ned, but that’s not his name is it? You remember calling out for a name, begging him to not do it. Not do what? You don’t know, but you know calling out for him and calling him ‘Peter.’
Peter.
Spiderman is on his feet already, worried as you keep glancing around like a mad woman, heart pounding and not being able to breath properly. You ignore what he has to say. You remember Peter taking you out on dates or being there with MJ and Ned. You remember walking through the snow. You remember, you remember, you remember.
But most importantly, you remember how you were swinging in NYC the same way Spiderman swung you back home, shooting webs and laughing in your ear at your frightened eyes. You turn your head to him. He’s wearing the clothes you gave him but his mask is still on, helping to keep his identity a secret.
Your shaky hands move to his mask; he doesn’t push them away. Without a second thought, your fingers curl his mask upwards until its above his lips. You remove it fully, and you’re about to break down in tears because the memories are too much. They’re all coming at once and you’re not able to catch up.
Spiderman is New Ned, or you mean Peter. Peter Parker.
A river of tears starts to form in your eyes when you can finally remember him, “Peter?” You call out softly, and he nods teary-eyed. Your hands move to his cheek, caressing it with your fingers like you’ve done so many years before.
Anger starts to form in the pit of your stomach, and it makes the pain of everything worse as it mixes with grief. “Why, why would you do that? Why would you let me do this alone? Why, Peter?”
“I didn’t want you to get hurt because of me. I couldn’t see you hurt just because of me, that would’ve been the end of me if you were in pain because I’m spiderman. There was no other choice. I had to make you forget me.” His own hands that were painted with scars on them find themselves on your cheeks, finally touching you after what had been years.
“But I’m still in pain, Peter, when you’re not here. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t be carrying it on your own, Peter.” You continue, letting your tears fall on your cheek but he wipes them away, not being able to watch you cry over his mistakes.
“You were never supposed to find out this way. I thought that if you didn’t know, then I could sleep without worrying someone would end up dead because of me. You don’t understand it, sweetheart.” His voice breaks, his heart hurting for you from how you’re processing those memories.
“Tell me if you still care about me, Peter. Tell me that you did this for a good reason, not the bullshit you’re talking about right. Tell me you did it for a good reason.” your hands move from his cheeks to your side, taking a few steps back until his own hands aren’t on your cheeks. You wipe your tears away furiously with the back of your hands.
“Listen to me.” He starts, but you cut him before he can complete his words.
“I loved you, Peter. Why would you do that to me? You were always by my side, why couldn’t you let me be by your side? Why, Peter? What gave you the cue that you suddenly needed to drop me when you could’ve been doing this with you by my side. You’re hurting, Peter, and you’re hurting so badly and you’re so selfish. You’re so selfish and I hate that you just thought you didn’t need me. You’re so selfish for thinking for a second that I didn’t need you. You. . .”
You gasp for air, red-rimmed eyes refusing to look at the person you thought you knew in front of you. To be frank, you did forget him and then remember him, it’s a confusing situation. You think you know him, but you’re not sure if you actually do.
You go quiet, the only sound you make is your shallow breaths and hiccups.
“I don’t think I know you anymore, Peter.” It broke your heart to say that, but you had to. You didn’t understand the man in front of you that you had supposedly loved back.
Your hands start to shake, and Peter takes a step forward, ignoring the pain in his dislocated shoulder, or his broken rib. You step back and tell him to not touch you with a hurt look on your face.
Exhaustion falls on you, and you feel you’ve been running a marathon you never got ready for.
The next morning, before the sun can even shine, Peter puts on his suit and finds himself flying through the sky, shooting webs on buildings. The people who see him cheer, yell and scream, and Peter, for once, doesn’t want to hear them. He wants to silence them. He has always loved the people when they yell his name over and over again, and even more when they thank him.
He shoots a web, and when he needs to shoot another one, his body refuses to cooperate. He finds himself falling down in the air on his stomach. Why should he care? He has nothing to live for again. He thought it could be better, but it will never be.
But, he continues and shoots another web anyway, tells himself it’s for the best, that this is what you would’ve wanted. Does he even know you anymore?
That day, he shows up and fights crimes even though he’s exhausted. He knows it’s for the better.
He doesn’t go home, because you live right beside him and it’s the worst thing of all. He stays on rooftops of random buildings.
When the sun finally appears, MJ is at your door, knocking angrily. When you open the door, she’s standing there with her eyebrows raised in an angry way, “where the hell have you been? You’ve been ignoring my messages for about a week now.” She pushes herself into your apartment, but finally notices your damp cheeks and black bags under your red eyes.
She doesn’t know how awful you feel right, how ashamed you are of your outburst when Peter was doing nothing but trying to protect you. You’re so selfish it’s unbelievable.
“Family problems.” Is what you tell her, but she doesn’t believe you at all, just looks at you in that way that makes you want to break down again.
“Hypothetical question.” You say, hoping she’d agree.
“Tell me.” She leans back against the chair like therapists do, and you let out a breathy chuckle despite the sadness you feel right now.
“If someone loves you, but they remove themselves from your life because they want to protect you, what do you do?” You elaborate further. If you didn’t think it was possible, MJ’s eyebrows raise upwards even more.
“Do you love them?” She inquires.
“No. . . maybe?” It comes out more like a question.
“Either yes, or no. No in between. For yes, you go to their door, demand why they did that and fight for them. If not, don’t bother yourself with even trying.”
You barely find any sleep, and if you do, it’s either filled with nightmares or regaining memories of Peter and you. You don’t want to say, but it’s even lonelier than when you didn’t remember him.
You don’t even visit the Park you used to go with Ne- Peter anymore. You don’t try to feed the birds, you don’t try to do anything. Your exhausted and you’re wondering why the universe decided that right now was the right time for you to be feeling like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders.
Every time you walk through the streets,your eyes sting. There’s pain in your heart like it’s dust that won’t go away even when the wind blows harshly.
I mean, you have MJ and Ned, why do you keep chasing something that used to be?
Still, every time you see Spiderman swinging in the air, or even on live air, your throat tightens, heart hammering behind your ribcage. You’re so tired from the emotional consequences of your fight with Peter that you can barely walk in a straight line or pull yourself from your bed.
You fall asleep everywhere, waking up to sleeping on the floor, on the couch or even the dinner table. Your kitchen used to be spotless, now the sink is full of unwashed dishes, and next to it a cracked mug that Spiderman, or Peter, had brought to you as a silly gift. You couldn’t find it in yourself to throw it away.
From the sheer tiredness, the hallways of your apartment looks like a never-ending tunnel. You stare at your walls for hours during the day, finding nothing better to do. When Peter was there, you could be hanging out with, but you ruined it. At least that’s what you think.
That’s how, when you muster up confidence a few days later, you knock on Peter’s door; he won’t probably answer you, but you still try. On its own accord, the door slightly opens. You open it slightly, stepping in and looking at his apartment. You’re wandering around aimlessly until Spiderman, or Peter, clears his throat from behind you.
With a yelp, you turn around and find him still in his suit with the window opened. He tears off his mask, and makes his way to where you’re standing. You bite on your lip when he approaches you, mask in his hand and lovely curls falling on his forehead.
Both of you pause, unsure of what to do. Your eyes burn with shame, glancing at him. You look down at your feet, but his eyes don’t falter; he continues to look at you like you were sacred. You fidget with the necklace around your neck, a black dahlia that you assumed Peter had bought for you.
