summary: Weak Hero boys react to their partner having ocd and germophobia.
type: kdrama, weak hero, headcanons
Yeon Sieun
At first, Sieun mistakes some of your habits for simple preferences.
He notices how you hesitate before touching doorknobs, how you unconsciously avoid brushing against strangers in crowded hallways, how your backpack always contains disinfectant wipes, hand sanitizer, tissues folded with impossible precision. He does not ask questions immediately because he has learned that not every silence should be interrupted. He simply watches, memorizes, and pieces the puzzle together the same way he solves everything else. The realization arrives quietly. This is not a preference. This is exhausting for you.
Once he understands, he begins adjusting himself without announcing it. If he notices your shoulders stiffen at the sight of a dirty cafeteria table, he wipes it clean before you even reach it. If someone touches your belongings with sticky hands, he silently cleans them for you before handing them back. He never laughs when you wash your hands twice, or three times, or count the steps before entering a room. He knows your rituals are not irrational to you. They are survival.
There are difficult days. Days when your compulsions keep you trapped in a cycle that leaves you pale and frustrated. He never forces you to stop. Instead, he quietly interrupts the spiral. He asks you to help him solve a physics problem. Hands you a book. Starts talking about something so unexpectedly specific that your attention drifts away from the loop your mind was building. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Either way, he stays.
If anyone mocks you, he becomes frighteningly cold. His voice never rises, but the room somehow feels colder around him. "Grow up." That is all he says before leading you away, his hand resting lightly against the small of your back, shielding you from every pair of curious eyes.
The first time you apologize through tears, whispering that you're "too much," Sieun looks genuinely confused.
"You think I stay because it's easy?"
His gaze doesn't leave yours.
"I stay because it's you."
That sentence becomes stronger than any reassurance your mind tries to argue against.
Ahn Suho
Suho approaches your condition the same way he approaches every injury or hardship in your life. Like it belongs to both of you.
He learns quickly. The first time you visibly panic after someone sneezes into their hands before touching your shoulder, he notices how your breathing changes. Instead of telling you you're overreacting, he simply steers you toward the nearest sink with an easy smile.
"Come on. We'll wash up."
No judgment. No sigh. Just acceptance.
He becomes surprisingly observant. He starts carrying extra sanitizer because you always run out faster than expected. If you're too overwhelmed to enter a crowded convenience store, he walks inside alone and returns balancing drinks and snacks with a grin, pretending he only went because he "felt like it."
There are moments where your OCD wins. You spend thirty minutes washing dishes that are already clean. You check the front door lock fifteen times before bed. You burst into tears because you accidentally stepped on something sticky outside.
Suho never gets angry.
He sits beside you on the kitchen floor while you scrub the same plate for the seventh time. He talks about his day, tells ridiculous stories from work, complains dramatically about customers, anything to keep you company until the panic loosens its grip. He understands that loneliness makes everything worse.
Some days he coaxes you into little victories.
"Just one less check today."
"Let's try touching it together."
"If it feels impossible, I'll do it with you."
He celebrates those tiny accomplishments like you've won an Olympic medal.
Because to him, you have.
Jeon Seokdae
Seokdae treats your struggles with immense gentleness, almost as though handling fragile porcelain that has already survived too many cracks. He never rushes you, never grows impatient when your routines delay both of you. If leaving the apartment takes an extra twenty minutes because you need to check the stove repeatedly, he simply waits beside the door with his shoes already on, scrolling absentmindedly through his phone as though time itself has become unimportant.
He quickly becomes someone you instinctively look toward whenever your mind begins convincing you that catastrophe is inevitable. His calm presence steadies something inside you. When you ask him, for the fourth time, whether he is certain the windows are locked, he never sighs dramatically. He walks back with you, checks them once, then gently cups your face.
"I checked them."
A pause.
"You watched me check them."
Another pause.
"So trust me this time."
His reassurance carries weight because he never lies to you.
If you have contamination fears, he quietly shields you from situations that trigger them. He pays before you can touch grimy card readers. Opens public restroom doors with his sleeve. Carries tissues in every jacket pocket because he knows you always need one eventually.
He cannot fix OCD.
He knows that.
But he refuses to let it convince you that you're difficult to love.
Kang Wooyoung
Wooyoung struggles in the beginning.
Not because he doesn't care, but because he genuinely doesn't understand.
"Wait... you already washed your hands."
Then he sees the panic on your face. The trembling fingers. The tears you desperately try to blink away because you know it doesn't make sense. That is the exact moment his teasing disappears.
After that, he becomes your biggest accomplice.
If someone jokes about your sanitizer collection, he casually says, "Mine's almost empty too." Even when it isn't.
He intentionally normalizes your habits so nobody singles you out.
He's also incredibly physically affectionate, which creates its own learning curve. At first he'll absentmindedly grab your hand after touching gym equipment, only to immediately realize your expression has fallen.
"...Sorry."
From then on, he remembers. He washes his hands before holding yours. He changes clothes after training before hugging you.
Not because you demand it, because he knows it helps.
On bad OCD days, he'll distract you with constant conversation until your thoughts lose momentum. He's loud enough to overpower your anxiety.
Sometimes that's exactly what you need.
Park Humin (Baku)
Humin's first instinct is always to make you smile.
When he realizes your obsessive thoughts are making you miserable, he refuses to let them become the only voice in your head.
If you've spent an hour reorganizing your scrapbook because one sticker is slightly crooked, he'll dramatically gasp.
"Wait."
You freeze.
"I think this page is missing something."
"What?"
"My autograph."
Before you can protest, he's already scribbling a tiny smiling basketball in the corner. Now you're laughing instead of crying.
Mission accomplished.
But beneath all his humor is remarkable attentiveness. He memorizes every trigger. Knows which restaurants feel clean enough. Carries your preferred hand sanitizer. Keeps tissues in his hoodie pockets. Checks whether bathrooms have soap before telling you to use them.
If someone tells you to "just stop thinking about it," Humin becomes unusually serious.
"If it was that easy," he says quietly, "don't you think she would've done it already?"
Nobody has an answer because he's right.
More than anything, he refuses to let your disorder define the atmosphere of your relationship.
Your life is already ruled by enough fear.
He wants your relationship to be ruled by joy instead.
Go Hyuntak (Gotak)
Hyuntak is practical by nature.
Once he learns what helps and what doesn't, he sticks to it religiously.
If touching something dirty will ruin your entire day, he'll touch it instead. If carrying groceries means you'll have to sanitize every item individually afterward, he'll unpack everything while you sit at the table drinking water.
He never acts inconvenienced, it simply becomes another way of caring for you.
There are moments, however, where your OCD frustrates him-not because of you, but because he hates watching something invisible hurt someone he loves. When he sees you scrubbing your hands until your knuckles crack and bleed, he'll quietly take the soap away.
"Enough."
You immediately reach for it again, but he gently catches your wrists.
"They're bleeding."
You insist they're still dirty. His expression softens.
"No."
He raises your hands to eye level.
"They're hurt."
Then he spends the next ten minutes rubbing moisturizer into every tiny crack with impossible patience.
He doesn't argue with your illness.
He argues with the damage it causes.
Geum Seongje
Seongje reacts in the most unexpected way.
He never treats your OCD delicately, he treats it seriously.
There is a difference.
If someone mocks you, he's laughing one second and staring at them with frightening stillness the next, "You think she's doing this for fun?" The room immediately quiets.
He doesn't always know the perfect comforting words, but he learns your rituals surprisingly well.
He notices when your breathing changes. Knows exactly how your eyes look before a panic spiral begins. Sometimes he'll deliberately interrupt it. He'll suddenly grab your phone, walk away with it, and make you chase him to force your mind onto him instead of your compulsions.
You yell. He grins.
Later, after you've calmed down, you realize you never finished the ritual that had trapped you-he knew exactly what he was doing.
He's rough around the edges, but astonishingly observant beneath all the chaos.
And when you have nights where you're exhausted from fighting your own mind, he simply sits beside you in complete silence.
No jokes.
No teasing.
Just quiet company.
It's his version of saying, You're not fighting this alone.
Na Baekjin
Baekjin approaches your condition with the same precision he applies to every problem in his life.
He researches medical journals, Psychological articles, Treatment methods, Support techniques. He refuses to rely on assumptions when he can educate himself instead.
He quietly restructures your environment. The apartment is always organized. Cleaning supplies are stocked before they run out. The soap you prefer magically appears before the bottle empties.
You never see him buying these things. They're simply there.
He also learns where accommodation ends and enabling begins.
There are nights when your anxiety begs him to reassure you for the twentieth time that the door is locked. Instead of immediately answering, he kneels in front of you. "Look at me." You do. "What answer are you hoping I'll give that wasn't true the first nineteen times?" His tone isn't harsh, It's steady.
He doesn't feed the obsession. He tries to guide you gently away from it.
Some days you hate him for refusing.
Later, when the panic fades, you thank him.
He always accepts both reactions with the same quiet composure.
Because helping you recover matters more to him than being liked in every moment.
Baek Dongha
Dongha is surprisingly easy to live with because he adapts faster than you expect.
He notices you wiping every shopping cart before using it. The next time, the cart is already clean before you arrive. You hesitate before touching elevator buttons. He presses them first. You avoid public bathrooms. He plans routes around places with cleaner facilities.
He never points out these adjustments. They're woven so seamlessly into daily life that they barely feel noticeable.
When your OCD overwhelms you, he doesn't crowd you with questions. He quietly sits nearby, scrolling through his phone, occasionally offering simple observations.
"Your tea's getting cold."
"You haven't eaten."
"You've been standing there for twenty minutes."
Never accusatory.
Just enough to gently pull your attention back toward reality.
His steadiness becomes strangely comforting.
Like a weighted blanket for your nervous system.
Do Seongmok
Seongmok understands your silence because he speaks so little himself.
He recognizes the exhausted look that settles over your face after spending hours trapped inside your own thoughts. He rarely asks what is wrong. He simply notices.
If he catches you cleaning the same surface repeatedly, he'll silently take the cloth from your hands. You instinctively reach for it again, instead, he laces your fingers with his. Not forcefully, just firmly enough that you stop moving.
He guides you toward the couch. Makes tea. returns with your favorite blanket already folded over one arm. Then he sits beside you.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
His presence says everything words cannot.
When you apologize for how difficult you are, he finally speaks. Only one sentence, "I've never thought that." Then he squeezes your hand once before falling quiet again.
For someone who speaks so little, those four words stay with you longer than entire speeches ever could.
Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?
Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍
Masterlist
You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.
The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.
That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.
He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.
“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now.
You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”
“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”
“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”
You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back.
He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual.
The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could.
It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong.
“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.”
The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours.
The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him.
His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face.
That had been one year ago.
After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account.
So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)
Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought.
Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine.
When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.
Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend.
Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero.
He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.
Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night.
A promise was a promise.
Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.
“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.
He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that.
He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully.
“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?”
He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable.
“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”
You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer.
“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.”
The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.
“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused.
“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks.
“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”
“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.”
“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”
“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully.
You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him.
“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement.
The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions.
Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday.
Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.
Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room.
Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins.
And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out.
“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…”
The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence.
“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”
“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”
“Message already sent.”
He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am.
He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you?
Oh fuck.
You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–
“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.
The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now.
He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and–
“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him.
You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful.
“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?”
You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.”
The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch.
He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.
You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams.
This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago.
It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it.
“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?”
“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”
You nodded, turning toward the workstation.
“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment.
“EV?”
The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light.
“Online.”
“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.”
“Beginning diagnostic.”
You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye.
Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe.
This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him.
But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head.
There was only you.
Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor.
Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment.
The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again.
That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes.
He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly.
This was wrong. So wrong.
His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.
He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you.
What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–
“Diagnostic complete.”
Your heads snapped toward the screen.
“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.”
“What biotoxin?” You frowned.
“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.”
Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was.
Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.
The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.
He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead.
He suddenly felt the need to lick it off.
Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–
“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.”
“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier.
It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything.
“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”
Mating response. He stopped breathing.
Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants.
That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–
He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer.
“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly.
“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”
He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.
Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.
You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual.
“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment.
His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.
Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse?
“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”
Heat rose to your face once again.
“What does that mean?”
Don’t say anything, don’t–
“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.”
He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed.
“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.
You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat.
The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin.
“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.
White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth.
“No.”
His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up.
“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.”
His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that.
The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable.
His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions.
Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.
His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric.
Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.
He hated it.
He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain.
“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side.
“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”
“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”
“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely.
“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?”
“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”
“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”
“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”
“You wouldn’t hurt me–”
“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles.
The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second.
One second enough.
“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”
The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest.
“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”
He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be.
Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes.
The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.
He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.
You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs.
His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly.
You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals.
He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence.
Too hard.
Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure.
It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out.
“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”
“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.”
He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it.
“But my offer still stands, spidey.”
What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’
Fucking hell.
“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”
You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.
“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…”
He wasn’t.
“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”
For God’s sake.
“I think I can help.”
By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him.
His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with.
“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide.
“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?”
You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed.
His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation.
Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.
It wanted more.
His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you.
“Sorry–”
“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder.
He was burning.
The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly.
“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm.
“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”
“Breathe,” you reminded.
His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down.
Just take her, man, she’s right there–
Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.
“Please.” Was all he said.
Leave it on.
It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life.
“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”
See? She wants it. She needs it so bad.
He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.
Fuck it.
In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core.
His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses.
“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”
You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw.
“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”
You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you.
“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”
His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand.
“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”
“What do you need? More what?”
“More contact.”
His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt.
“Can I?” He whispered.
You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull.
“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air.
He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask.
His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you.
“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”
“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air.
You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away.
You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”
Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours.
“Can–can I–?”
You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs.
Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert.
His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life.
“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”
He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound.
“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”
His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right.
“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”
Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers.
“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”
“Not stopping, baby.”
He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts.
“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”
“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–
“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”
The plea undid you.
You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there.
It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him.
You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you.
Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up.
He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him.
You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact.
The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you.
“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly.
You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.
His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger.
You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first.
“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”
Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.
Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand.
His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately.
Fuck her. Fuck her right now.
“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”
You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.
He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.
You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him.
When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver.
He could feel it coming. The change.
You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away.
His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal.
Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.
The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.
That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out.
“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.”
He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again.
“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”
“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”
A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–
“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused.
“What–what happened? I was about to–”
“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”
That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face.
Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now.
Good.
He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room.
His bed.
He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.
“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”
You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth.
Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets.
“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you?
Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him.
He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it.
“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”
Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk.
“Peter…”
“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”
Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so.
God. He was never going back.
“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.”
He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again.
“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”
“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”
“Need what?”
“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”
He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up.
“Yeah?”
Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him.
He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine.
But something made him stop.
“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”
The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through.
“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”
You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again.
He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands.
The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets.
“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”
“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow.
“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”
He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect.
Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper.
He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back.
“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”
He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again.
What? What is–
The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back.
“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”
He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“
“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”
The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again.
“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again.
“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”
His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.
“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”
“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…”
He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up.
You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you.
“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”
The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you.
When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths.
You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–
“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.”
EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence.
It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened.
“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered.
“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”
“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath.
“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets.
That was your call back to reality.
Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking.
“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead.
“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly.
“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”
He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet.
“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”
There it was. He said it. No turning back now.
At least it got a chuckle from you too.
“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”
Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you.
“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”
“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation.
You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again.
Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did.
There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined.
Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth.
So young. So earnest. So yours.
Not spidey anymore. Just Peter.
Your Peter.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.
summary: your cute upstairs neighbour holds many secrets. you're willing to close one eye to his secrecy or the way he looks at you as if you hung the stars, till you accidentally uncover letters upon letters nedpeter’s kept in his apartment—all addressed to you.
pairing: peter parker x reader
content: slight angst, flufff, comfort, no major movie spoilers!!, yes peter fumbled by using ned as his fake name, yearner peter parker!!
Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.
Peter—clearly, Ned wasn't even his real name. Ned, the friendly neighbour from 28B who was a secretive, genius oddball—whom you suspect to be some sort of undercover agent after catching a glimpse of the ridiculously high-end tech flooding his apartment.
Overly sweet Ned, who never failed to offer a hand with your laundry basket or delivery packages, or dropping off your exact coffee order at the front door before your morning shifts, just because he could. Ned, who snaps his neck up half the time looking around with a widened, hopeful gaze when you do address him in the laundry room—as if looking for some other Ned that meant a greater deal to him than himself.
You had suspected he was likely involved in illegal activities, but when the temptation of finding his laundry basket unattended remained, you finally took the chance to return those little favours. Maybe he was the kindest stranger you've ever known, or maybe he just looked like he could use a helping hand—with how his shoulders drooped low whenever he thought no one was looking in the dingy hallways. He seemed—lonely.
Not like you were one to judge. You had always felt like a piece of you was missing, and that gaping hole behind your ribs didn't magically stitch itself closed when you grabbed your degree with crippling student loans biting at your heels, and a lousy job in the nearest soul-sucking company you could find within train distance to your apartment.
So, maybe Ned's smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes flashed more than once in your thoughts, and you decided it was time to get to know the man who lived one floor above you. You expected his smile to greet you when you climbed up the rickety stairs to his apartment, not his door left ajar with webs sticking out the hinges—or letters all addressed to you scattered across the floorboards.
You didn't know what you had expected when you walked into his mess of an apartment. More so than usual, enough for you to sense the abnormality of webs upon webs coating his furniture. Stepping into what seems to be a genuine crime scene, it's as if the culprit was one massive spider that decided to make its hive in Ned's apartment.
"Ned?" You call out, worry raised in your tone as you look around—catching no sight of him through the thick layers of webbing. His large monitor screens are all left online, files left unclosed on the window tab, with no sign of their user.
You're one step away from the monitor, tempted to call the cops when you catch sight of crumpled papers upon papers scattered on the wooden floors beneath the desk. Brows furrowed, you crouch down, brushing away the loosened cobwebs coating the papers. They are— letters.
Your first instinct as your fingers trace over his handwriting, paper crumpled at the edges, is to leave it alone as it's most definitely personal—before your eyes catch sight of your name. No—you weren't imagining it. The letters were most definitely, addressed to you.
Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.
Earlier was bad. Like, really bad. I can't believe I said 'Oh no!' to your face, like what kind of idiot does that as their first impression? Well, technically that wouldn't be our first meeting, though I doubt you'll remember me. I was anything but smooth on all the other occurences either.
Just talking with you in the hallway and carrying your boxes—I nearly forgot myself. I still can't decide if it's a curse or some cruel joke of a blessing that you moved into my apartment complex of all places. It's like the world's trying to tell me to just say the truth.
I should be going out there and telling you this instead of writing this stupid note or letter, but a letter should come in one of those fancy envelopes, so I guess I should call this a note? Anyways, I'm getting off track.
I miss being with you, and I’m so scared I’m starting to forget how it iswas between us, and talking to you again like everything was normal just—I had the urge to sit down and write to you, before I did anything stupid. So I could talk to you, in some way, without hiding behind 'Ned'. How stupid can I be, using Ned's name, like was that seriously all I could think of? I don’t know if this note will be worth anything by the end, but I think it’ll hurt worse if I just let what happened simmer in my brain.
I miss you so, so much. It feels like it's killing me sometimes, and I don't know what to do with myself now that you're here, so close to me, for what could be a really long time. I don't know what hurts worse, being apart from you or this, and I don't know what I'm going to do. You'd know what to say, and I wish you could tell me. I miss you ordering me around. I just miss you.
Love,
Your Peter.
Your heart thumps painfully against your ribcage, fingers tightening over the crinkled edges, digging deeper into the forming lines. What kind of sick joke was this? Had he known you for longer—since before you moved into this apartment?
His strange reaction when he had bumped into you in the hallway for the first time reformed in your memory, the intensity of a stranger that came off as more than usual awkwardness.
"Sorry for bumping into you—" You huff, a cramped smile peeking through the many boxes you're carrying. "Not my best line of sight right now."
Past the boxes, is possibly the cutest potential neighbour you've ever seen. With wettened curls drooping over his forehead, a towel draped around his neck, in his grey sweats and baggy hoodie—this stranger looks like a dream. Or maybe you're just in desperate help to ease the load on your arms that carries your entire future life in this new apartment complex.
"What are you doing here?"
You blink, stunned by his sudden interrogation. That was—not what you expected. You run faces through your mind, anyone you may have accidentally pissed off in the last four years of your university life, but his doesn't come to mind at all. You would remember that face.
Especially if he's staring at you like the existence of you in this cramped hallway was a signal that the world was collapsing on him and his perfect curls.
"Uhm, I live here?" You answer, shuffling the boxes awkwardly between your two palms. "Well, starting today—I do."
Your words register slowly for him, and you feel it in the strain of your arms under the boxes, as the fact that you're his actual neighbour slowly kicks in to his senses.
"Oh." His lips part in genuine anguish. "Oh no."
"Yikes." You wince. "That's a warm welcome."
He's panicking. The cute stranger looks like he's one miscalculated breath away from passing out in the hallway, and you're in no position to assist him when you're clearly winded yourself.
"No—I didn't mean—" His voice stutters, catching at the tail-ends and running out of breath. "Oh, this is not how it's supposed to go."
"No, I don't think I've ever caused genuine pain to a neighbour just from my mere existence." You snort, offering a lighter tone. "Though Margeret may disagree."
His lips quirk up slightly, involuntary even if he has no idea who Margeret—your old neighbour, is supposed to be. "No, I'm sorry. That was rude of me." He tries again, voice sincerely apologetic. "Can I please help you with the boxes to make up for it?"
You open your mouth to brush off his request, but the boxes tilt right as you make another forward step. "Fine." You oblige. "Just don't start spreading rumours about me taking advantage of your kindness. I really need a new start here."
"Had personal experience with that?" He raises a brow, almost teasing—softer than he had been earlier in his initial shock. His hands come up under your boxes, brushing over your fingers almost tentatively.
The warmth of his touch lingers for a second longer than it should, but you're too focused on the relief of the heavy weight being lifted off your palms as he carries it into his own arms, clearly handling the boxes with more ease than you had.
"Ask Margeret." You shrug, rolling your shoulders to ease the cramping. "Thanks..."
His lips part and close, realising he's supposed to introduce himself. It takes him awhile to gather the syllables of his name, before he offers it. "..Ned."
"Thanks, Ned." Your smile deepens, and he stares at you long enough, gaze tracing over the curve of your lips for it to teeter towards awkward.
He keeps doing that, registering your presence as something otherworldly, as if it was the last thing he expected in his path. Maybe the complex has few new tenants to explain his abnormal reaction.
"Oh, my door's 13B."
"What—oh, right!" He blinks, still looking stunned and turning with such an abrupt motion towards the direction of your new studio—and somehow, you're fond of it immediately.
Fond of Ned, even if your arrival seems to have jumbled his senses into a frenzy, and you have only known him for approximately four minutes.
Hey, it's Peter again!
It's two in the morning, my ribs are aching from Scorpion, and talking with you in the laundry room was easily the best ten minutes of my life since everything changed. My smile refuses to be wiped and it's been nearly an hour, and I can't sleep cause I'm thinking about you. You genuinely work better than painkillers, and I love you. I love you so much that I have never wished so desperately...
I wish I wasn't Peter Parker. That I wasn't the person who took your love for granted, who reassured you that I'd always make it back to you and that I'd help you remember. I can't even protect the people I love, not without ruining their lives just by letting them in. Being able to keep you safe from me, is the only reason that's enough to keep me from barging in and fulfilling my promise. From reminding you of what I used to mean to you, and what we used to be. I am a coward, but I can only hope that I won't be a selfish one. I've created enough reasons for why I can't stand being me, but I refuse to list another which involves hurting you.
That's enough for tonight. I just wish that if the universe ever gives me the chance to make things right, without making everything else much much worse, I just want you to know that I would never take anything for granted ever again. Over anything. Over pineapple on pizza, or the supremacy of rock bands, or the Lego pieces I stuffed under my bed, or me being Spiderman. I miss you so much, and I hope you're having a better night that I am.
Love,
Your Peter.
“Ned, are you okay?” You ask, watching as he limped forward towards the washing machine, one hand gripped right at his ribcage.
Your own batch is tumbling along, and you're seated cross-legged across your machine as he slumps forward to sit right next to you, hand going towards the cover of the conjoined machine beside yours.
“Peachy.” The crinkles of his eyes deepen, tossing you a wayward smile with a barely concealed wince. “Tripped and slammed into the washing machine yesterday.”
“That’s like the third time this month.” You raise a brow, expression contorting in concern.
“Is it?” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Must be really off my game.”
“Of making amends with the washing machine?” You tease.
“Yeah, I suppose.” His smile softens, gazing up at you.
He does that a lot, go soft at the edges, as if he’s peeling back something fuzzy over his expression—and revealing something honest.
"My advice is to make an offer." You whisper conspiratorially. "Throw in your most favourite shirt or something, and the laundry gods will be kinder on you."
He snorts, and it feels strangely familiar to talk to him this way, under the dim lighting of the flickering lamp, surrounded by the scent of detergent. You barely get to see Ned as is, not like you're expecting a practical stranger to make up much of your socialising hours, aside from the quick friendly nods and occasional 'how's your day's' when brushing past each other in the hallway.
He's a busy guy, and the laundry mat has become a sacred space where the two of you existed in each other's worlds for just a few minutes, till the timer runs out.
"I don't really have anything of mine that'll please the gods." He whispers back.
"I could give you something." You shrug non-comittally.
His gaze widens, staring at you as you dig around in your inner pocket, before tugging something out. One of your favourite scrunchies in hand, you offer it to him.
"Here." You gesture. "Just toss it in with the pile, I guarantee you that the gods will leave you alone."
His gaze flickers between the scrunchie in your hand to you. He's about to say something, brows furrowing together in brief conflict, but chooses not to divulge as his hand reaches for the scrunchie. You note the bruises forming along his knuckles as his fingers loop around the silk, and your lips press together further in concern.
By the time your gaze meets his, he's already turned his head and placed the scrunchie gently on top of his pile of clothes. When he sets the settings and presses the button, the machine runs smoothly, beeping along with yours as his clothes begin to turn and tumble without fault.
"Wow, you really do make everything better." He mutters to himself.
Your smile softens. "It's just a scrunchie."
He shakes his head loosely, his curls falling to his forehead before he turns back to face you. His gaze pours over your features, the crinkles in the corner of his hazel eyes so soft in the dimmed lighting. "No, I think it’s you."
Peter here!
I just wanted to say happy birthday to the smartest, beautiful, kindest, most awesome human to ever exist! I ran out of other big words, but you make up the whole dictionary of synonyms for amazing in every language possible. I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there, you have no idea how sorry. I have many other things to be sorry for, but this week, that’s definitely going top of the list. I should really stop with these letters, but I really wanted to give you a proper wish just this once.
It kills me that I can’t celebrate with you, and I know you’d end me yourself if you remembered my promise with the camera. You always did like the grain. You still look absolutely beautiful even without it. I’m so proud of you—for being you, and existing, and just killing it out there in the world. I did something a little sad, and not even close to what you deserve, but I bought a cupcake from Delmar's earlier, and I even have the candle right in front of me.
I wish for you to live the most happiest, fulfilling life, and that danger will never come close to you. I wish that you will achieve everything you've ever dreamed of, and that you'll have people who will look after you and love you just as much as I do. I wish—that you'll live a life worth remembering.
I love you, and I think this will be my last letter. I think it'll be nearly impossible for me to let you go, but I think it's time I accepted that for you to live the life I wished for, I have to try.
I love you,
Your Peter.
P.S. Sorry, just had to add this in one last time. You're always beautiful, and I'm not saying this because I only get to see you from a distance, but because I don't think I ever got to tell you that enough.
"Ned?" Your voice croaked out. "Is that you?"
You hear shuffling, before his left shoulder peeks out from the doorframe, slowly entering into view as he takes the lower step into the laundry room. He's staring down at you as if you've handed him an atomic bomb, and you're a sure mess, nose stuffy and eyebags swollen from crying.
"Hey." His soft call is close to making you lose it. "I didn't know if you wanted me intruding on your—"
"Date with the washing machine?" You huff, amusement dry as you turn back to look at your tumbling laundry. "By all means, join in. This current option isn't really doing it for me."