You don’t wait until your arms are around his body. He’s surprised for a second, but his own wrap around yours. Sighing, your arms tighten around him, “I’m sorry, Peter. You didn’t deserve that. I was being an asshole. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
His arms remove themselves from around you and instead place themselves on your cheeks where you’re breathing shakily.
“No, don’t be sorry. You were right. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I’m the one who’s supposed to be sorry, yeah? I was just afraid, but it made me lose my closest friends.” This time, when your tears come, you don’t wipe them away. Mid sentence, you don’t notice the way Peter’s eyes move to your lips, silently begging you.
You forget what you were about to say, instead you improvise. The fear inside of you argues that you shouldn’t do that, shouldn’t tread on that dangerous line, but you can’t stop now. You can’t stop now when it’s all you wanted for the past few days.
You swallow harshly, shifting on your feet before asking with your voice lowering, “Can I?”
Peter’s wise side tells him to be strong and tell you no. He wants to protect you, he does badly, but restraint hurts so bad. His body is hurting, and restraining him from the only thing he wanted in years.
You hesitated, but moved first, crushing your lips with his. You were so close you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the pressure of reality narrowing down at you. Peter doesn’t seem scared, instead his hands are on your cheeks, caressing them tenderly. Both of you part, taking a deep breath, but when you kiss for the second time, it’s even more messier, underlying tension from yesterday.
His soft, rosy lips mirrored the same colour on his cheeks. With a racing pulse, fireworks explode in your mind, and you feel butterflies in your stomach. It feels all too familiar, just like you’ve done before. And there, you felt like there was no point of having scared thoughts in your mind, you were past the point of any return. His hand moves to your waist, pulling you closer.
When both of you part, Peter catches you in a bone-crushing hug with only thought in his mind.
Summary: you're MJ's twin sister, recently graduating in the field of Astrophysics from MIT. The older you got, the more you realized that you were completely different than the people around you. You developed abilities that you told no one of, even going as far as never telling your sister or family about them. Things shift during MJ and Ned's housewarming party, your mind sensing the looming presence of a stranger whose thoughts are unknown to you.
Pairings: Arachnid!Peter x Mutant!Female Reader
Warnings: angst upon angst, did i mention angst? implied anxiety, depression + semi-dark!peter
Word Count: 1.1k words
Author's note: Reader's powers are similar to Charles Xavier and Jean Grey (telepathic abilities, telekinesis) but reader also has super strength, fast healing and speed. Basically Y/N is indestructible. This is PART ONE of multiple part installment. Interactions keep me motivated so please reblog, like or reply if you enjoyed reading this piece.
Your head was literally pounding. The thoughts of everyone cramped into MJ and Ned's new apartment bombarding your brain, causing it to pound against your skull.
MJ could tell that you were out of your element, her hand naturally outstretching towards yours. The brand of wine your sister loved filled the wine glass that she was attempting to put into your hands.
"MJ, you know I never drink!" You yelled towards your sister, the loud music making your voice seem like a whisper.
Before MJ could answer, her boyfriend Paul came in-between you both, his hands pulling MJ in by her waist. You made an annoyed face when you noticed they were suddenly kissing in front of you.
Having to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, the dozens of minds that were surrounding you abnormally went silent. The hairs on your neck standing up as a response to you hearing the world grow quiet for the first time.
For once in over two decades of living, you felt peace. Panic bursting into the back of your mind since silence was never something you've ever encountered.
Scanning the room for some type of disturbance, your eyes zeroed in on a man who wasn't talking to anyone, his presence standing a few feet across from you. The browns of his eyes fixated on the wine glass that was shaking in your hands.
Attempting to infiltrate his mind, you were met with resistance. The feeling of him pushing your mind out abruptly feeling like a dive into the coldest ocean on the planet.
The man's eyes softened, his left hand harshly gripping and squeezing the stems of the flowers in his hand. The saddened expression that graced his face did little to mask the hurt in his soul.
Overly confused for the first time in your life, you cautiously watched as the handsome man approached MJ, his brown eyes reflecting the dim light illuminating the filled apartment.
"Hey, I don't think I've ever met you before..." MJ said, her thoughts trailing off at the end in attempt to get an answer out of this devilishly handsome stranger.
"Oh yeah!" The brown-eyed male broke eye contact with you, the redness on his cheeks signaling his shy demeanor to activate. Your mind already seeing the act this man was putting on.
"I live nearby and decided to bring a housewarming gift. My name's Maynard." He shared, giving the flowers to MJ.
As you watched your sister thank him and put the flowers in a vase, you tried to get past the barrier of Maynard's mind.
Feeling the pressure in your head increase, you stared at Maynard's forehead, trying to get past his mysterious mind. Seconds past, the thundering pressure in your body increasing heavily.
Before you could get a hold of yourself, your knees gave out. The sound of the wine glass that was once in your hand, now smashing against the ground now echoed around you. A hiss drawing from your mouth when you felt glass crunch against your hands. Groaning, you attempted to stand up.
"Hey Y/N, are you okay?" Maynard exclaimed, his body suddenly mirroring yours as he knelt beside you.
His hands suddenly curved around your elbows, bringing you up to a standing stature. The right side of your body leaning into the left side of his, small electric shocks crawling all throughout your body. Your mind suddenly hyper fixated on the muscles you felt rub against you.
Choking on your words, you were rendered speechless. The mind you were unable to penetrate was somehow still fighting against your abilities.
"Please tell me you guys have a med kit somewhere?" Maynard asked MJ.
"The last door on the left of the hallway. In the cabinets by the toilet." Your sister's eyebrows furrowing with worry when she saw the blood on your palms.
The electricity you were feeling from the body against yours increased as Maynard seemed to take his time leading you towards the bathroom.
He escorted you in, sitting you down on the closed toilet lid before getting the med kit. Your mind now remembering something that occurred a few seconds ago.
Turning towards you, Maynard froze at the puzzled expression on your face.
"You said my name..." Your words suddenly ringing in Maynard's now panicked mind.
"I've never met you and yet you know my name?" You exclaimed in disbelief.
The suspicion on your mind growing tenfold when you saw a flash of an unreadable emotion cross Maynard's eyes.
Ignoring your questioning gaze, Maynard reached for your blood-filled palms and applied alcohol to the cuts.
Scrubbing with all his might, "That's weird..." He whispered to himself for reassurance, the healed skin of your palms rendering his thoughts to a pause. "There's blood but no cuts."
Snatching your hand away from his, the static between you both grew intensified. The air around the both of you charged with gravity that only you were aware of. Or so you thought.
Feeling the panic multiply in your mind, you hopped off the closed toilet seat and dashed for the bathroom door.
Maynard's body collided with the door, halting your alarmed body from leaving the space you both occupied.
"Wait!" Maynard yelled, his voice suddenly filling with desperation.
"I know you." He explained.
Squinting with unbelievability, "We've never met." You said back, the bite in your voice doing little to heal his vulnerable state.
"Before the blip. Before all of this..." Maynard's voice suddenly cracked at the end, his fingers loosening from the grip they had on the door.
You shook your head, fully aware and confident that you've never seen this man a day in your life.
Seeing the doubt in your eyes, Maynard rushed towards you, the sclera and pupils of his eyes suddenly turning pitch black. The sunken expression he once wore morphed into confidence, determination and strength.