You spot the turn of his lips into a smile in your peripheral vision, before he eventually drops his weight beside you. His knee brushes against yours, and that contact registers like lightning to your senses, before he pulls back to that appropriate distance he always sets between the two of you.
You have no idea why it frustrates you so, even if you have nothing you should expect from him. Your gaze drops to his hand resting over his knee, bouncing slightly with a restless energy—and you spot your scrunchie over his wrist.
Your breath shortens, pulling your attention to his face only to find him already looking at you with unbridled concern.
"You okay?" He asks gently.
Your lip trembles, and you steady yourself as much as you are able. "Fine, just a real shit week."
"I'm so sorry to hear that." He's honest, you can hear it even without really looking him in the eye. "If you want, you can rant to me. I'm a real good listening ear. No mouthing off, just a still statue for your needs."
Your lips quirk up slightly at his attempt at minimising his presence, without even knowing how much it mattered to you that he came in here—or that he stood by the door for a solid ten minutes before you called him out. That he didn't leave, even if any normal stranger would.
"It's my birthday." You shrug, wiping at the tearstain at your cheeks. "And I just lost my job."
His lips part, brows pulling together—but he doesn't interrupt you.
"I was supposed to have a party today, and my college friends cancelled last minute." You mutter weakly. "Not that we were super close, but close enough that it mattered, y'know? I wasn't their first pick, or anyone's for the matter, so it really shouldn't have come as a surprise."
"No, you're—" His voice raises almost in frustration, and you meet his gaze. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, and his tone softens into an admission. "You're definitely my first pick."
Your laugh bubbles out of you, finding his statement absurd. "For what? You barely know me."
"I know you're extremely kind." He starts. "That you'd offer your favourite scrunchie to a stranger just to please the laundry gods. That you're funny, and beautiful—and my first pick for who I'd always want to run into."
You stare at him, unable to suppress your shock. He just called you kind, and funny, and beautiful—things people who've known you for longer hasn't thought to mention in years.
"That's—the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me in awhile." You confess, licking at your lips. "Thank you, Ned."
"It's only the truth." He presses. "I shouldn't be the only person to see that, and I know I'm not the only one who does."
"I don't know." You shrug uselessly. "My birthday hasn't even ended, and I feel completely unseen in my own life. I know it's a stupid thing, but I wish I had someone to take my picture, at least to comemorate that I've completed another spin around the Earth or something."
"You could use my camera." He offers almost instinctively.
"You have a camera?" You blink, before a slow smile spreads across your lips. "Of course you do. Do I need to be a tech-savvy to use those too, secret hacker?"
You're no stranger to the many monitors that crowd his apartment, courtesy to the many curious glances past the few times he's left his door ajar, into the premises of his own studio of what looked to be a completely different realm.
His smile deepens. "No, you just need to press two buttons. I could teach you how to work it out."
"You're into photography?" You ask.
His expression stiffens, thoughts trailing off. "Yeah, something like that. My aunt used to love taking physical photos, and I sorta inherited that trait. There was someone—who used to love using my film camera too. So, yeah—I guess I have some experience."
"You could teach me photography." You offer, almost tentatively. "Not just for the sad, lone birthday picture, I mean."
"Oh." He stares at you, and you see it then. Conflict—a pure, unmasked internal battle. "I—I don't know if I'm the right person."
You shrink slightly, less confident than you had been a few seconds ago. This really wasn't your day. "Right, sorry. I know you're a really busy person."
"No, I—" He winces, jaw clenching tight. "I would really love to. It's just that I'm—"
He pauses, staring at you with a nearly broken expression. Your brows furrow together, waiting for his answer—heart thumping in what could only be anticipation. Rejection is close at hand, and you hate that you find yourself waiting still, for something different. For him to fulfill something even you couldn't quite understand.
"Busy." He eventually settles on, voice trailing off in defeat.
You can't take it to heart. You don't allow yourself to, because disappointment is the last thing you wanted a taste of on a day like this. Ned was still nice enough to sit down here with you while you moped, and you shouldn't expect anything more. Even if you liked him, and the crinkles in the corners of his warm, brown eyes, and the sweet sound of his voice—more than you'd ever admit to yourself.
"That's not very creative." You mumble, presenting him with a weakened attempt of a smile. "I gave you that excuse, thief."
His own softened smile rises to meet yours, equally shattered. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you."
You know he means it, you just don't know why your heart churns so painfully when you hear those words coming out of his mouth. You don't know if you have faith in promises lately. You haven't believed in those for a really long time.
You don't know how many letters you've gone through, flipping through confessions scribbled in secrecy, of mind-spells, and magic, and vigilantes—a life you don't even remember to be a fraction of your world.
A loud crash resounds behind you and you instinctively rise, tripping over your feet—almost frightened, lashes wet at the corner of your eyes when you turn and see Ned. No, Peter—dressed in a black tank-top much too short for his defined torso and… Juicy Couture pants?
He’s clearly disoriented, and you’re not sure if it’s the chronic migraines he usually gets—or something heavier he keeps hidden past the pile of letters that’s just spilled everything. You can barely look at him without feeling like you’re going to burst at the seams, and he hasn’t even noticed your presence in his apartment.
“What is this?” Your voice eventually breaks through.
His head snaps up, expression scrunched in tension—and he freezes. That same tentative smile he always tossed to you, always sweet and somehow all-too-knowing, locks in place as his lips part—assuming you’re talking about his outfit. Or the state of his apartment, there’s just too much about him that you could never quite put a finger on.
“Wrong laundry basket.” He huffs, churning out an attempt of a laugh to play it off. “Fell asleep in the laundry room, and I didn't even think to take a look at what's inside. I promise I'm not a thief.”
“Stop.” Your stern expression is caught by him immediately, and his attempt of a smile falters. Slowly, your hand raises the letters to his line of vision. "Peter."
His gaze snaps to the letters creased between your shaking fingers. You can't remember what breathing looks like, especially not when his own chest stutters visibly beneath the tank top, as if all the oxygen's been sucked out of him.
He knows, that you know.
"Oh—no." He whispers weakly, because that is the only appropriate thing to say. You’re struck with déjà vu, back to the first time you ever crossed paths with him in the hallway, when he had looked you with so much pain—one you couldn’t decipher.
He takes a step forward towards you, both hands raised with his lips parting to come up with an explanation. You instinctively take a step back, not on purpose, but the distance you've created lands all the same.
He flinches as if you've struck him, his expression shattered to pieces of that raw agony you've felt slip up from him once or twice. That same gaping sadness beneath his gaze, that he always covered up with a bandaged smile meant more for show.
"I'm sorry." His voice breaks weakly, hands clenching into a fist before dragging back down to his sides. "I didn't mean to scare you. Oh god, this was not how this was supposed to go."
"How was this supposed to go?" You echo back to him. "From your letters, it didn't seem like you were ever going to tell me."
It didn't mean to sound accusatory, but you're high on the precipice of a reality broken to pieces, and you're unsure if you're left alone in apartment with an actual lunatic, or with a truth you weren't suppose to discover.
"No, I—" He sucks in a breath, desperation seeping into his tone. "I swear I was going to, but then I found you and you looked so—"
His hands that have begun to brush through his curls fall flatly to the sides, defeated. "So peaceful—and safe. I felt so selfish to take that away from you. To drag you back into my world, knowing that all you'd face was danger or worse."
"And the truth is that hurt the people I love." He admits, his eyes squinting together as something wet flickers over his lashes, and you can tell he believes it. This so-called truth he tells himself. "Nothing good comes out of being close to me, and I couldn't lose you."
"I had to be okay with it." His gaze meets yours, broken. "Not being in your life will always be better than a world without you in it. I had to protect you, somehow—even if it meant leaving you alone."
"It was easier before you came." He huffs out, pained. "To keep a distance before I saw you everyday, just out of reach. I can't count the amount of times I nearly told you. I was just afraid, that if you didn't remember me, I don't think I can—live with hearing it. I'm a coward, and I took the only path I knew, which was to pretend. Like everything was fine, and that seeing you from a distance was enough."
You see it, the way his brain registers his actions as protection, but you don't feel protected. You feel isolated, locked out of your own memories and faced with a man you're supposed to know, someone your body is pleading for you to recognise past the fog in your brain.
“Listen—whatever worked worked, and I can’t remember.” You breathe out, exhale shaky from your lips. “I can’t remember what we had, but I know myself. I don't let people make promises to me, not unless I trust them so much that I—If you promised you’d find me, that you’d help me remember.” Your fist clenches tighter around the letters. "You should've known that I'd never be okay with leaving you alone to deal with this—"
"How could you know that?" He snaps.
You blink, stunned.
"I mean—you never had a normal life from the moment you met me." He goes on. "You never experienced a life without hoping I'd make it back home safe, without looking over your shoulder when I became the world's public enemy, or having to deal with stitches and blood and worrying about survival—instead of school!"
"You don't see the difference but I do." He confesses. "You're living a good life now, and I already screwed it up by entering it again."
"Peter." You cut him off, nearly pleading. "Stop it."
His jaw locks, lips clamping shut before he lets out a huff, one closer to a panic attack than frustration. "I'm sorry." He mutters, clenching his jaw. Something wet pries behind his lashes, and he runs his palms over them, covering his face. "I don't want to fight."
Your heart cracks a little, because there's something so heartbreakingly earnest in the way he says it, as if he's beating himself up over a million thoughts you can't uncover. Your steps inch closer, almost instinctively your body knowing the rhythm at the sight of a distraught Peter before you even have the chance to piece together the 'why'.
"We're not fighting, Peter." You reassure him, your hands tentatively lifting to rest atop his palm.
He freezes, unable to comprehend your touch. You peer through the gaps of his fingers, and find his gaze staring back at you, fractured and pained.
"I knew something wasn't right." You sigh. "I felt it this whole time. Like there was an absence of something—someone important. It gnawed at me, that emptiness, and it nearly drives me insane some nights."
He recognises the feeling, you know he does with the way his expression draws tighter—in understanding, in regret.
"I wish you came to me." You whisper. "I wish you told me, so you wouldn't have to go through this alone."
His lip trembles, as if he never expected you to hear the truth and stay. As if you'd pick the exit over him, when he clearly needs you now.
"If I had promised I'd be there for you, you should've let me keep that promise." You scold gently. "Even if it meant starting over. You’re not meant to deal with life alone, much less one as heavy as yours.”
His gaze is shaken, staring at you with his pupils blown wide. Waiting for reality to hit, or for you to take back your words—but you remain. You stand there, close enough for him to feel you. You don't falter.
Something in Peter gives—shatters completely, and it’s a mere blink before his arms are completely wrapped around you, squashing you into his chest. His fingers are shaking, trembling—a relieved exhale pressed against your shoulder blade before he buries himself deep into the crook above your collarbone.
“I missed you.” Wet tears pool at your skin. “So, so much. It felt like I was dying a little inside every single day, knowing I wasn't keeping your promise. I couldn't—I really tried letting go and it didn't work, not when you mean everything to me."
"I know you don't remember me or what happened between us but—" His voice shakes, muffled from his tight hold. "I love you and I’m sorry—I’m so sorry for everything.”
You can't answer him, not with the words he wants or deserves to hear with full honesty backing it, not without the memories you used to share. Yet, the hold of him is familiar, the way you run your fingers through his curls like memory work. His entire body caves in deeper to your touch, as if he’d been waiting this whole time since your arrival to let himself fall into you.
"From the first day I saw you." You admit. "I felt like I was meant to know you, Peter. I wouldn't have given you my scrunchie if it didn't mean something, if I didn't want to tie myself to you in some way."
Pulling back slightly so he meets your gaze, you find yourself mesmerised by the familiarity of him, the way his gaze pours over you automatically as if memorising you is all he wishes to do.
"I want to get to know you, Peter." You confess. "And I want to do it without you pushing me away, pretending like my life is happier without you when laundry nights are what I look forward to the most, because of you."
His breath halts, short-circuiting with your words. Something bright and warm bleeds into his face, and you recognise it to be happiness. Genuine, unconditional relief—before his forehead presses against yours, his lashes fluttering to a close as he embraces you.
"I can do that." He mutters softly. "I'll do anything you ask me to."
It's nice, to be held so tightly and finally feel whole. To have that gap in your chest you've never truly stitched up fade into something mind-numbingly warm and fuzzy, in the arms of the one person your body still commits to memory, past even some stupid mind spell.
“Also.." You murmur, still wrapped in his embrace. "Seriously, what is this outfit?"
A surprised chuckle escapes his lips, a little wet-sounding as he clears his throat. "I wasn't lying about the laundry mishap. I swear I don't dress like this normally."
You hum. "I don't know, I kind of like it."
The silence stretches for a brief second. "I'll buy more if you want me to."
a/n: this movie was everything i needed. much more peter parker fics to come!
likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated! <3333
summary: Things Weak Hero boys never tell you about
type: kdrama, weak hero, headcanons
Yeon Sieun
Sieun worries that one day you'll realize he isn't as emotionally expressive as other people and slowly become unhappy. Every time he struggles to find the right words after you've poured your heart out, a part of him wonders if you're settling for someone who doesn't know how to love properly.
He secretly rereads your old messages whenever he's having a particularly difficult day. He'll never admit it, but seeing your name pop up in conversations you've already had somehow settles his mind.
Whenever you fall asleep on him, he deliberately waits longer than necessary before moving. Even if his arm has gone numb, even if his back hurts, he tells himself it'll only be another five minutes. It almost always turns into another thirty.
He never says it out loud, but you've become the safest place he's ever known.
Ahn Suho
Suho worries far more than he lets on. He smiles, jokes and keeps things light because he knows if he starts showing how much he actually thinks about your safety, he'd probably overwhelm you.
Sometimes he'll wake up before you and just... look at you for a while. Not in a creepy way. More like he's reminding himself you're real.
He never tells you how often he catches himself imagining your future together. You'll mention liking a house, and he's already wondering if the kitchen would be big enough. You'll laugh while holding someone's baby, and he'll quietly wonder what your children would look like. He'd never tell you but he's already pictured growing old with you.