A smirk began to form at the left corner of mouth, your heart immediately beating aggressively in your chest. Your mind registering that this was a different version of Maynard.
Unable to stop your telepathic abilities, your mind attempted to bypass the shield of his mind. With swiftness you didn't encounter before, you fell into another world. The heart that belonged to your body skipping a beat as you registered something.
You landed inside a mind that cherished many memories with you. Your heart plummeting to the pit in your stomach as the most painful reality struck.
You had no recollection of these memories.
Part 2 coming soon.
send me an ask or reply to this post to be added to my taglist for this series.
pairing: peter parker x reader
summary: your body remembers him, maybe your brain just needs to catch up... and perhaps making new memories with you might not be as bad as peter once believed.
warnings: fluff, angst, comfort, minor spoilers for BND, memories, handholding, slightly awkward encounter, awkward/flustered!peter, past relationships, hospitals, bad 'first' encounter, Ned and MJ mentions, Frank helps reader a lil, 'kid' as a nickname . . .
word count: 3.4k
a/n: if you saw this already, that's because i got shadowbanned a few hours after i initially posted this fic :/ tumblr hates me and i wanna move somewhere else but unfortunately i love making moodboards :")
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"You sure it's okay?"
"I'on know how many times i've gotta tell you, kid." Frank grumbles, boots thudding on the linoleum.
The incessant beeps and chatter wraps around you, lives on standby even as bodies move as if powered by machine — really just a culmination of adrenaline and SharkFire Energy.
Your thumbs wipe against the rough cardboard of the carrier, one cup sits warm in the divot, numbers sprawled messily on the side with a stubborn sharpie and spontaneity, meanwhile the other's clasped in Franks hand. He doesn't sip yet, holding it by his side by the lid, and you can't help your eyes from glancing down, nervous for a spillage that never comes. You feel out of place, as if taking up too much room, as if another person should be in your spot. But you cant stop the glaring ache in your chest as you walk the ling stretch of hallway, florescence glaring down, paling the already white walls.
"Sorry." You mumble back, already turning in on yourself as the noise dims into a hum and clicks of pens bleed into muffled chimes of monitors.
"Eh, don't be," he shrugs with a wave of his arm, holding an ease of nonchalance you cant help but be intimidated and impressed by. "All I know, and all you gotta know is that he'd be happy to see you."
Happy.
The last time you saw Peter he was anything but.
In the days after, no matter how hard you'd shut your eyes and repeat his name as if you were Dorothy wishing her way back home, no memory seemed to have conjured. No flicker of a face, a body part, even the still of familiar waves. But your body seemed to have something your brain didn't, and that was… good? Right?
"I don't know, Frank," You sigh. Pausing at the wall, you tip your head back and stare at the lights. It hurts, all of it. Your chest bares a memory that your mind cant seem to process, to will. "Last time, I couldn't remember anything — I still don't — and I just, I can see that look in his face, you know, the one where his jaw does that thing and… and his eyes…"
You trail off with hands gesturing to nowhere in particular. Frustration wracks up your spine and settles on your shoulders.
Frank watches, nodding slowly, because he gets it. And it pisses you off.
"I don't wanna make him sad again."
"I get it. I do. But one thing I'm sure about is that he'll be happy you showed up," a firm hand pats your shoulder, settling warm through your hoodie. He keeps it there with a soft squeeze to keep you in the present. "It shows you care, yeah?"
He shakes your shoulder, so you nod and hum. You care. Your body cares.
"Course you do, s'why you showed up."
The glint of a smile hovers over your lips and you huff. The tiniest glint if hope in the smallest bits of affection, the hints that you can gather the bits of the puzzle once smashed back into a thousand pieces, no matter how far they've strayed, and put it back together.
You shrug abashedly. "Just need my mind to catch up."
"You're, what, twenty-ish?"
"Twenty-two."
"Hell, you've got the rest if your life to catch up," he says. "Even then, you've got the rest of your life to," his free hand moves aimlessly. "Do whatever it is you wanna do. Make new memories with the kid."
"An' if not," he sucks his teeth, "he'd just want you happy."
Frank doesn't miss the flex of your chin and the wobble of your lip, no matter how hard you tried to bite the inside of your cheek.
"Man, don't cry on me, shit's above my pay grade and I already got my ass whooped by the Hulk."
It sets free a rickety and wet laugh, unstable yet minutely freeing as your chest starts to loosen and shoulders slack. Even when tiny pricks of tears threaten to fall, you wipe them away with the sleeve of your hoodie.
"Fine," you sniffle, voice croaky and soft. But you inhale and exhale, clear your throat into your elbow and straighten. "What's rooms he in?"
With a nod of his head, Frank beckons you forward with a quiet 'cmon'. The overheads feel less like spotlights, even as they glare down and hum, but its all background noise as you begin box breathing and keeping up with Frank's strides.
Heart monitors are so pretentious, you cant help but think it as you stand stiffly at the foot of the bed.
Hospital rooms are all the same, a copy of a copy, white and baby-blues culminated into a saturated grey, always does if you stay long enough for your eyes to only focus on one thing in particular. The taps from the linoleum, restless, robotic sounds of machines working overtime. You let your eyes flicker around once just to gather, and your heart twinges sweetly at the assortment of cards and balloons on his right. A weak breath expels from your nose, lighthearted and heavy.
The fact Peter was Spider-Man wasn't lost on you, but it felt infinitesimal through the forgotten memories and the way your bones creaked with the need to remember. It's as if the blue and red that streaks the homemade cards beside him and the fabric of his suit that laid on the base of the cot hadn't registered.
Because this was all Peter. With his mask off, beaten and bare in a hospital room that smells like sickly, sweet anti-septic and lemon cleaner.
A thin, white bed-sheets laid crumpled just over his chest, a hospital gown baggy around his arms, but you stayed locked to his balmy face. Soft with rest, yet you can see the twinge of muscle between his eyebrows and your fingers tingle with the need to calm it. His dark auburn hair was knotted with sweat, his skin pale yet ruddy with cuts and afflictions.
Frank moved around him with a quiet sturdiness and a flex in his jaw, moving a chair from the far corner to his bedside, next to his own with so much of a grunt. And with a pat to the backrest, he talks.
"Sit 'own." It's not a demand, but you can't fault him when it sounds like one, or when you immediately take his request and stiffly sit, setting the lone cup of coffee by the bedside, still in it's carrier.
"Listen, I — ah," he nods to himself, walking out back from behind, keeping a firm hand to the back of your chair. "I'm gonna give you guys some space. Jus' sit and be with him, talk to him,"
With one last sigh and a pat, he walks back to the door, catching the handle before leaving you both alone. "Call me when he wakes up."
As the heavy door clicks shut, you don't miss a beat, turning your head to the man beside you. He looks aggravatingly restful, calm and serene, even under an oxygen mask and dim white lights overhead.
It all gets lodged in your throat. The picture in front of you, how soft he looks, how his chest rises and falls, how his hands stay empty beside him.
And it feels automatic when you reach for one. The scrape of the scratchy fabric lost in the whirr of machinery and murmurs of the crowd in the parking lot outside. Your fingertips move first, a brush over the back of his hand where his skin feels extra silky. Tiny hairs stand from your touch, right where you caress and up his arm, before you fully envelop his palm to yours. Fingers intertwined.