Jeon Seokdae
Seokdae constantly worries that he isn't enough. Not because of anything you've done. Because he always feels like he should be doing more. Protecting you better. Working harder. Making life easier for you.
Whenever you thank him for something small, he feels strangely guilty. You shouldn't have to thank him because looking after you feels as natural as breathing.
Sometimes he catches himself staring at engagement rings through shop windows before immediately walking away. He isn't planning to ask anytime soon. He just wonders which one you'd smile at. He never tells you that. It feels too vulnerable.
Kang Wooyoung
Wooyoung pretends to have endless confidence. He doesn't. Whenever someone compliments you, there's a tiny voice in the back of his mind wondering if you'll eventually realize you could do better. He hates that thought, but he'll never admit it.
Whenever you wear his clothes, he secretly hopes you'll keep them forever. He acts annoyed. "...You know that's mine." But he never asks for it back. He likes opening your wardrobe and finding pieces of himself scattered through it. It makes him feel like he belongs somewhere.
Park Humin (Baku)
Humin never tells you how much your praise affects him. You call him dependable once. Weeks later he's still thinking about it. You tell him you're proud of him after he handles a difficult situation. He smiles and jokes about it. Then lies awake that night replaying your words.
He's terrified of disappointing you. Not because he thinks you'll leave. Because he genuinely wants to become someone you're proud to stand beside.
Whenever life gets difficult, you're the first person he wants to tell. Sometimes he has to physically stop himself from calling you immediately.
Go Hyuntak (Gotak)
Gotak worries about his knee more than he'll ever admit. Not because of the pain. Because he hates the thought of one day slowing you down. If you ever suggest going hiking, running or trying something active, his first thought isn't "Can I do it?" It's "Will I ruin it for them?" He never voices that fear. Instead he trains harder and pushes himself further. Quietly trying to make sure he'll always be able to keep up with you.
He also secretly loves when you rely on him. Even for tiny things. Opening a jar. Carrying heavy bags. Calling him because your car won't start. He'll grumble the entire time. But inside, he loves feeling needed.
Geum Seongje
Seongje never tells you how much he watches you. Not in an obsessive way. Just noticing everything. The songs you replay. The way your handwriting changes when you're stressed. The smile that's slightly different when it's genuine. The fact that you always leave one bite of food on your plate. He collects these little details without realizing he's doing it.
Sometimes he catches himself smiling because you laughed at something stupid he said. Then immediately stops smiling before anyone notices. He'd rather die than let someone know how soft you've made him.
Na Baekjin
Baekjin never tells you that you're the only person capable of disrupting his concentration. Meetings don't distract him. Arguments don't distract him. Pressure doesn't distract him. But if he notices you've been unusually quiet all day... He won't hear half of what's being said around him. His mind immediately starts working through every possible reason. Did someone upset you? Are you tired? Did he do something? He'll never ask directly. Instead, he'll quietly bring you your favorite drink, adjust his schedule so he can spend more time with you.
He also never tells you that sometimes, when you're talking passionately about something completely random, he stops listening to the actual words. Not because he isn't interested. Because he gets distracted by how happy you look. He thinks it's beautiful. He'll never say that out loud.
Baek Dongha
Dongha never admits how much he likes domestic moments. People assume he'd prefer excitement, Parties, Late-night drives, Chaos. Truthfully... Some of his favorite memories are the boring ones. Watching you cook while he leans on the counter. Listening to you ramble while folding laundry. Helping you carry groceries. He'll complain the entire time. But if those moments disappeared, he'd miss them more than anything.
He also secretly keeps photos of you that you hate. The blurry ones. The sleepy ones. The ones where you're laughing so hard your face scrunches up. they are his favorites.
Do Seongmok
Seongmok never says "I missed you." Instead, He simply stays closer after you've been apart for a while. You'll notice him sitting beside you instead of across the room. His shoulder brushing yours more often. His hand lingering a little longer when he passes you something. He doesn't know how to explain that your absence makes everything feel cold and your presence alone helps his giant built feel warm.
He also keeps little reminders of you without realizing it. Movie tickets. Receipts from cafés. A hair tie you accidentally left in his jacket pocket months ago. Tiny things most people would've thrown away. He never intentionally collects them. And hever seems able to let them go.
summary: Weak Hero Boys falling in love with their (best) friend's girlfriend
type: kdrama, weak hero, headcanons
note: for the sake of the plot we will pretend like seokdae and wooyoung are close friends
Yeon Sieun - Suho's girlfriend
Sieun would hate himself for it from the very beginning.
Suho is his best friend. One of the few people he'd trust with his life. Crossing that line is unthinkable. So he tries to avoid you.
He speaks to you less. Leaves conversations early. Keeps a careful distance whenever all three of you are together-It doesn't work.
Because the more he tries not to notice you, the more he notices everything.
The way you always save Suho the last bite of your food. How you absentmindedly fix the collar of his jacket before he leaves. The way you laugh when Suho deliberately says something stupid.
He starts wondering what it'd be like if those little moments belonged to him instead.
The thought disgusts him.
He buries it.
Unfortunately, feelings don't disappear just because you decide they're wrong.
Eventually, you notice the distance.
"Did I do something?"
"...No."
"You've been avoiding me."
"I know."
He doesn't explain. Because if he starts talking, he might say something he can never take back. So he simply continues suffering in silence.
He would never pursue you.
Never try to ruin what you and Suho have.
The guilt would destroy him long before he ever acted on his feelings.
Ahn Suho - Sieun's girlfriend
Suho tries to convince himself it's just admiration.
You're funny. Kind. Easy to talk to-Of course he likes hanging around you. That's normal.
Until one day someone mistakes the two of you for a couple. His heart skips and he laughs it off immediately.
"...Wrong person."
But the feeling lingers.
Unlike Sieun, Suho struggles with distance. He naturally gravitates toward people he cares about. He jokes with you. Walks beside you. Ends up talking to you while Sieun is busy studying.
It slowly becomes dangerous.
One afternoon, while Sieun is inside grabbing drinks, you sigh.
"I swear, he forgets to eat unless I remind him."
Suho smiles.
"...You take really good care of him."
"I try."
"...You deserve someone who takes care of you just as much."
You blink.
He immediately changes the subject. He didn't mean to say that out loud.
After that...
The comments become harder to stop. Never outright disrespecting Sieun. Never insulting him.
Just...
"He forgot your birthday again? I'd never let that happen."
"If you were my girlfriend, I'd actually answer my phone."
Things that sound like jokes. Until they don't.
Eventually the guilt catches up to him.
If he realizes you're beginning to look at him differently...
He'll disappear before he lets himself become the reason his best friend gets hurt.
Jeon Seokdae - Wooyoung's girlfriend
Seokdae wouldn't realize he'd fallen in love until it was far too late.
You'd simply become someone he worried about. Someone he looked for first whenever your group met. Someone whose safety mattered a little too much.
He keeps everything buried.
Wooyoung trusts him. He refuses to betray that.
But every now and then...
You'd mention another reckless thing Wooyoung had done.
"He skipped class again."
"He got into another fight."
Seokdae simply listens.
"...You worry a lot."
"I do."
"You shouldn't have to."
That's as far as he lets himself go.
He never tells you to leave Wooyoung.
Never compares himself.
But there's a quiet sadness whenever he watches you patch up Wooyoung's injuries yet again.
Because somewhere deep down...
He knows he'd spend every day making sure you never had to worry like that.
He just never says it.
Kang Wooyoung - Seokdae's girlfriend
Wooyoung is a disaster.
The second he realizes he likes you, his first response is, "Seriously?"
Of all people, Seokdae. His friend.
He tries ignoring it.
Then he watches how gently Seokdae treats you. How naturally your hand fits into his. How peaceful you look together-It's unbearable.
Unlike Seokdae, Wooyoung slips.
He starts teasing you more than usual. Standing a little too close. Making you laugh just to prove he can.
When Seokdae leaves the room, Wooyoung grins.
"...You're too nice for him."
"What?"
"I'm kidding...Mostly."
He says everything like it's a joke.
"You'd have more fun with me."
"I'd actually take you on dates."
"I wouldn't spend every date grocery shopping."
You laugh. Which only encourages him.
Deep down...
He knows he's crossing lines.
But wanting you and staying away from you become two very different battles.
Park Humin (Baku) - Gotak's girlfriend
Baku would be miserable.
Gotak is family.
You're family because you're with Gotak.
The feelings make him sick.
He becomes overly cheerful around you to hide how uncomfortable he actually feels.
Whenever Gotak leaves you alone with him, the silence becomes painful. Because all he can think about is how easy it would be to tell you.
Instead he asks about your relationship.
"So... he treating you right?"
"He is."
"Good. Because if he isn't, I'll beat him up."
You laugh. He doesn't.
He secretly compares himself to Gotak all the time. Not because he wants to compete, Because he can't stop wondering if he'd make you happier.
He never acts on his feelings.
Some friendships aren't worth destroying. No matter how much it hurts.
Go Hyuntak (Gotak) - Baku's girlfriend
Gotak handles it much worse.
He's already competitive by nature. Now every happy moment between you and Baku feels like losing a game he never wanted to play.
He starts finding reasons to spend time around you. Offering to walk you home if Baku gets distracted. Helping carry your bags. Fixing little things for you.
One afternoon Baku runs inside a store. Leaving the two of you outside. You sigh. "He forgot his wallet." Gotak snorts. "...Sounds about right."
Then he quietly adds, "...You deserve someone a little more reliable."
You look at him. "What?"
"Nothing."
But he meant every word.
If your relationship with Baku starts showing cracks, Gotak has a hard time staying in his lane. He won't directly ask you to cheat. But he'll absolutely become the shoulder you lean on.
And part of him hopes you never leave it.
Geum Seongje - Baekjin's girlfriend
The fact that you're Baekjin's girlfriend is exactly what catches Seongje's attention. at first. Then he actually gets to know you. Now it's a problem.
Unlike everyone else he doesn't feel guilty. He thinks feelings are feelings. And he doesn't believe friendship should decide who you're allowed to love.
Whenever Baekjin gets pulled away by Union business, Seongje casually occupies the empty seat beside you.
"So, you bored?"
"No."
"You look bored."
He deliberately gets under your skin. Makes you laugh. Keeps your attention. And eventually he starts planting little thoughts.
"You spend a lot of time waiting for him."
"He can't help being busy."
"I know. I just wouldn't leave my girlfriend sitting alone."
Comments like that. Always calm. Always indirect.
If he realizes you're beginning to question your relationship, He absolutely pursues you. Not sneakily. Not shamefully. He'd tell you outright.
"If you're staying because you feel guilty...Don't."
Na Baekjin - Seongje's girlfriend
Baekjin despises the situation.
Not because of guilt. Because it complicates everything.
He's used to controlling himself. Then you arrive. Patient enough to deal with Seongje's chaos. Gentle enough to calm him down. Baekjin finds himself wondering how someone like you manages it. He keeps those thoughts buried.
Until one evening Seongje casually cancels plans with you...Again.
You pretend it doesn't bother you-Baekjin notices.
"...You've become very good at waiting."
You smile, "...Occupational hazard."
He studies your expression.
"...You shouldn't have to."
He never openly criticizes Seongje. He simply points out facts.
"He forgot your birthday."
"He left you alone again."
"He promised he'd be here."
Each observation is quiet. Objective. Impossible to argue with.
If your relationship begins falling apart, Baekjin won't push. He'll simply make sure you're never alone.
Knowing exactly which direction you'll eventually walk.
Baek Dongha - Seongmok's girlfriend
Dongha initially thinks you're just fun to be around.
Then one day Seongmok casually wraps his arm around your shoulders and something twists painfully in Dongha's chest.
sypnosis oddly specific things you find insanely attractive ( tin ver )
notes skinship, kiss, established relationship, fluff, not proofread (juhoon ver ) (james ver) ( seonghyeon ver ) (keonho ver)
── divider by @/cursed-carmine
including you in his song lyrics
You accidentally stumbled upon a few unfinished lyrics on the desk. "Oh, you wrote these?" you asked, tracing the lyrics with your finger. He looked away, suddenly interested in anything but you. "Who is it about? Your members?" you said. He shyly smiled at you then, "It's actually about you"
pulling your hoodie up and giving you kisses on the forehead
The strong wind blew your hoodie hood of your head. Just when your about to put it back yourself, Martin reached over and pulled your hood up, hiding you inside it. Then, without a word, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, and smiled. "there." You only stand there stunned, cheeks going tomartin red.
held stuff out of your reach just so you could lean on him
He lifted your keys just high enough that you couldn't reach it. "seriously?" you groaned and stretched, instinctively grabbing onto his arm for balance. A grin slowly rised from his face then, "finally" he said, only then did he hand it back. Such a tease
matching your height during selfies so you look closer in size
You tried to stand on the curb to stand taller next to him─you didn't wanted his head to be out of frame afterall. Martin noticed, and immediately stood closer beside you, legs opened to look shorter. "Just ask next time, baby" he said softly beside you.
when he teaches you how to play the guitar (bare with me i have never touch a guitar in my lifee)
"Like this" he murmured, gently adjusting your fingers on the strings. With deep breath, you tried the chord again, but it only buzzed upon your touch. Martin only laughed softly, hands still over yours. "your tense" he calmly said. Well how were you supposed to concentrate...when he's the one teaching you?
Genre: Fluff, domestic, slice of life, established relationship
Synopsis: After an especially exhausting day of practice, Juhoon comes home barely able to keep his eyes open.
Warning(s): Tooth-rotting fluff, sleepy Juhoon, cuddling, this is just too cute
Word Count: ~1.3k+
A/N: Hai! This is just a quick and short idea I had, so I hope you all enjoy. 🤍
*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The soft hum of the bathroom fan and the occasional tapping of your fingers against your phone filled the room as you sat cross-legged near the headboard of your shared bed. Juhoon had gotten home barely twenty minutes ago, long enough to mumble a sleepy, "Hi” and steal a quick kiss from your forehead. He disappeared into the shower right as he arrived, and you smiled to yourself as warm steam began curling beneath the bathroom door.
Poor thing. He'd looked so exhausted. Almost as if his exhaustion settled into every movement he made, and even taking his shoes off seemed like a chore. You'd noticed how heavy his eyes were and how low his shoulders were hanging the second he'd walked through the front door. Even his smile had been smaller.
Practice must've been rough.
♡
The bathroom door clicked open and a cloud of warm steam drifted into the bedroom before Juhoon stepped out wearing loose gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt. A white towel rested around his neck as his dark strands of hair dripped steadily onto the hardwood floor. He looked...comfortable. You know, the freshly showered warmth that made him even sleepier than before.
You looked up from your phone and smiled.
"Hai."
His lips curved into the tiniest smile.
"...Hi."
His voice was low. Still carrying that sleepy rasp it always seemed to have after long days. You studied him for another second before patting the bed in front of you.
"Sit."
Juhoon blinked slowly, but then gave the smallest nod.
"...Okay."
He shuffled over and climbed onto the bed, sitting farther back on the mattress until his legs barely hung over the edge. His eyes already started drifting shut as his hands rested loosely in his lap.
"I'll be right back."
He hummed softly in acknowledgement. You slipped into the bathroom and reached beneath the sink for the hair dryer before plugging it into the outlet beside the bed.
When you turned around, Juhoon's head had already begun tipping forward. A smile tugged at your lips.
"...Ju."
His eyes slowly fluttered open.
"Hm?"
He looked up at you, and then at the hair dryer in your hands. Recognition softened his expression almost immediately.
"...You're drying my hair?"
"Mhm."
"You don't have to."
"I know." You stepped a little closer. "But I want to."
After you said that, he simply looked at you. He was too tired to find the words he wanted, but then, almost shyly...
"...Thank you."
Your heart squeezed.
"You don't have to thank me."
Just as you reached to switch on the dryer, you felt gentle fingers wrap around your wrist. You looked down.
"...Ju?"
Still barely awake, he gave your hand the tiniest tug.
"...Closer."
You couldn't help smiling.
"Oh."
Carefully, you settled sideways onto one of his thighs so you could reach the back of his head more easily. Almost instantly, his shoulders relaxed. Like that tiny bit of extra closeness was exactly what he'd been looking for. You switched on the hair dryer promptly, and warm air filled the room. Your fingers combed gently through his damp hair as you worked softly, careful not to tangle anything. Juhoon's eyes closed almost immediately.
"How was practice?"
"...Good..."
You smiled.
"Just good?"
A tiny nod.
"Mhm..."
"What'd you work on today?"
A quiet pause.
"...The chorus..."
"The whole time?"
"...Mostly..."
You laughed softly.
"No wonder you're so tired."
Another sleepy hum. You continued drying the top of his hair before reaching around toward the back.
"I'm just gonna get behind your head."
"...Okay."
You leaned forward slightly, lifting the dryer to reach the damp hair near the nape of his neck. Almost instinctively, Juhoon leaned forward too. Until-
Bonk.
His forehead came to rest gently against your shoulder. You froze.
"...Ju?"
"...Mhm."
"You comfy?"
"...Mhm."
A laugh escaped you.
"I kind of figured."
He didn't move even a little. His breathing had already begun growing steadier, and at that moment you knew you didn’t have much time until he fully knocked out.
"Can I finish drying your hair?"
"...Mhm."
He remained exactly where he was…still using your shoulder as a pillow. You bit back another smile before awkwardly angling the dryer around him.
"This is...a little difficult."
No response.
"...Ju?"
Nothing. You peeked toward his face. His eyes were closed, lashes resting softly against his cheeks with his mouth relaxed.
He'd fallen asleep.
"...Already?"
You lowered the dryer to its quietest setting.
"Okay..." You whispered more to yourself than to him. "Let's finish this."
Every so often his head would grow just a little heavier against your shoulder, but you'd steady him with your free hand before continuing. The warmth from the dryer, the quiet room, and the steady sound of his breathing begun to make you a little sleepy too. You could've stayed like that forever.
A few minutes later though, you clicked the dryer off. Silence settled over the bedroom once more.
"I'm done." You didn’t hear a response for a while, so you just smiled. "Ju?"
Still asleep.
Carefully, you shifted to stand. Or…at least you tried to. Something gently caught the back of your shirt. You looked down in confusion.
Juhoon's hand. His fingers had absentmindedly curled around the fabric near your waist. Your heart practically melted.
"...Baby."
He didn't stir at all. You turned back toward him, reaching up to softly comb your fingers through his now warm, dry hair. Your nails lightly scratched against his scalp.
"There you go."
Instantly, his grip loosened until his hand slipped away completely. You smiled before making your way to the outlet and quietly unplugging the hair dryer. After, you folded the towel he'd abandoned around his neck and hung it back in the bathroom, while filling his water bottle in the mean time. Once finished, you turned off the bathroom light and went to the front room to lock the apartment door.
By the time you returned, Juhoon had somehow managed to stretch diagonally across nearly the entire bed. One sock had even worked itself halfway off, and the blanket was twisted beneath him. You couldn't help laughing at the scene in front of you.
"You couldn't even make it under the covers."
You gently pulled the blanket over him before switching off the bedside lamp. The room fell into a comforting darkness, only lit by the moonlight spilling through the curtains.
You slipped beneath the blanket beside him and mattress dipped ever so slightly. Juhoon rolled toward you without missing a beat, eyes still closed and still completely asleep. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, and the other tucked beneath your back, pulling you close enough to where there wasn't even an inch of space left between you. Then, without opening his eyes, he buried his face against the crook of your neck.
A tiny sigh escaped him.
"...mmm you’re back."
You looked at him with a smile. His nose brushed lightly against your skin.
"...Warm..."
His voice was barely more than a sleepy mumble. You brought your hand up to the back of his head, softly patting the freshly washed hair.
"I know."
Silence engulfed the both of you. You simply rested your other hand against his back, slowly rubbing comforting circles through the fabric of his T-shirt. Just as you thought he'd drifted off completely, his soft and sleep-heavy voice came through again.
"...Thank you..."
You blinked.
"For what?"
There was a long pause before he spoke again. Long enough that you thought he might've fallen asleep again. Then...
"...Taking care of me..."
Your heart ached in the gentlest way. You pressed the lightest kiss against his forehead before brushing a few now perfectly dry strands away from his eyes.
"Always."
No answer came this time. Only the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. No matter how crazy practice or the outside world was, tucked safely beneath warm blankets, home had never felt quieter. Or warmer. Or quite so full of love.
You breathed out a heavy sigh of content before snuggling further into Juhoon, allowing yourself to finally relax for the night.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚
A/N: This was a pretty quick one to write and I actually have to admit, this was in my ideas list for a good month or two. I’m glad I finally got to it though because it’s so soft and cutesy! I hope you all enjoyed! 🥹
synopsis: in which james’ girlfriend freaks out about his lolla performance.
warnings: swearing. my girl chase infiniti mentioned (wifey). a girl feining over her man.
note: i’m constantly so proud of cortis, they showed lolla who they were. cortischella next i just know it. i made this super quick cause i needed to freak out about james cause HOLY.
Synopsis: A simple conversation in Peter’s apartment turns into a pivotal moment as he realizes the depth of what he has found in you: not just someone who remembers, but a piece of his own history that survived. [GIF Creds: milesgmorales]
PART THREE! I have no idea how many parts I’m actually going to make about this, so I’m kinda just winging it for now. Creativity hits when it hits lmaooo
『••✎••』
The hug in the cafe had ended too soon, but it lingered like static on Peter’s skin for the rest of the day. You hadn’t asked a hundred questions. You hadn’t pulled away or looked at him like he was broken. You’d just… held on. And when you finally stepped back, you’d said:
“Text me if you need another one. Or coffee. Or silence. Whatever.”
Then you’d packed up your books, shot him a last, small, reassuring smile, and walked out of the cafe, leaving Peter alone with the salt shaker and a warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the lukewarm coffee.
He did end up texting you that night. Once. Just an awkward “thanks again” at 7 p.m. before patrol. You’d replied with a simple thumbs-up emoji and a photo of your pet judging a half-eaten ramen bowl. It was normal. Stupidly, perfectly normal. And it kept him going through another night of swinging past the places that used to mean something—Ned’s old apartment building, the bodega where MJ used to steal his fries, the rooftop where he and May used to watch fireworks.
Little did he know that three days later, just as he was sulking about the past once again, he’d run into you again in his own apartment.
It wasn’t even a plan, and he hadn’t texted you first either. You had texted him—ranting, as if you had known him for years. You were near the library, and your laptop had died, and since you seemed so stressed about completing your upcoming paper that was due soon, he’d—with a surge of desperate impulsiveness—offered his outlet. He hadn’t invited anyone to this place, this tiny, subsidized room that was supposed to be for a student but was really just a place to sleep in between patrols. He hadn't thought it would ever happen.
So, in a panic, he’d spent the twenty minutes it took you to get there frantically tidying: shoving things into drawers, using his web shooters to clear the mess of dirty clothes piled by the dresser, and spritzing the room with a borrowed can of air freshener that now smelled like chemicals mixed with despair.
Now, currently, you were perched on the edge of his worn-out couch with your laptop open, murmuring to yourself about a dead hyperlink in your research paper. You weren’t intimidated by the starkness of the room. You hadn’t commented on the single mattress on the floor or the precarious stacks of old textbooks. You’d simply found the outlet, plugged in, and made yourself at home in the quiet space he’d carved out of the world.
Peter stood by the small kitchen counter, pretending to make tea he had no intention of drinking, just watching you. He was struck again by the sheer, profound normality of it. The domesticity. The way you tapped your computer with impatience, the soft sigh you gave when the link finally worked. It was like a scene from a life he’d only ever seen in movies—a life he could have had, maybe, if the world hadn’t erased him.
“Peter?”
He jumped. He still wasn’t used to hearing his name directed at him, especially not from you. He turned, the teabag in his hand dripping forgotten spots onto the counter.
“Yeah?”
You pretended not to notice the drips. “Could you pass me my book? Please? It’s the big blue one.” You gestured to your stack of books near the door.
He grabbed it, the heavy hardcover a familiar weight. Quantum Mechanics and Its Implications. He flipped it over, and a small, printed-out sticky note on the back cover caught his eye. It was a quote, typed in a neat serif font: “It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.” – Albert Einstein.
Peter felt a dizzying sense of vertigo. He’d seen that quote before. He used that quote.
He remembered sitting in Mr. Harrison’s class, senior year. Flash was making some snide comment, and Peter, buried in a book, had muttered the quote under his breath—a silent mantra for himself. Of course, Mr. Harrison, a massive Einstein buff, had overheard. He’d made Peter write it on the board, a mortifying experience that had ended with him getting a rare, approving nod from the teacher and a week of dealing with Flash calling him “Little Einstein,” along with being sung the theme song of that stupid child’s TV show anytime he walked by in the hall. Man, was he glad he didn’t have to deal with him anymore.
Still, regardless of the memory, it wasn’t a famous Einstein quote. Not really. It was obscure, one Peter had found in a biography; However, the chances of you randomly printing it out and sticking it on your book…
The floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet. He walked back to the couch, movements slow and deliberate, and handed the book to you.
“Thanks,” you said, taking it without looking.
Peter sank into the rickety armchair opposite you, the teabag long forgotten. He watched you read, but in his mind he was back in that classroom. He saw you a few rows ahead, diligently taking notes. He saw you glance up when Mr. Harrison called him to the board. He saw the ghost of a smile on your face as you watched him write—not of mockery, but amusement? Appreciation?
A minor moment in his eyes, a forgettable blip in the chaos of high school. But this sticky note must have been printed later. After. The thought ricocheted around his skull with stunning clarity: you hadn’t just known him. You hadn’t just remembered him. You had proof of him. A piece of him that was now your proof, sitting right there in his apartment, surviving the spell.
And you didn’t even realize.
The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of your laptop fan and the distant wail of a siren. Peter stared at you—at the way the light from your screen illuminated the focused line of your jaw, the way your fingers curled around the spine of the book. He saw so much more now than the quiet girl from history class. He saw a person who had held onto a piece of him, however small, without even knowing its true value. A person who had been handed a cosmic puzzle piece and had simply stuck it on a book because it resonated.
He had been so focused on what he’d lost—Ned, MJ, May, the life that was stolen—that he’d never once considered what might have survived. Not in the world, but in other people. He’d assumed the spell was perfect, absolute. But what if it wasn’t? What if it was like a shattering mirror, and some people, like you, had picked up a shard and kept it?
What if that mirror could be mended? Reverted? The thought was so terrifying and brilliant it almost knocked the wind out of him. He didn’t have the sling ring. He had no idea where Strange was, or if he’d even help. But maybe… maybe he didn’t need the spell broken. Maybe he just needed to find the other pieces of the mirror. The other people who might have their own sticky notes, their own faded photographs, their own ghost of a memory.
He had a lead. A tiny, fragile, tangible lead. Sure, there was the chance that you could’ve just bought a bunch of inspirational sticky notes from the dollar store. But… he knew. He felt it, deep in his bones, in that same place where the tingling of his spider-sense lived.
And truthfully, even if you had just bought the sticky note, he still had you.
He had a friend. At least, he hoped he had a friend.
Peter stood up so abruptly that the legs of his armchair scraped against the cheap linoleum floor. You looked up, startled.
“Everything okay?”
He ignored the question and moved to your side of the coffee table. He didn’t touch the book again. He just sat close enough to draw your attention. Which, of course, worked. You looked at him—really looked at him. He must have looked like a wreck, with his sleep-deprived eyes and trembling hands.
“Did we ever talk? In high school?” Peter started, then stopped, licking his lips. He felt bad asking this, because he genuinely couldn’t remember. He didn’t want to hurt your feelings by not remembering something you might have. “I know we weren’t in the same friend group or anything, but…”
He trailed off, leaving the question hanging in the air.
You considered it, your head tilting to the side as you accessed your mental archives. It was a strange expression, one of genuine concentration, as if you were trying to recall a very specific, long-forgotten fact.
“Not really, no,” you said finally. A tiny pang of relief went through him, followed immediately by a wave of something that felt suspiciously like disappointment. “But… I was aware of you. You know how it is.”