A deep heaviness seeps into your bones where the embrace begins, latching onto your wrist like a tonne of bricks.
Recognition. The annoying kind where you know, you just know, but nothing will appear in your head. No matter the amount of references, how hard you search or try to repeat a quote like a mantra, nothing will change.
Your fingers tighten slightly in his hold as you breathe. Shakily, in and out, and again, and again. Until the weight envelops your body. Liquid through your limbs, and the stress of remembrance, of the day, of the hand in your own, pulls your eyelids down.
The first thing Peter notices when he wakes up, eyes achy, head still dully pounding, is the weight in his hand.
His eyes are still shut when he realises, as he groans softly and the noises slowly start to separate from the cacophony outside of the square room. Fingers twitch minutely, settling the warmth in his body and it feels like everything was a bad dream. It's all comfort, and good.
But the incessant beeps, the crowd and the chorus of shoes and heels clicking on plastic start to wrap around him, as well as the tightness around his mouth.
The mask comes off first, still averse to move his hand from the safe position it's found, like it was always meant to be there. The elastic tangles slightly, but it snaps off the back of his head and Peter begins to look.
Grey and white, yet the array of motley cards and balloons beside him catches his eye.
His thumb grazes the heat between his instinctively, and suddenly a grunt pulls him out of his reverie, head snapping to where the sleepy sound pulled from.
It's enough to make all the air in his lungs run. Your figure balled up on a chair, both legs up, face scrunched and tired, aggravated by the pain in your neck and back, and the sudden pull from unconsciousness.
Peter watches on. Memories of tired study nights with you, Ned and MJ, energy drinks clicked open, half-drunk or already crushed down and tossed to the side, arrays of textbooks open midway, citations highlighted, sticky notes scribbled — only to be stuck to foreheads in a jittery game of heads up. He remembers how you grumbled through the whole thing, feigning sleep even as your head found refuge on his shoulder and your eyes closed and breath evened out.
He remembers the exact crease between your brows and the pout of your lips when he softly nudged you up, how you whined and he laughed softly, only to guide you on top of his bed where you spent the rest of the night catching up on dreams while the others kept playing and tossing screwed up flashcards at each other.
Peter also remembers the widening of your eyes when you realised where you were and how long you were out. How he didn't keep you awake and how you were gonna fail (but you didn't).
It's the same as now. Hand still in his, albeit balmy, but God, does it feel nice. And your eyes wide like a deer in headlights, a kid caught in the pantry.
He gets lost in it for a moment. Memorising the colour as if he hadn't been thinking about it since the last time he saw you, held you and spoke to you like a companion. Not a lost memory or a stranger.
Willing his throat to move, to relieve himself of dryness, he speaks softly.
"Hi."
"Hi," you copy, equally as breathless. Your fingers flex, sweaty and warm, your thumb grazes the soft side of his knuckle, suddenly realising your hands have been entangled together. You pull back as fast as you figured out. "Oh, God. Sorry."
"Don't be," He cuts in with a breath. As much as Peter wants to chase, his lips stick together before moving to a stiff smile. "It was nice."
"Yeah," Gulping thickly, you nod.
It was nice. Heavy with one sided memories. With an annoyed body that understands and wants the brain to realise. It aches your gums and stings through your spine like restless needle pricks.
Your palm lays cold, bare in a way you didn't realise it could be until now, ripped away from his in a moment of weakness.
Slowly you ease your hand back up to the mattress, itching closer to his in a silent question he has no problem answering.
It's not a full clasp, not sleepy palms rested against another — it's more shy, like a timid whisper of pinkies while tip-toeing past inevitable. The tips of your fingers touch his and it feels more full and safe than any hold could bring; it's a breath of fresh air, falling from a height only to be caught by firm hands and gentle oaths
Silence slips between the two of you in an amalgamation of comfort and questions left unanswered, hope quietly withering and chests equally weighted.
Your fingertips tap on his own, fiddling with a crease in your brow and a knot in your stomach.
"I know you," you whisper to yourself, and Peter's heart lurches. "I know I do, I just don't remember."
It dissipates as quick as it came. Dissolving like starch, thickening in his chest. "It's okay."
"It's not," a short breath leaves you like a punch, "It's really not okay, Peter."
An ache crawls through his arms with a phantom touch, from his hands to his shoulders, he needs to hold you. To shush you into his chest and embrace you like he used to. Mumbling words into your hair with his chin sat atop your head, saying something stupid to make you laugh wetly into his shirt.
"Can I…" he falters for a moment, rethinking his words with a sharp inhale of breath. "Look this is gonna sound real weird but… do you want a hug?"
A chuckle leaves your lips, wet and suppressed like if you laugh too hard you'll disturb the nursery on the next floor.
He hates how full everything feels now. Loves it, too. Loves hearing your voice again, soft and tired, hates that it quietly lacks familiarity. The laughter from deep in your chest. Your eyes on his. Your hands. And now…
You pause before nodding. "That would be nice, thank you."
It isn't cinematic. No burst of colour once you stand up and lean in, because he's still tired and achy, even though he wants to lunge up and breathe you in. There's no orchestra, or 'aww's from a few passersby. It's just you and Peter, and the weight of the past, the crowd outside, the AC blasting and the heart monitor beeping.
But it's you. And you're warm. And you feel different, surer and stronger, older in a way, and you smell the same.
His hands fist at the back of your hoodie, one to your middle, the other rubbing light lines up and down, and its instinctive how he inhales so deeply. You don't wear the same perfume anymore, its less sweet, more natural and woodsy, but underneath its all you.
And when your hand finds the nape of his neck through the embrace, Peter realises he's a goner. You fiddle with the tufts the same, even though his hair's a little matted with sweat and blood, your fingers are light on the fuzz of tiny hairs on the back of his neck, and he can feel your inner dialogue.
Can you bury your hand in his hair? Should you?
But you pull back before you could decide on a possibility. Keeping your hand on his neck for a moment longer, his own hands on your biceps and forearms, just looking, before you step back into the chair with a sigh.
Your fingers find his again.
"Thank you." You whisper. Throat tight, unable to fully talk.
Peter just nods, a shy smile on his face. "Don't mention it."
It makes you laugh. You wonder how easy he used to do that before. How often he'd poke your sides, or tell you a joke or pun about chemistry that had your cheeks hurting and eyes rolling.
"You give good hugs, Peter."
His chest caves at that. Chin dimpling in restraint, swallowing, unblinking as if the stale air could dry the wetness threatening his waterline.
"Yeah, well," he hums, tilting his head back, staring at the tiles on the ceiling, but he can't stop looking at you. "You ain't seen nothing. Just wait until I get out of this bed,"
He cringes with a crease of his face. "That sounded so weird, it was better in my head—"
"No, no, please," You giggle again, and your face hurts. "I wanna see what the fuss is about now."
Soft laughter dissipates into a thick, deep silence.
"Can I say something," he swallows. "About before."
You nod, shuffling in the chair. "Of course."
Peter inhales. The ceiling his sanctuary, it's incredibly interesting. He stares and breathes, picking and choosing what to say, what to bring up.
"I remember you told me I give good hugs the first time we," he gestures, hands up, holding around the air in an embrace. You hum in acknowledgement. "Sorry, it just reminded me."
"Don't be sorry, Peter."
"It's my fault you don't remember," his throat works. "I'm stuck with my own memories and you, Ned and MJ, don't remember anything."