But peter didn’t know how it was anymore. At least, not for the past year. He had spent so long being the only one who knew about himself.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess so.” He looked away, feeling the familiar sting of being a footnote in someone else’s story. It was an old feeling, one he’d had long before the spell, when he was just a scholarship kid with a secondhand backpack. But now, it was amplified a thousand times.
You must have seen something in his expression, because you elaborated, a small, self-deprecating smile on your lips. “I wasn’t exactly the queen of the social scene. I mostly kept to myself—my books, my music. But I saw people. I watched them. You were… a notable presence, Peter Parker.”
You said the name again, so casually. Every time you did, it felt like a tiny reset button for his soul.
“You were always running,” you continued, your gaze distant, lost in memory. “Literally always. Either to the library, or out of the cafeteria, or down the hall with your backpack half-unzipped. Nice to know why, now,” you added with a dry glance at him. “I always thought you just had terrible bladder control.”
A startled laugh escaped him, a raw, rusty sound he didn’t recognize as his own. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that—genuinely, without an undercurrent of grief or exhaustion.
Your smile widened a little at his reaction. Encouraged, you kept going. “You were also one of the smartest kids in our year too, but you never flaunted it. You’d just… know the answer when nobody else did. I remember that day in Harrison’s class, when he made you write that quote on the board…”
Peter’s heart hammered against his ribs. Here it was.
“He was so thrilled to have a kindred spirit in the class,” you said, your voice soft. “And you looked so embarrassed, but you also… stood a little taller after that. I don’t know. It was just a small thing. But I remembered it.”
You paused, then looked down at the book in your lap. You ran your finger over the sticky note, a thoughtful caress.
“I found that quote later, when I was looking up stuff for another paper. It stuck with me. That idea that persistence matters more than genius. Felt… relevant, I guess.” You shrugged, a little self-conscious. “So I printed it out. It’s been on my notebooks ever since. I have a whole collection of them.”
Peter stared at you. At the casual, unthinking way you laid out the evidence. A small thing, you’d said. A memory. A quote that resonated. To you, it was just a personal quirk, a habit of collecting inspirational snippets. To him, it was a holy relic. A piece of a world he thought had been completely atomized.
You had no idea. You had absolutely no idea that your little habit, your quiet appreciation for a moment in a classroom, was the only thing anchoring his existence to the rest of humanity.
He felt a surge of something so powerful it almost bowled him over. It wasn’t just gratitude. It was… awe. For the small, unnoticed ripples a person leaves behind them, the ways in which they touch other lives without ever realizing it. He’d spent so much of his life trying to be significant, to make a big, loud difference as Spider-Man. He’d never once considered the quiet, enduring legacy of just… being Peter Parker.
A legacy you had somehow preserved without even trying.
“Peter?” Your voice pulled him back from the brink of that existential chasm. “You’re staring again. You okay?”
He blinked, focusing on your concerned face. He realized he was leaning forward, his hands gripping the edge of the coffee table so hard his knuckles were white.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You have no idea how okay I am.”
He pushed himself to his feet, the sudden movement full of nervous energy. He started pacing the small length of the room, from the counter to the window and back. The tiny apartment felt like a cage, and at the same time, like the entire universe was contained within its four walls—all centered around you and your sticky note.
“You know,” you said, watching him with a tolerant, slightly amused expression, “for a guy who can stick to walls, you’re surprisingly jittery.”
“I’m not jittery,” he retorted, a little too quickly. “I’m… processing. You’ve given me a lot to process.”
He stopped by the window, looking down at the street twelve floors below. The evening rush was starting, a river of red and white lights flowing through the concrete canyons. Down there, he was nothing more than a shadow. A rumor. Up here, with you, he was as solid and real as the scuffed floorboards beneath his feet.
He turned back to face you, that single thought crystallizing in his mind with blinding clarity.
“I wish things could’ve been different,” he said, the admission feeling heavier than any building he’d ever lifted. “I’m starting to think I really missed out.”
Your teasing expression softened into something more gentle. You leaned forward, propping your chin on your hand, your forgotten research paper glowing softly beside you.
“On what, a life of petty drama and crippling student loan debt?” you asked, your tone light but your eyes serious. “Trust me, you didn’t miss much.”
“No, not that,” he said, shaking his head. He took a hesitant step closer. “I mean… high school. Being friends with you. Not having my head so far up my own… you know… that I didn’t see the smart, funny girl sitting two rows ahead of me.”
The words hung in the air, surprisingly intimate. He saw the way your posture changed, the slight shift of your shoulders, the flicker of surprise in your eyes. You hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected to say it.
You looked down at your laptop for a second, a small, almost shy smile touching your lips before you looked back up at him.
“Peter Parker,” you said, and there it was again—that name, anchoring him. “Are you trying to tell me we could’ve been friends?”
“I’m trying to tell you we should have been,” he corrected, a quiet intensity in his voice. He took another step, now standing right in front of the coffee table. “You’re the only person in the entire world who knows my name. And I never even bothered to learn yours.”
A new silence settled, different from the others. This one wasn’t filled with grief or confusion, but with a budding, terrifying possibility. Peter’s gaze dropped from your eyes to your laptop, and then to the textbook on your lap. Your name was printed in neat block letters on the spine, next to your student ID.
He’d seen it a hundred times in the halls, on attendance sheets, on the spines of your notebooks. But he’d never really seen it.
Because he never really saw you.
But he did now, with a sudden, jarring clarity. He saw everything: the worn texture of your pants, the dent in your favorite water bottle you’d brought with you, the way you’d unconsciously started chewing on your pen cap. It was an overwhelming flood of sensory information, and he had to fight to keep from being swept away.
You didn’t seem to notice his sensory overload. Instead, you met his gaze, your own expression unwavering. “Well,” you said, closing your laptop with a soft click that echoed in the tiny room. “It’s a good thing we have all the time in the world to make up for it, then.”
It was a simple statement, but it felt like a promise. A vow. The words settled over Peter, warm and heavy, like a blanket he hadn’t realized he was shivering without.
All the time in the world. A world where he was real. A world where someone knew him.
Before he could stop himself, he took the final step around the coffee table. He didn’t think. He didn’t calculate. He just moved, closing the last few inches of space between you. He lowered himself onto the couch beside you—not too close, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from your arm, close enough to smell the faint scent of your shampoo.
“Is this code for you needing another hug?” you asked, your voice light, but he could hear the slight tremor beneath it.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “This is…”
He trailed off, at a loss for words. He turned to face you, one arm resting along the back of the couch, his body angled toward yours. He could see every fleck of color in your irises, the way the light from the lamp caught the tiny hairs on your cheek. He’d never been this close to you before. Not in high school, not when he’d knocked your books over, not even when you’d hugged him in the cafe.
This was different. This was… deliberate.
“Peter?” Your voice was barely a breath now.
He could only stare at your lips, at the way they parted slightly as you said his name. He felt a pull, an undeniable force that had nothing to do with spider-powers and everything to do with the lonely, desperate yearning that had been clawing at him for a year.
But he knew. He knew that a year of solitude didn’t magically disappear because someone knew your name. He knew that the grief was still there, a raw, gaping wound that would take a long, long time to heal. He knew that you were still a virtual stranger, that he was still a basket case with more baggage than a cargo plane, and this was only the fourth time you had spoken more than two sentences to him.
He also knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that you were important. Not MJ important, not Ned important, but Peter important. A new kind of important, one that was still forming, still taking shape, but no less vital.
And he knew he couldn’t screw this up. So instead of closing the distance, instead of acting on the impulse that was screaming at him to just feel something real, he reached for the book with the quote on it. Because at the end of the day, it was the thread that connected you. A small thread that was holding him together.
summary: Weak Hero Boys falling in love with a girl that is out of their league and so they just love from afar
type: kdrama, weak hero, headcanons
Yeon Sieun
It starts so quietly that even he cannot tell when admiration becomes something heavier. You are simply someone he notices more than other people. The way you laugh with everyone so easily. The way classrooms seem brighter when you walk into them. People naturally gather around you while he stays on the outside, watching from a distance that feels safe.
Sieun has never thought very highly of himself outside of academics. You're beautiful, effortlessly social, kind to everyone, and you have people lining up just to talk to you. While he's just himself. Quiet. Awkward. Difficult to read. He convinces himself that someone like you would eventually get bored of someone like him.
So he settles for observing.
He memorizes your routines without meaning to. Which desk you prefer. Which drinks you buy after school. When you're having a bad day based solely on how fast you're walking. Sometimes he'll quietly solve a problem before you even notice it exists. A missing worksheet somehow ends up back in your bag. The teacher suddenly remembers to extend a deadline after someone anonymously points out a mistake. You never know he had anything to do with it.
When you smile at him in the hallway, he always nods back.
Then he spends the next hour thinking about it.
Sometimes he catches himself wondering what it would be like to sit beside you every day instead of across the classroom. What it would feel like if you reached for his hand. The thought embarrasses him enough that he immediately buries himself in another textbook.
He never confesses. Not because he doesn't want to. Because he genuinely believes someone like you deserves someone brighter than him.
So he carries it alone until, eventually, loving you simply becomes another quiet habit he'll never talk about.
Ahn Suho
Suho falls hard, and that honestly makes things worse.
Everyone likes you. Of course they do. You're funny, talented, warm without trying, and somehow you make every room feel lighter. Standing next to you, Suho feels painfully ordinary despite how confident he usually is.
He jokes about everything. Except you.
Whenever you walk over to him, his friends notice the subtle difference immediately. His grin softens. He stops talking as loudly. For someone who's usually fearless, he suddenly becomes strangely careful with his words.
He almost asks you out more than once.
Almost.
Then someone prettier starts talking to you. Or someone wealthier. Or someone with better grades. Or someone whose future seems a lot more stable than his.
Each time, he laughs it off before he even gives himself the chance.
"Nah."
"She'd never go for me."
He says it with that usual easy smile, but every time those words leave his mouth, they hurt a little more.
Instead, he becomes your reliable friend. He drives you home when it's late. Carries heavy things without being asked. Shows up whenever you need help. He never asks for anything back.
Sometimes you thank him with a hug that lasts only a second. That single second is enough to keep him smiling for the rest of the week.
His biggest fear isn't rejection, It's making things awkward and losing the friendship altogether. So he would rather spend years loving you quietly than risk becoming someone you avoid.
Jeon Seokdae
Seokdae never thinks of you as someone who's "out of his league" because of looks. It's because of the life he has lived.
You've had opportunities he never did. You walk without looking over your shoulder. You have dreams that stretch years into the future. Standing beside you makes him painfully aware of everything his own life lacks.
He doesn't think he'd fit into your world. So he admires it from outside.
Whenever you talk about your future, he listens more than he speaks. University. Traveling. Careers. He secretly hopes every single one of those dreams comes true-Even if he isn't in any of them.
He becomes protective in subtle ways. Walking a little closer whenever it gets dark. Making sure you get home safely. Waiting until your apartment lights turn on before finally leaving. You assume he's just naturally considerate. He never corrects you.
Sometimes you ask him why he never dates anyone. He only shrugs.
"Haven't met the right person."
The irony almost makes him laugh.
Because he's looking directly at her.
Kang Wooyoung
For the first time in his life, Wooyoung discovers what insecurity feels like.
Usually he's loud. Confident. Cocky enough to flirt with anyone. Then you show up.
Suddenly every joke sounds stupid before he says it. Every compliment gets trapped in his throat.
He starts noticing the people around you instead. Successful athletes. Popular students. People whose confidence isn't just an act. Compared to them, he feels like an idiot throwing punches and making bad jokes.
So he keeps pretending none of it matters.
He still teases you. Still grins. Still acts completely unaffected.
But every time someone asks if the two of you are dating, he laughs a little too quickly.
"As if."
Inside, he wishes they were right.
Sometimes he catches you watching one of his matches. Those become the only fights where he genuinely wants to impress someone. Not the crowd. Just you. When you congratulate him afterward, he spends the rest of the night replaying those few words in his head.
He never tells you.
Park Humin (Baku)
Humin tries.
God, he really tries not to fall for you. He tells himself you're just nice. You're nice to everybody. That's all. But then you remember his birthday without reminders. You cheer louder than anyone when he succeeds. You laugh at jokes nobody else finds funny. Little by little, his heart stops listening to logic.
The problem is... You're incredible, Talented, Kind. The type of person everyone naturally loves. He doesn't see himself that way.
He worries he'd eventually disappoint you. That the excitement you feel around him now would disappear if you actually dated. So instead he becomes your biggest supporter. He's always the loudest person clapping for you. Always the first to encourage your hobbies. Always the first person volunteering to help.
People joke that he's practically your boyfriend already. He laughs with them. Then changes the subject before anyone notices how red his ears have become.
Go Hyuntak (Gotak)
Hyuntak hates feeling inadequate.
His bad knee already makes him question himself enough. Then you walk into his life looking like someone who deserves perfection.
He starts comparing himself to every guy who talks to you. They're healthier. Smarter. More successful. More attractive. The thoughts spiral before he can stop them.
Whenever you compliment him, he immediately brushes it off. Whenever you praise his basketball skills, he shrugs like it means nothing. He doesn't believe you. Not because he thinks you're lying. Because he genuinely can't imagine seeing himself through your eyes. So he settles into being your dependable friend.
Helping you carry groceries. Fixing things around your house. Walking you home. Never asking for more.
Sometimes his hand brushes yours by accident. He pulls away first every single time. Not because he doesn't want to hold it. Because he's convinced it was never supposed to happen.
Geum Seongje
Nobody believes Seongje when he says he isn't going to make a move. Not even himself-At first.
He's used to chasing whatever catches his interest. Used to taking risks simply because they're entertaining. Then he actually gets to know you. And somehow... That makes him stop.
You are so effortlessly good that he becomes painfully aware of every ugly part of himself. The violence. The cigarettes. The impulsiveness. The selfish streak he normally wears like a badge of honor.
For the first time, he looks at someone and thinks, "I'd ruin her." It's such an unfamiliar feeling that it irritates him.
He still hangs around you. Still jokes. Still smiles that infuriating smile. But there's an invisible line he refuses to cross.
Sometimes he almost says something. Almost. Then he notices the genuine trust in your eyes. And swallows every word.
Losing the chance to love you hurts.
Losing your respect would hurt even more.
Na Baekjin
Baekjin reaches a conclusion long before his feelings fully develop. You are incompatible. Not emotionally, Practically.
His life revolves around responsibility, strategy, conflict, and constant pressure. Yours doesn't. And he refuses to drag someone like you into that world. Even if every quiet conversation with you becomes the best part of his day.
He starts making excuses to see you. Offering help with assignments. Walking the same route home. Remembering things you mentioned weeks ago. Never enough to seem suspicious. Just enough to keep you in his orbit.
Sometimes he catches himself imagining impossible futures. Quiet mornings. Shared apartments. Simple happiness. The kind of life he secretly wants but has already convinced himself he'll never have. When reality returns, he quietly files those thoughts away like unfinished paperwork.
No one ever realizes he was in love. Not even you.
Because Baekjin has always been frighteningly good at hiding the things that matter most.
Baek Dongha
Dongha acts like nothing affects him. He jokes. Flirts with other people. Pretends everything rolls off his shoulders.
Then you compliment another guy.
He laughs along with everyone else. Later that night, he stares at his bedroom ceiling wondering why something so small bothered him so much.
You're simply too good. Too genuine.
You deserve someone who isn't constantly surrounded by trouble. Someone who doesn't carry as much baggage as he does. He convinces himself you'd eventually leave anyway. So why make things harder?
Instead he becomes comfortable standing beside you without ever reaching for your hand. He's happy enough hearing you laugh. Happy enough being included. Happy enough pretending that's all he ever wanted. It's a lie.
But one he repeats often enough that eventually everyone believes it. Including you.
Do Seongmok
Seongmok falls in love in complete silence.
Nothing changes on the surface. He still speaks very little. Still watches more than he talks. Still appears beside you whenever you need help without explaining how he knew. The only difference is the care becomes softer. More instinctive.
If you're cold, his jacket is already over your shoulders. If you're carrying something heavy, it's somehow no longer in your hands. If you're exhausted, he quietly finishes whatever task you're struggling with before disappearing again. He never expects thanks. Just seeing your relieved smile is enough.
Sometimes he catches himself imagining what life would be like if he were brave enough. The thoughts never last long. He has convinced himself that someone like you deserves someone who speaks more. Laughs more. Dreams bigger. Not someone as quiet and complicated as him. So he continues loving you in the only way he believes he's allowed to. Silently. From a distance.
Synopsis: Keeping your relationship with Seonghyeon quiet isn’t exactly easy, especially when he can’t seem to go more than thirty minutes without wanting to see you.
Wc: 1,230
Warnings: making out, apart from that nothing :)
A/n: also kind of inspired by Hierarchy!!
-
The bell had rung almost ten minutes ago, but Jooshin High was still settling into first period. Not that anyone ever really rushed.
At Jooshin, where almost every student came from old money, political families or chaebol dynasties, people carried themselves like the school belonged to them.
For some of them, it practically did.
Your economics classroom overlooked the central courtyard, the morning sun spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows while Mr Kim spoke to a room that was only half listening.
"...which means that monopolistic competition—" A knock at the door cut him off. The room fell quiet almost instantly. Seonghyeon stood in the doorway.
It wasn't unusual for conversations to stop when he walked into a room. At Jooshin everyone knew who everyone was, and everyone knew exactly which families held the most influence. The Eoms were one of them.
His blazer sat perfectly over his shoulders, tie slightly loosened, and his dark hair falling over his forehead. One hand remained tucked inside his trouser pocket while the other held the classroom door open.
Mr Kim looked up from his notes. "Mr Eom?"
Seonghyeon gave him a small nod before looking straight at you. "I just need her for a minute."
A few people exchanged glances. Neither of you had ever officially announced you were dating, but Jooshin wasn't the kind of place where secrets stayed secret for very long.
Nobody said anything anymore, they just watched. Seonghyeon walked down the aisle without a hint of hesitation and stopped beside your desk.
You looked up at him. "Yes?"
His lips twitched. "Are you busy?"
You let out a quiet scoff. "I'm sitting in economics."
"I noticed." A couple of people nearby giggled.
"So why are you asking?"
He shrugged one shoulder. "Come outside for a sec."
You stared at him in disbelief. "That's your explanation?"
"I'll explain outside."
"You sound suspicious."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Do I?"
Before you could answer, Mr Kim cleared his throat. "Mr Eom."
"Sorry, sir." Seonghyeon finally looked away from you. "I'll only borrow her for a minute."
"You said that last time."
"And this time I'll actually mean it."
The class laughed again. You looked between the two of them before raising your hand slightly.
"Can I...?"
Mr Kim pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly deciding whether this was a battle worth having. Finally he sighed.
"Two minutes."
"Thanks." You stood, pushing your chair back before walking around your desk.
As you passed, Seonghyeon's hand brushed lightly against the small of your back, only for a second. You glanced at him. He only smiled.
The classroom door slid shut behind you, and suddenly the hallway felt almost too quiet. You folded your arms.
"So?"
"So?"
"You interrupted my class for what exactly?"
Instead of answering, he started walking. "Come with me."
You stared at the back of his head before following anyway. "You've become really bossy lately."
"You still follow."
"Unfortunately." A laugh escaped him.
The two of you walked side by side through the empty corridor, passing a couple of students returning from the administration office. They greeted the both of you before continuing on, and once they were out of earshot, you nudged his arm.
You looked sideways at him. "Seriously. Where are we going?"
He nodded towards one of the empty classrooms near the end of the hallway. "There."
You slowed. "Why?"
"Because no one's using it."
"That's still not an answer."
He pushed the classroom door open and stepped aside with a small grin. "Ladies first."
You looked at him, then at the empty room, then back at him again before walking inside.
The room was empty apart from neatly lined desks and chairs. The blinds were half open, sunlight stretching across the floor.
You turned around to face him. "Can you finally tell me what—"
The door clicked shut behind him. Your sentence died halfway through. He leaned back against the door for a second, watching you with the faintest smile.
"Seonghyeon," you voice was quiet as you folded your arms across your chest. "You heard what Mr. Kim said."
"I could care less what Mr. Kim said," He took a couple of slow steps towards you until there was barely any space left between you.
"I missed you, and I wanted to see you."
You stared at him. "You're kidding."
"No." He shakes his head, his hands snaking around your waist.
"You interrupted economics for this?"
He simply hums.
"Did you not remember how we spent the entire morning together?" You looked at your watch before looking back at him. "That was, what, thirty minutes ago?"
He shrugged. "Felt longer."
You laughed, shaking your head. "You're actually ridiculous."
"I've accepted that."
"You interrupted my class because you missed me after thirty minutes?"
"When you say it like that..."
"That's exactly what happened."
"Pretty much."
You laughed, shaking your head. "You've become so clingy."
"I know."
"You weren't like this when we first started dating."
"I was." His hands settled naturally on your waist. "I just did a better job hiding it."
You smiled despite yourself, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from his forehead before straightening his slightly crooked tie.
"So your image's just gone now?"
"My image's fine."
"You dragged your girlfriend out of class to an empty classroom because you missed her."
"I'll recover."
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. Your fingers were still smoothing his tie when he gently caught your wrist.
He didn't say anything. He simply waited until you looked back up. Then he leaned in, giving you every chance to pull away. Instead, you met him halfway.
The kiss was slow and familiar, the kind that came naturally after months of dating. His arms tightened around your waist while yours rested against his blazer.
When you finally pulled back, you let out a quiet laugh. "You seriously skipped your own schedule for that?"
"Worth it." He grins, placing light kisses against your jaw.
"I cannot believe I fell for 'come out for a sec.'"
"You'll fall for it again."
"I won't."
He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
You opened your mouth to argue, then stopped. Because the annoying part was, he was probably right.
You sighed dramatically. "I hate that you know me so well."
"I don't."
"No?"
"I think you would've come even if I'd just looked through the classroom window."
"Don't get cocky." You laughed again, giving his tie one final straightening tug.
"Come on. we should get back before the teachers send out a search party."
He reached for your hand as you headed for the door, giving it one quick squeeze before letting go.
The two of you stepped back into the hallway as if nothing happened.
By the time you slid the classroom door open again, every pair of eyes turned towards you. Your teacher glanced from you to Seonghyeon standing in the hallway.
"Everything sorted?"
You nodded with the most innocent smile you could manage. "Yep."
He looked unconvinced. A few classmates snorted, and Seonghyeon hid a smile before offering your teacher a polite nod.
Then, as he walked away down the corridor without another word, he shot you the smallest glance over his shoulder.
summary: after erasing herself from his memories to save him, she spends years silently yearning for his love, unaware that fate would also ensure Peter was forgotten by the rest of the world. But no spell can break a bond that always finds its way back.
masterlist
Part two Part three bonus
Most of the time, Professor Xavier underestimated the true power of a pair of headphones. Maximoff had given them to you a few months ago, right after seeing you on the verge of a breakdown and hearing your confession: how unbearable it was to get used to the incessant tide of other people's minds, the torture of listening to everyone, all the time.
“They help me when I don't want to think about anything,” he told you at the time, shrugging with that effortless lightness so typical of him.
Peter was older, a mutant who had been adapting to the institute's rhythm for much longer, so you decided to take his word for it. From then on, the headphones became indispensable; a tool you couldn't go anywhere without.
Charles's teachings helped, of course. They taught you to adjust your mind as if turning the knob of an old radio, isolating frequencies and tuning into white noise. But there were days when fatigue soaked into your bones and you didn't have the strength to be your own filter. You just wanted the murmur of humanity to turn off.
The Professor never stopped you from crossing the mansion's gates. After all, Westchester wasn't a prison and you weren't a captive; you were free to leave whenever you desired. That was why, upon communicating your wish to travel to the city, you only received an understanding look and a serene nod.
The truth was that not even you knew what you were looking for in Manhattan. Perhaps you harbored the childish hope that the rattling of the train would gift you a few minutes of sleep. You had been dragging heavy insomnia for weeks. At first, when your powers awakened, the nights were a nightmare of invisible screams drilling into your ears in the dark. But this time was different.
This time, the interference had an implicit name. A voice.
You couldn't stop listening to his thoughts: they were a tangle of crushing responsibilities, recent losses, and a pain so deep it bordered on devotion. Among the millions of minds fluctuating through the metropolis, his possessed a unique frequency that found its way to you, piercing through your defenses without asking for permission. It wasn't the loudest mind nor the most imposing. It simply... claimed you.
As the days went by, you stopped perceiving it as background noise. There was a painful familiarity in its echo. You felt like you had known him all your life, even if you had never seen his face. It was an inexplicable telepathic connection, an invisible thread completely escaping Charles's manuals and theories about the human mind.
Sometimes, with your forehead pressed against the pillow, you wondered if he felt that same pull on the other side of nothingness. If he sensed that, on his darkest nights, there was an unknown mind keeping him company in the silence. That doubt floated in the air until exhaustion overcame you, leaving you with the eternal question about who that stranger was inhabiting your sleepless nights.
You liked the city. It didn't have the peace of Westchester, but it possessed a brutal honesty. You thought about dropping by to see your parents, but dismissed the idea immediately. You didn't want to face their forced smiles nor the contained panic in their eyes every time you made a sudden movement. Your presence was an uncomfortable reminder of imperfection. It was better to leave them in peace; after all, they had your sister. She wasn't a mutant. She was the future they could boast about without whispering.
At the mansion, life was relatively peaceful. You got along well with most, though the relationship with the other telepaths was distant. They knew the history of your past breakdown and treated you like glass about to shatter, fearing a flaw in your mind would trigger a domino effect. Curiously, you found more comfort in the older ones: Maximoff's hyperactivity, Logan's protective cynicism, or the quiet conversations with Beast.
And then there was the Professor. Charles frequently sought you out after classes ended to evaluate your progress. There was no fear in his gaze... in fact, there was nothing. His mind was the only place in the universe where absolute silence reigned. Trying to peek into Xavier's thoughts was like trying to crack a safe using a cooked noodle: an absurd thing.
Inside your backpack traveled an object of personal cult: a worn copy of The Secret Garden. Even though it was a children's read, the story of that hidden, healing corner brought you an almost physical comfort. You understood all too well the imperious need to find a refuge where no one could reach you.
The book's origin was a haze. Maybe you had bought it for a couple of dollars at a street market, or perhaps it belonged to your family before everything broke. The pages wore that yellowish tone that nostalgics sigh for, and the corners of the cover were so worn that any bibliophile would have suffered seeing it. For you, however, it was irreplaceable.
On the first page, written in slightly faded ink but elegant calligraphy, you read a dedication:
For whenever you need a quiet place
— P.P
None of your relatives or acquaintances matched those initials. You always assumed the book had belonged to a stranger who forgot to claim his love note before selling it. After all, the world was full of lost memories.
You adjusted your back against the train seat and buried your nose in the pages, letting the smell of old paper dry your thoughts while your eyes scanned lines you knew by heart. Outside, the landscape transformed. The greenness of tall trees and gravel paths gradually gave way to the brutal architecture of civilization: small brick neighborhoods, clotheslines crisscrossing between windows, rusted rails, and graffiti shouting names on concrete walls.
Bit by bit, Manhattan's skyscrapers emerged on the horizon like glass giants claiming the sky. The train crossed the last metallic bridges and ventured into the guts of a city that never slept.
Stepping off, you began walking without a clear destination. The city was the antithesis of the isolation you usually sought: a hotbed of fragmented thoughts, financial anxieties, and absurd hurries clashing with one another. However, there was something liberating in that chaos. Among millions of voices screaming at the same time, your own cracks went unnoticed. Nobody looked at you. Nobody feared you.
To cross the streets you didn't need to look at the traffic lights; a light mental pulse was enough to switch the lights at your convenience, opening a path for yourself in a manufactured bubble of calm. Playing in your ears was the playlist Maximoff had built for you on Spotify. Although the concept of streaming seemed like an unnecessary modernity to him, he had taken the trouble to compile hours of classic and alternative rock.
You walked for hours until your steps came to a dead halt before the facade of a building.
Your old high school.
There was no logical reason to have ended up there, but the red brick walls triggered a pang in your stomach. You stood on the sidewalk, watching students pour out in flocks amid laughter, shoves, and innocence; that kind of carefreeness that only exists before reality crushes you.