You sigh. Unable to say anything, comforting words cant fix the pain, like bringing a bandage to open heart surgery.
You have your whole life ahead of you.
Memories to be made. A life to live. Starting now, restarting. Would it be so bad?
"I wouldn't mind possibly, hopefully, making new memories with you," You say. Gulping away at the thickness in your throat, the weight of which your hand goes back to his with more confidence this time, balmy skin to balmy skin. "If, I mean, if that's okay… with you?"
"That's, I…" Peter gulps through a dry mouth, eyes hesitant to blink or tear away from your own. he shakes his head almost disbelieving, smile already aching his cheeks.
"That's all I ever wanted," his eyes begin to water and his voice catches. "Thank you."
You nod. Twin smiles on each of your faces, eyes twinkling under the florescent lights, and it almost feels like colour flushes through the room, between the two of you.
"Thank you,"
"I should, uh," you swallow and look back at the door. "I should get Frank. Bring him in"
Peter nods. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
There's an easiness to him now. Tension shed to reveal a lighter coating of the Peter Parker beneath the suit, now hospital gown.
The both of you stare down at your hands, not unable to move, more reluctance. To you its a familiar kind of feeling, sweet nostalgia that makes the sun shine a little brighter. To Peter its a soft kind of finality. It's you, again. After years of working up the courage, and figuring out times and dates and the tiniest details, only for the universe to push him to the deep end — it's a chance to be by your side again.
"Your coffee's probably cold." He cuts through, quietly through the comfort.
Your eyebrows tug in question, but you quickly turn to your side to find the lone cardboard cup.
"Shit," you curse under your breath, snorting under your breath. You smile in mild embarrassment, shrugging. "I, uh, got that for you, actually."
"Really?"
"Yeah, but," you brush it off with a wave. "It's cold now. S'what I get trying to make a small gesture."
Peter shrugs to, pulling his lips in indifference. "I mean, I don't mind iced coffee, so."
A small, shy laugh tugs from your lungs, but Peter just watches. Enamoured by the modesty.
"I'll keep that in mind for next time," you nod. Giving his hand one last squeeze you stand, making your way to the door. "My numbers on the side of the cup, by the way."
Peter smiles as he turns to look, only getting the first couple digits before your writing curves on the other side.
"Are you leaving now?"
"I'm just getting Frank," you reiterate, pointing outside from over your shoulder. "But, I mean, I can stay."
"That would be nice," with a stutter he adds. "Maybe we could get more coffee, later, I mean—"
"That would be nice." You nod, cutting into his ramblings like a knife through butter.
The door clicks open, a wave of noise and light flash through the crack before your presence is swallowed up behind it. Peter's giddy. Light in his chest, bulky and fresh, he doesn't know what to do with it other than sit in the cot and gulp, fingers fiddling with the thin bed-sheet while one palm tingles with your ghost.
You tell Spider-Man about your crush on an oblivious Peter Parker. Spider-Man recommends giving Peter a signal—a sign, so he knows what you want. [4k words, shy!fem!reader/tasm!peter]
˚₊𓆩༺ 🕷༻𓆪₊˚
The night is sweet and warm.
The sun is setting, and the bakery at the end of the street is closing. You watch from your rooftop as one of their workers smokes a cigarette out back, smoke drifting upward, a sight at odds with the smell of powdered sugar ever-present on the breeze.
You pull your knees up toward you and rub your face with a sleeve-covered hand. The hoodie Peter got you is soft to the touch, smelling of detergent against your nose. You stretch it over your knees and peer down at your socks, black with little flowers on the sole. Peter said they looked Minecraft-y, and then he asked if he could borrow a pair from the pack that you never saw again.
You like thinking of him wearing them. Maybe he thinks of you when he does, or maybe they’re rolled up and forgotten under his bed.
You loose a depressed sigh and lean back in your summer chair. There wasn’t much heat for sunbathing today, but the roof makes for a good place to rest in the agreeable evenings. Less so when it rains, which is often. You eye a grey cloud on the horizon but your reluctance to move nor gather your stuff leaves you frowning. You are trying quite hard to stay away from your apartment and, as a consequence, your evil phone. If you have your phone, you’ll check over and over if Peter has replied to your message, but he hasn’t. He doesn’t, really, reply very often.
The sun goes and goes, presenting a miserable dark sky with little in the way of stars, but there are lights in the distance, buildings and cars, all now flocked in artificial white. It’s no soft glow.
You lay down, sit back up, lay down again. You reach for your book and discard it with a sigh. You count the planes that fly overhead, searching for the next whenever the former flies from view. You think about Peter and his big hands, how hot they’d felt pressed to your waist. How brown his eyes are, how soft his lashes must be when touched.
The swip and thwip of spiderwebs being thrown catches your attention immediately. Spider-Man. He must be near—you’ve seen him in person more times than you can remember, and the sound puts you at ease, that delicate snap and stick as he ejects, lets his weight pull, then cuts the line. You lean over the edge of your chair to look for him–
And almost lose your nose as a suit of red and blue comes flying up toward your rooftop.
“Holy–”
“Fuck!” you say, throwing yourself backward with a shout. You bring your hand to your chest, pressing your heart back behind your ribs as the blur of colour comes to a stop on the edge of the roof.
“Sorry!” Spider-Man says. “Jesus, you didn’t see me? I’m kind of, you know, brightly coloured?”
“You came out of nowhere! You’re going sixty miles an hour!”
Spider-Man rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I got places to be. Well, most of the time.”
You feel your heart jumping under your palm. Spider-Man shifts, his head tilting down as though he’s squinting at you assessingly.
“Hey, are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”
You swallow your nerves. “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. You scared me, s’all. Sorry for cussing. And yelling.”
He giggles brightly, plonking down on a creaky lawn chair, unperturbed by its green moss. “Yeah, you should be sorry, potty-mouth. Kiss your ma with that mouth?”
You laugh without thinking. “Sometimes.”
Spider-Man lays back in the chair and folds his arms over his stomach. It strikes you that you wouldn’t know if his eyes were open or closed, he looks relaxed, like he could doze. He looks tired, actually. He gives a long sigh and sits up some. Eyes open, decidedly.
“What are you doing up here?” he asks.
“Oh, I’m reading.”
“Reading what?”
You refuse to tell him that it’s a silky sweet romance with a besotted leading man and a beautiful girl, but struggle to think of a lie. The silence lingers until it’s awkward.
Finally, Spider-Man waves a hand at you, his voice genial as he says, “Keep your secrets.”
“Are you okay?” you ask.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
It might be more apt to ask him what it is that he’s doing up here. Surely Spider-Man has more important things to get too than sitting in a rinky-dink chair waiting to snap beneath any weight at all on your dreary rooftop in the cold weather. And more that he doesn’t know you, hasn’t ever spoken to you, no matter how many times you’ve seen him around the city.
“You look tired,” you say softly.
“I’m okay. But, hey, thanks for asking.”
“Sure.”
Awkward silence lingers again. Your blatant confusion as to his presence becomes obvious, and Spider-Man looks away, rubbing at his neck again with that same nervous hand.
“You looked lonely,” he says. “I guess I wondered if you wanted company, or– or a shoulder to cry on, or something. Anything.”
“Is that something you do often?”
“What good is looking after the neighbourhood if everybody in it goes home sad?” Spider-Man shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me anything, I’ll only sit here if that’s cool.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
You’re thinking about Peter again. It’s ridiculous, there’s a superhero on your roof and you’re thinking about Pete, but you can’t help it. Spider-Man reminds you of him, his height and build, even his voice, though Spider-Man is all bravado and gruffness where Peter’s a tiny bit shy. It’s what made becoming his friend possible—he’s shy and you’re worse, you’re immovable, you struggle to talk half the time. If Spider-Man hadn’t scared the fuck out of you scaling up the building, you wouldn’t have been able to open your mouth.
“I have a friend,” you say, buckling under the pressure of the quiet. “And I like him. And I don’t know what to do, so. That’s why I’m all messed up.”
“You don’t look messed up,” he says, bringing a hand to his chin to hold like he’s pondering something deeply. “You like someone? That’s a good thing.”
“I don’t think he likes me back.”
“That sucks, but– okay, sorry if this is weird, but you’re beautiful.” Spider-Man straightens in his chair. “Like, you’re really beautiful. And your voice is so nice, I’ve barely heard it and I already know it’s addictive.”
You laugh again without meaning to, a sputter of sound.
“You’re really pretty. If he doesn’t like you back, I’m sure you can find somebody else.”
“Thank you, Spider-Man, but I don’t want anybody else,” you say softly. “He’s really perfect. Have you ever–” You clear your throat, picking at a scagged thread on your pajama bottoms and avoiding his gaze. “It’s stupid.”
“I bet it’s not.”
Nobody’s ever called you beautiful before. Nobody’s ever…
Peter makes you feel beautiful. Tips your chin up with his pinky finger to get your eyes, takes a good look at you when he’s seeing you for the first time in a while, but he never says anything about it. He smiles and he's sweet, but he doesn’t call you beautiful.
“He makes me feel like the only person in the world,” you confess. “He’s not perfect, like I said. He lashes out, and he forgets all the time, he’s late constantly, but he always says sorry, and you know he really means it? He’s the most genuine person. And he’s–” pretty, you want to say, but you look sideways at Spider-Man and can’t bring yourself to say it. “I want more of him than he wants to give me, is all, but I don’t mind. I like being his friend.”
“You want more,” he says, as though turning the words over in his mouth.
“That’s the hard part.”
“That’s a nice love story.” He exhales slowly. “Lucky guy.”
“It’s not a love story,” you say, trying for happy acceptance and sounding weak.
“It could be. Have you told him how you feel? I don’t see how a guy could hear all that from a girl like you and not at least try to make it work?”
You bring your knee up and rest your nose on the fabric there. “I don’t usually talk to people like this. I find it really hard.”
“Oh, so I’m special?”
“You’re an exception.”
“You don’t talk to this guy?”
You press your face fully to your knee, thighs aching.
“Peter doesn’t answer the phone,” you mumble, hoping Spider-Man won’t hear you. “Can’t talk to him about anything. And what would I even say? I know we’ve been friends for years and all but I like you now, and I’m prepared to make things awkward between us forever?” You whine quietly. “Everything’s so hard.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Spider-Man sounds flustered. Sounds like he took a long plunge from a tall skyscraper. You look up, perplexed, and he’s facing you completely still. It’s like he’s been turned to stone.
“You–” He swallows. “This Peter guy, you really like him?”
“I’ve had a crush on him since forever! And he never notices me, ever!” You scrub at your face. “I know it’s stupid and childish and high school, I know I should tell him how I feel even if there’s not the slightest chance that he’d ever want me back–”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
You squint at him. “You don’t know Peter.”
He laughs, still sounding all flustered and weak. “Okay.”
“Sorry. I guess I’m being really corny, huh?”
“No.” His voice is higher, too, almost like he’s holding his breath. “It’s not corny, it’s nice.”
“He’s really pretty,” you say, lamenting your sad lonely life without him. And now you’ve made a mess all over Spider-Man’s generous listening. If there was a chance he’d come to see you again, you have surely ruined it.
Spider-Man squeaks.
You stare at him. He’s pulling at the edge of his mask, fanning himself, giving you rare glimpses of his pale skin.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
“I’m sorry, I’m– super warm.”
“Oh. Is the suit hot?”
“It can be, yeah.”
“I guess I don’t know how to move on,” you say, breaking your gaze to stare at the gravelly rooftop instead. “He’s a great friend, and I didn't always want it so badly. I don’t know why… why it got so much worse lately. I see him and I wish he’d grab me and– and kiss me–” You bite your tongue. “Sorry, Spider-Man. That’s too much information."
“Kiss you how?” he asks.
You jolt a little. “Uh, you know. Just kiss me. A real kiss. He’s kind of affectionate, like, sometimes he tries to hold my hand before we cross the street, and one time he did kiss my cheek, but it was, like, a bit. I want a real kiss.”
“Huh.”
“It’s lame.”
“Love is kinda lame. Corny and cheesy,” Spider-Man sounds oddly pleased. “But maybe he’s got all these lame feelings too, and didn’t want to push you. You seem kinda shy. Maybe he’s worried he’s not reading things right. If you’re the kind of girl who’s easily flustered, how can he know if it’s because of him or not?”
“But what do I do?”
“I don’t know.”
You laugh. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry, but whatever you do, if he gets the signal, he’ll reciprocate.”
“How do you know?”
“Girl as pretty as you?” Spider-Man’s voice goes soft as butter. “He’d be an idiot not to.”
—
By the time you’d made it back inside that night, Peter had replied to your message.
In fact, Peter had spammed you. Answered everything you said with detail and then launched into an apology for not responding, cos he had a bunch of stuff to do and Aunt May had the car and his phone died on the subway home, yada yada.
He then asked you out.
Alright, he didn’t. He asked if you wanted to come over and watch a movie the next day, which is pretty standard Peter friendship activity, but has you smiling like a loser at your phone.
Yes, you’d texted him, would love to, I’ll bring dinner?
Do not!!!! I will order in for us when you get here :D
You’re standing in your nicest skirt, a pretty pink thing that ends at the knees and, and your newest converse, which aren’t all that new. Your cardigan is charcoal wool and buttoned all the way up to fight the sudden chill. It’s later than you realised; you spent an hour panic-changing your clothes and lamenting your response Spider-Man’s advice. You have to give Peter a signal, right?
You are dressed very cute for a movie at his place, and you smell delicious. You’re gonna give him a wide-eyed flirty stare and who knows, maybe he’ll finally get the message.
Or he’ll wonder why you’re so overdressed.
The door finally opens, and Peter’s already smiling. His cheeks are red like spring cherries with a flush that crawls down his neck and probably stains his broad chest, too, his hair in order for once, his usual hoodie and jacket traded in for a plain white t-shirt that’s a little tight. Shows the indents of his chest, the lines of firm muscle there.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says.
You want him to call you beautiful forever. “Don’t,” you say instead. He should know better. You fluster at anything.
Peter stands aside to let you in. You’ve been to the Parker house a ton of times, but it’s noticeably clean, and dimly lit. There are a couple of candles lit in the living room and a bowl of popcorn stands on the coffee table, filling the room with the smells of toffee and butter.
“Was it cold?” he asks.
You nod hurriedly. “So cold. I thought it was supposed to be summer.”
“We’re not that lucky. Make yourself comfy, okay? I gotta grab your drink.”
You unlace your shoes and leave them by the doorway, padding into the living room in your socks. The couch is fitted with enough throw pillows to turn a three-seater into a two-seater. You’re forced to plop yourself somewhat in the middle, but you’re too tempted by the popcorn to worry. You sneak a piece while Peter’s gone, humming as the sweetness breaks out across your tongue.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he calls.
“For what?”
“For not answering you!” His voice echoes nearer, and he grimaces his way through the hall into the living room, two glasses of your favourite in his hands. “I’m awful. I’m an idiot, and I never check my phone. I’m sorry.”
“Peter, it’s fine.”
“You sure?”
Your eyes widen of their own accord as he sits down next to you, thigh to thigh, so close you can see the little bits of amber that swim in his irises, all that brown fragmented by shards of sunlight.
“I–” You nod oddly. “Am sure. Of course. I don’t expect you to drop everything–”
“I know you don’t, but still. I have my phone with me. I can answer you more, and you’re important to me. I get distracted.”
“Did you get all your errands done?”
“Sure.” He hands you your glass and puts his own on the coffee table. “Thanks. You’re an angel.”
“You’re not so bad,” you say.
You relax. Peter lets you choose the movie, and you feel warm sitting there pointing his remote at the TV, flicking unsurely through everything, but he’s Peter. You put on Cado Lake and hand him the remote, sure he’ll enjoy a sc-fi flick, and are instantly gratified when the movie hooks his attention. Not too much, though. He’s clear of mind enough to put the popcorn bowl in your lap and nip you with little questions. Who’s that again? Hey, she looks like May. Wow, you smell good, what is that?
You’re about an hour into the movie when Peter’s hand sews itself behind your back.
It’s warm, and big. His fingertips skate over the mall of your back until he’s found your side, where it curls, and he pulls you gently toward him. Your head drops into the space between his shoulder and head, the TV a colourful blur in front of you, your hand paused dead in the nearly empty popcorn like you’ve been frozen.
“Okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” you say. You’re fine.
He’s warm. He’s solid beside you.
“You’re letting me eat all the popcorn…”
His laugh is a huff against your head. “I’ll make some more.”
“No.” You rest your cheek on his arm. Bliss flits through your entire body like a wave. “It’s okay. I won’t eat your share.”
“You do what you want,” he says, and you wonder if he’s relaxing beneath you, too, heat of his body seeping through his clothes and into your skin as his fingers rub gently into your side. “Get you a sack of popcorn, if you want me to.”
“This is nice.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. This is good.”
You struggle to pay attention to the movie for the next few minutes, wondering if this is really what you think. It’s not exactly friendship-level affection to wrap your arm around someone, is it? But Peter’s so lovely, it could be nothing. Why would it mean anything? What could Peter want with you? Of course you have a crush on him, he’s gorgeous, but Peter has no such motivations about you. Does he?
He’s quiet for a while. You think the movie might’ve really snagged him, but then he turns to you with a shy smile that brightens exponentially when you sneak a glance at him and end up smiling back.
He doesn’t look away.
It gets so hot you wish you could peel out of your cardigan, but you don’t wanna move and displace the moment.
“You’re missing the movie,” you whisper.
“I’ve missed so much of it,” he says.
“What?”
“Look.” He swallows. “Look, I don’t know if I’m– maybe I’m way off base here, and all, but,” —his hand climbs your side, folding over your, pulling you even closer— “maybe I’m not? I don’t know.”
“Off base about what?”
“You know.”
“Do I?” you ask. You can hardly speak above a breath, but Peter hears it.
Peter’s gaze darts down.
You lift your chin. Spider-Man, you think, watching as Peter’s brows knit like he’s in pain and his pupils turn to dimes, sunshot brown melding dark, this better work.
Peter inches his face down until your noses are touching, your eyelashes forced shut in a flutter at his proximity.
He lingers there, in the quiet, breathing the air your exhale and holding his tongue as he raises his hand to cup your cheek tenderly. His fingers slip beneath your ear and his thumb drags over your cheek, distending your lips, and his lips brush against yours so softly you aren’t sure if he really has kissed you, or if you want it bad enough to conjure the sensation. But then he presses in for a proper kiss, and the quiet in the room gets replaced by the pounding of your heart in your own ears.
He tips your head a little and kisses upward, parting his lips to encourage you to let him in. You suck in a breath as he wades in for a real kiss, the heat of tongue and the soft plush give of his lips on yours. He encourages your head back quick, your eyes squinting ever so slightly, but he’s only moving you to wade in for the same kissing at a new angle. His nose tip scrunches into yours.
Your thoughts are electric. Your hand vies for a place to anchor, grasping tightly at his shirt, screwing the fabric over his chest into a ball.
“Holy crap,” he says, pulling back a touch.
His eyes are shining. His mouth is damp with spit, but you aren’t certain if it’s yours or his.
“I can’t believe I had the willpower to wait this long for that,” he says, running his thumb over your bottom lip. “Shit, you're just as perfect as I thought.”
You laugh in a tangle. “What?” you ask breathlessly.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. Wow, you taste like toffee.”
“I’m sorry–”
Peter gets his thumb under your chin to tip your face up. “For what? For being perfect?”
“For tasting like popcorn.”
“That is the least of my worries.” He does a one-eyed squint at you, stroking your chin and cheek with his thumb, a caress that makes your stomach ache as much as the kisses had. “Sorry it took me so long to kiss you. You’re a hard girl to read.”
“I know,” you mumble.
He kisses your cheek and ducks his face into the side of your head, gathering you in for a hug that’s strong but careful, too, your thigh curving into his lap. He doesn’t seem to notice the way he’s dragging you onto him as he breathes in your hair.
“Pete?”
“Yeah?”
You struggle out of his arms. “Can you kiss me again?” you ask.
“Yes. Yeah. Oh my god, absolutely.”
Your laugh as he bends your backwards into the mountain of throw cushions is ecstatic. Then smushed, quickly, but it’s fine. The kiss is worth getting cut off.
—
(One month later.)
“I was going to tell you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Seriously, I was! But I didn’t want you to be embarrassed."
“Right.”
“And I didn’t want you to be mad.”
You stare at Spider-Man in your boyfriend’s bedroom, unmasked, Peter Parker with hair like a dandelion and eyes so sorry he’s almost winning you over, the mask clasped in hand.
“You knew who I was talking about,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “and you still made me give you a signal? Do you know how hard that was for me?”
“You can do hard things!”
“Peter.”
“I wanted to be sure. I have a huge crush on you, you know that? It was just as scary for me as it was for you.”
You sniff indignantly. Spider-Man drags himself from his window to take your hands, pouting like a loser for your forgiveness.
“Can you please forgive me?” he asks. “Don’t you think it would’ve given my secret away if I turned up at your door and planted one on you? You do not understand the strength it took to wait.”
“Peter, it wasn’t even twenty four hours.”
“You’re really pretty,” he mumbles.
You forgive him already, not that he needs to know that. You have more important questions to ask.
“So, what’s with the webs?”
“D’you like ‘em?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He whines.
You plant a little kiss on his jaw and make for the bed you’d been planning on napping in before his impromptu return through the open window. “Come hold me while I nap,” you say, moving back his sheets, “please. And maybe I’ll think about forgiving you.” You’re too tired to think about this in depth.
Peter throws himself into the mattress. You crawl into his arms.
“You kinda smell like street,” you mumble, nuzzling his neck, a hint of forgiveness to settle his bad nerves.
His head falls back as he lets out a relieved sigh. “You smell perfect,” he says.
↳ Warnings/Themes: CONTAINS BND SPOILERS / DIALOGUE. PG. Minor Angst.
↳ Pairing: Peter Parker x F!Reader
↳ Words: 1495
↳ Summary: You find the words that Peter hid from you.
☁️: angst comes before the fluff. my attempt a drabble ❤︎
General Masterlist here. Peter Masterlist here. First Part here. [can be standalone]
The door knocked three times before your brain even registered what it was, dragging you out of the thoughts swirling endlessly through your head. Still, you sat perfectly still on the sofa, not trusting that your legs would hold you if you tried to stand.
Between the last message you'd exchanged and the sound of his knuckles against your door, you'd read over the letter so many times that the words have begun to blur together.
'Hi, my name is Peter Parker, and you don't remember me, but I have something to tell you...'
'But the truth is, I love you. And I hope that deep down, something inside you remembers you love me too.'
The first time you read it, you laughed, just your luck to find someone crazy enough to think that they were Spider-Man.
But the more you read over how he recalled your time together, the more you saw the small, intimate details of yourself that you barely noticed yourself. Little things that no stranger could have known.
And suddenly, it all made sense. The headaches, the images you couldn't place, the empty feeling in your chest.
He knew you, and you had known him.
Another knock.
You drew in a shaky breath, shaking your head as if that could clear your thoughts, and finally stood. The apartment felt too quiet without MJ and Ned here, but they couldn't be here for this conversation. Not for this.
Making your way towards the door, each reluctant step seemed to echo through the silence. By the time you reached it, your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your throat. You paused, hand hovering over the handle.
For a brief, immature, second, you considered pretending you weren't home. But, if he really was Spider-Man, he'd probably be able to hear you anyway.
So, you opened the door.
Peter stood in the hallway, one hand tucked in his pocket while the other clutched a flower bouquet, your favourite flowers.
His eyes softened the second they found you, the nerves in his face melting into something warm and familiar. It was a reaction that had your stomach turning.
"Hey," he said, letting out a long breath. "I'm sorry I'm late. I-"
His voice cut off when his eyes dropped to the jacket in your hands. You were shaking, fingers curled tightly around the fabric. His gaze moved back up to your face, brows furrowing at the glassy look in your eyes.
"Are you okay?"
"You left something in the pocket."
Peter's expression changed, the realisation hitting his chest deep and immediate.
"I'm sorry."
The apology came so fast it almost felt like a reflex.
You pulled the letter free.
"Is it true?" You raised the letter between you both. "Or are you just crazy?"
In this moment, you weren't sure which option you would have preferred.
His head dropped, brown curls falling over his forehead.
"Yes."
"Prove it."
"What?"
"Prove to me that you're who you say you are here." You waved the letter at him.
Peter looked around the hallway before there was a sharp thwip, a web shooting from his wrist and hitting the kitchen counter behind you.
You stared at it for longer than should have been necessary for your brain to process. Every word in that letter was real.
"Oh my god."
The tears begun welling in your eyes so fast it nearly startled you, blurring the edges of his face.
"Take it," you huffed, pushing the jacket and letter into his hands before turning on your heel.
"Wait," he called behind you.
The door closed softly as he followed you into the apartment. He set the things down on the kitchen counter before following you deeper into the room.
"I'm sorry."
"You wanted me to find it?"
"No," he said, holding his hands up, eyes immediately pleading. "I swear, I- I- forgot it was in there."
You let out a laugh so sharp that it barely sounded like one. "You expect me to believe that?"
His eyes fixed on the letter on the counter.
He said your name in a way that was too familiar, too strained, as if you'd had arguments before and he knew how to plead with you. You had, you supposed.
"I'm really sorry."
You whirled around to face him so fast that you felt slightly dizzy. "I don't really need you to keep telling me that you're sorry."
"What do you need?" He asked, moving closer. "Anything, please?"
"I need you to tell me why you'd do this to me."
Peter blinked, caught off guard. His mouth opened and closed as he searched for the right words.
"I lost someone," he said finally. "Someone close to me and it was my fault. I couldn't- I couldn't have that happen to you. I couldn't lose you."
The way he looked at you, genuine and pleading, made your head swim.
You pressed the palms of your hands to your face, willing the stupid tears to go away. It only made it worse, your palms becoming damp as your breathing turned uneven. "That wasn't your choice to make."
"I know."
"Then why did you make it?" Your voice rose and cracked all at the same time.
"I'm sor-." He stopped himself, swallowing. "Because I thought it would be best. And I tried to live my life without you but I can't. I love you. So bad that you're all I think about every day."
Your weight shifted to the other foot. It was hard enough to believe that some guy named Peter loved you, but trying to process the hero Spider-Man telling you he couldn't live his life without you felt all too much.
"Okay." Was all you could say.
He shoved his hands into his pockets; eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.
It took some time before you could find your voice again.
"When you did whatever you did, did I know that I would lose you?"
"Yes."
"And did I ask you to make me remember you?" When nothing came out of his mouth, you knew the answer. Your throat tightened, the words catching painfully as you continued to press. "I feel like if we were as in love as you said we were, I would have asked you to make me remember you. Did I?"
"You did."
"And did you say you would?"
"I did."
At least he had the decency to sound guilty. He continued actively avoiding looking at you.
"How long?"
"What?"
"How long did you keep this from me? How long did you lie to me?"
"Four years."
Something in your chest pulled tight. Four years. For four years he was alone, no Ned, no MJ, no you.
And some small, bewildering part of you wanted to reach out, to pull him into your arms and wipe away the tears that had collected on his face, because seeing him cry felt wrong in a way you couldn't explain.
But the other, stronger, part of you broke down. He had lied to you for four years.
The tears ran freely down Peter's face. "I was trying to protect you."
You swallowed against the ache in your throat. "Protecting me isn't the same as choosing for me."
The sob wracked through you before you could stop it. Peter rushed forward, stopping just before you, his arms opening instinctively.
"Can I?"
"No," you cried. "I don't know you."
The words came out as bitter and cold as you meant them, but when Peter flinched, you immediately wanted to take them back.
"I understand." He stepped back, arms dropping to his sides. "I should go, then?"
He turned slowly, moving slowly to the door as if he could slow down time.
"Peter," you called as his hand hovered over the door handle. You didn't want him to leave just yet.
When he turned back, his face was full of hope, and something horrible twisted beneath your ribs at the sight of it.
"What were the last four years like for you?"
"Lonely," he admits, a laugh that's not really a laugh escaping him.
You nod through the tears, shoulders rising with a shaky breath.
"I know why you did what you did. And I'm grateful that you loved me enough to do something unselfish."
"Love," he mumbled.
You ignored that. "Would you like to say hi to Ned and MJ?"
He looked up at you. "Really? Yeah, I'd love that."
"Maybe not today, we're kind of..." You gestured between the two of you. His face was red and puffy from the tears, and yours probably looked the same, lips raw where you'd been chewing on them.
"Thank you." He turned to leave again before stopping. "Can I ask you something selfish?"
"Yes."
"I know you don't remember me, but could you think about it? About me?"
You looked at him for a long moment, dried tears staining your face.
"I'll try."
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