You wondered what it would feel like to be one of them. What your life would have been like if your mutation had never awakened. If your only battles had been physics grades, prom, or deciding which college to apply to, instead of learning to contain an ability that threatened to destroy you from within.
You would have been an normal girl. Ordinary.
The word felt bitter in your mouth. Distant. Like a suit that belonged to someone else.
You searched your memory for a face, a name, anything to justify the nostalgia tightening your chest, but only found blanks. You vaguely remembered belonging to the debate club and the science club, but the faces of your classmates were unrecognizable. Time had taken care of that.
You thought about crossing the entrance, but immediately lost heart. It made no sense. A stranger lurking in the hallways would only draw suspicious looks.
You turned around and let your feet carry you aimlessly. It was then that intuition returned, this time with a magnetic clarity. It wasn't an external thought or a telepathic intrusion; it was a pull in the center of your chest, as if an invisible thread tied to your ribs were being tugged from somewhere in the city.
You boarded a city bus without looking at the route sign. The need to move forward flattened any doubt. You watched through the window as blocks of buildings succeeded one another, trying to convince yourself that it was just a neurotic impulse, a side effect of fatigue. But the pull didn't yield.
You got off a few stops later and started walking by inertia, turning corners almost instinctively, as if navigating a map engraved in your genes.
Until the thread slacked.
In front of you stood a small, humble café, almost invisible among the grandiosity of the main avenues. You remained on the sidewalk contemplating the reflection in the glass, overcome by the mathematical certainty that this was exactly where you needed to arrive.
In your headphones, the final chords of MGMT were playing. Oracular Spectacular was an album that seemed to evoke memories of a life you weren't sure you had lived, a mixture of psychedelia and melancholy that fit the moment perfectly.
Pushing the door open, the chime of a bell announced your entrance. The place was practically empty, an oasis of silence you were deeply grateful for. You took a deep breath, gathering the courage needed to slide the headphones down to your neck and prepare for the inevitable impact of mental noise.
“Hi, what can I get for you?”
Behind the counter, a girl with dark skin offered you a warm smile. Her nametag read Michelle, though your mind had already caught her name a second prior. However, when trying to go deeper, you bumped into a subtle wall; her mind was complex, dense, hard to decipher at first glance. Some people were just that unreadable.
You ordered a latte out of obligation. You hated coffee—caffeine usually triggered unbearable migraines—but needing to buy something was the price to pay to stay there.
That was when you noticed the boy on the other side of the counter: Ned Leeds, Michelle's friend. Ned's mind, unlike hers, was an open book. Both shared a vibe of contained nervousness, a low tension floating between them. It felt like something... work-related? No, academic.
“I'll bring it to your table in a moment.”
You nodded mechanically and settled at a small table next to the window. On the opposite wall, a turned-on television silently broadcast amateur video footage: Spider-Man swinging between skyscrapers. You remembered the events of last year, the cracks in the sky, and the multiversal threat everyone talked about. You also remembered Charles's blunt response when you asked why you all hadn't intervened: “It's not our fight.”
You looked at the screen with bitterness. And even if you had wanted to help... what on earth could you have done against the collapse of the universe?
You wondered if at any point the world would be ready for mutants. It was an open secret: the beloved figure Charles had lost years ago, a mutant so unstable he had been the worst calling card to society. Many of the mansion's residents had seen him on television as children; a few others knew him personally. You could only rely on rumors.
You stared at the street through the café's glass for a long while, wondering where all those people were heading, even though you knew the answer beforehand. You saw a girl walking hurriedly down the sidewalk, struggling to adjust the strap of a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. You wanted to believe in a gentle story: you imagined inside were a bunch of purchases she could finally, after a long time, afford. A birthday gift for someone special, some expensive creams, or maybe those shoes she had liked so much in some display window.
You entered her mind a second later.
Reality was much grayer. There were no gifts or new shoes. In the bag she only carried a change of clothes and the medical studies of her grandmother, whom she was going to nurse at the hospital during the night shift after working all day. In her head there was no excitement, but an accumulated fatigue of weeks, the worry of not knowing how to pay for the month's medications, and the faint hope that the old woman would recognize her for at least a couple of minutes before falling asleep.
You gently looked away, with a pang of bitterness in your chest.
Why was reality so sad? Was any of those passersby actually having a good day?
You moved your eyes across the sidewalk, almost desperately searching for a flash of light amid the tide of tired faces. And then you saw it. A little boy, no older than five, hopping along next to his mother. He held a green plastic dinosaur in his hands, and brushing his mind for an instant, you found no sorrow. Only a gigantic happiness because his mother had bought him the toy he had been waiting weeks for. In his universe, in that precise second, nothing bad existed.
You smiled to yourself and exhaled a breath you didn't even know you were holding. Somehow, that tiny thought comforted you; it was like a crack of sunlight amid a cloudy sky. Reality could be heavy, yes, but at least it wasn't entirely lost.
You heard the chime at the entrance, and your body responded before your mind did, turning you around to observe the newly arrived customer. A slender boy, with brown hair somewhat messy from the street wind and a sweet, incredibly expressive gaze, but with a distinct shadow of fatigue under his eyes. He wore a worn jacket that was a bit too big for him and had his hands buried in his pockets. He had that kind of noble, empathetic face that instantly conveys trust.
However, what left you dumbfounded was the fact that you heard absolutely nothing.
Not a single thought. Not the slightest murmur. His mind was in complete, inexplicable silence. It wasn't Professor Xavier's impenetrable and calculated barrier; it was something different, an absolute void, yet strangely warm. After spending the day submerged in the city's chaotic bustle, encountering such calm in a stranger left you breathless.
He didn't notice your presence; instead, his eyes were fixed on the waitress carrying your coffee.
“Enjoy,” she exclaimed kindly.
He didn't take his eyes off her, and you didn't take your eyes off him.
You stammered a thanks to the girl, and she returned to her position behind the counter. He, seeing her return, lowered his gaze and hurried to take a seat at one of the tables.
From your spot, you couldn't help but observe him. There was something subtle yet clear in his posture: the way his eyes sought the girl at the counter, the contained hesitation in his gestures... It was obvious he had gone to that café just to see her.
Upon reaching the counter, Michelle and Ned began chatting in a casual tone. After a few moments of fluid conversation, she leaned against the bar, looked at the boy waiting at the table, and asked what he was ordering.
He looked up and answered.
It was barely a short phrase, a simple response, but the timbre of his voice pierced the café's space with an overwhelming clarity.
Your heart took a violent leap. You froze in your seat, paralyzed mid-movement, while an icy shiver ran down your spine. That cadence, the exact intonation, the soft and worn nuance... You didn't need to read his thoughts to know. His spoken voice was enough.
It was the same voice that had been sneaking into your hardest nights for weeks. The lonely mind that found yours in the dark was just a few steps away from you.
That was why you had gone there. To find him.
Once again, you tried to venture into his mind. You launched your telepathy searching for that crack through which you used to hear him, but it was like running into an impenetrable wall; his mind remained in absolute silence. However, at the exact instant you brushed against his barrier, the boy flinched in his chair and went stiff all of a sudden, as if an electric shock had run up the back of his neck.
He turned his head instinctively until his eyes met yours head-on. He held your gaze for an eternal second, charged with a strange, alert tension. He hadn't just blocked you effortlessly; impossibly, that boy seemed to have felt that you were trying to enter his head.
He blinked several times as if trying to discard the idea, sure it had only been an illusion. He focused on a menu hanging above the counter despite having already placed his order, projecting a contained tension that made him look out of place. Worried, perhaps.
You looked toward the window, though now the stories of the passersby lacked meaning. You closed your eyes for an instant, searching in the silence for an answer to the enigma a few feet away, but found nothing.
Determined to end the uncertainty once and for all, you snapped them open and stood up, ready to cross the small space separating you from him. The unexpected part was that the stranger had the exact same idea. Before you could react, the two of you collided head-on. The impact made you lose your balance, and you fell backward onto the floor, letting out a stifled murmur of surprise.
He apologized immediately, visibly embarrassed. Then he crouched to your height and quickly extended his hand to help you up. Confused, you accepted his help, and at the exact instant his fingers closed around your hand, an electric shock coursed through your veins.
A memory flashed into your mind.
The afternoon sun hit your face fully when you heard his voice calling you. You had decided to go to the park to rest, silently celebrating that you had finally survived finals week. You lay on the fresh grass, letting the early summer heat envelope you.
“Do you think I'll do badly in English?” he asked, breaking the silence while looking at the treetops.
“A little, yeah. But not enough to get an F,” you replied honestly, turning toward him.
“Thank goodness. May would kill me.”
“You've never failed a subject, not since we were in kindergarten.”
“No,” he admitted, glancing at you. “That's why I know she'd kill me.”
You let out a genuine laugh, contemplating the comical face he made whenever a truth disguised as a joke escaped him. There was a lightness to those days that now felt like a distant dream.
“If I get bad grades, my parents will probably blame you,” you teased.
“And why's that?” he asked, feigning outrage.
“They'll say you're a distraction.”
At that moment, a white butterfly fluttered between the two of you and lightly brushed your cheek before flying away. He smiled tenderly and reached out, brushing with his fingertips the exact spot where the insect's wings had tickled you.
“That's not true,” he murmured, leaving his hand suspended near your face.
“It kind of is,” you confessed, shrugging as you felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “You spend all day in my thoughts. But they don't have to find out about that.”
Blush instantly stained his cheeks. He tried to hide it by looking down and breaking into a clumsy smile, but it was in vain. You were fascinated watching him get nervous. It was as if he couldn't fully process that you loved him with that blind, boundless intensity that only exists in first love.
“I could help you study for retakes,” he offered, clearing his throat.
“Yeah, sure. Because you're a nerd and all that.”
“No,” he corrected softly, searching your eyes. “Because you're my girlfriend. And I want you to get good grades so we can go to college together.”
“Please! Are you already thinking about college?” you laughed, covering your face with your hands. “We're barely starting high school.”
“Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to plan, right?”
“You worry too much about the future.”
“And you don't?”
“I don't care what the future holds,” you said simply, intertwining your fingers with his as the afternoon wind tousled his hair. “I only care about enjoying the present. About being here. With you.”
The warmth of the hand you were holding grew hazy with the memory of that day. Suddenly, a new scene rushed in headlong.
The whole school knew. It was the only topic of conversation in the hallways: they knew that because of you, that boy was in the hospital. During your constant trips to the principal's office, you had managed to overhear that his parents wanted to sue you, though at your age you weren't sure if that was legally possible.
You just wanted to scream at them that you couldn't help it. That you never wanted to hurt him in the first place.
Now everything hurt, but not in your body; the pain was entrenched in your head. You were sitting outside the principal's office for the hundredth time that week. You had missed almost every class, and when you tried to show up at the debate club meeting, they simply slammed the door in your face.
You wondered how much longer you could endure in this limbo. By that point, your expulsion was practically a done deal.
And then there was the torment of the minds around you. You didn't know how to silence them; they entered your head unfiltered, all the time, drilling into your ears until becoming unbearable noise.
Why on earth was this happening to you?
“Hey,” you suddenly heard.
You didn't know if the murmur came from inside your head or from the hallway, until looking up brought you back to reality: he was standing in front of you.
“There you are,” he said softly.
“Hi,” you whispered, looking at him with guilt. “What are you doing here? There's a club meeting today.”
“Yeah, but I didn't really feel like going,” he replied, shrugging.
Lie. He was fascinated by the debate club. But the worry of finding you had been stronger.
He took a seat beside you. You immediately avoided his gaze, unable to meet his eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you lied, tightening your hands on your lap. “They just summoned me again. You know... because of everything that's happened lately.”
“Yeah...” he sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.
Even though he kept quiet, you didn't need him to speak to know exactly what was crossing his mind. His mental pulse was a tide of fatigue, deep sadness, and a touch of pity. He felt afraid, yes, but not toward you or what you could do—rather, for what the world was going to do to you.
An interminable few seconds passed in which the noise of the school threatened to crush you again, until he seemed to gather enough courage to organize his thoughts.
“It wasn't your fault,” he blurted out, searching your eyes. “You know that, right?”
“The guy is in the hospital,” you replied with a broken voice, feeling tears fill your eyes. “I don't even know what I did or how I did it. It just... happened. People are right to be afraid of me.”
“They don't understand anything,” he insisted, turning his body toward you. “I know you. I know who you are. This is an accident, not something you wanted. I... I don't understand how you did it. But you're not crazy, and you're not bad either.”
“I feel like I'm going crazy,” you confessed in a thread of a voice, bringing your hands to your temples as the din of other minds began drilling into you from within again. “There are too many voices. I can't turn them off. It's killing me.”
He didn't hesitate for another second. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a firm, warm hug that seemed to freeze time.
You pressed your face against his shoulder, clinging to his jacket as if it were the only anchor amid the storm. Suddenly, the chaos in your head seemed to dim. The contact of his arms didn't silence the voices of the world, but the certainty of his affection turned everything else into a distant noise, an insignificant echo.
“I'm not leaving you alone in this,” he whispered in your ear, squeezing you a little tighter against him. “We're going to figure it out. I promise you.”
You had closed your eyes for an instant, and when you opened them, the setting had changed completely.
He was watching you from the edge of your bed, with a mix of resignation and worry in his gaze.
“A boarding school?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yeah... It's like a school for gifted youngsters or something like that,” you murmured without looking up, focused on folding clothes and packing them into suitcases.
Every now and then, he stretched out to hand you an item of clothing left on the bed, trying to keep himself useful so as not to break down.
“And for how long will it be?”
“I don't know. A few months, I guess... Until things cool down around here.”
In the end, the hospital boy's parents hadn't filed the lawsuit, but they had taken it upon themselves to spread the rumor to every corner of the high school. The stares, the harassment, and the social pressure ultimately proved you right: expulsion had been inevitable. Your parents, overwhelmed by the situation and not knowing how to handle what was happening to you, had found that special place as a last resort to rid themselves of a problem beyond their control.
“Yeah, well... makes sense,” he commented, though the lack of conviction in his voice was glaring.
His mind was sending clear signals: he was holding something back. And you knew perfectly well what it was.
“Hey, I'll come back to visit you every now and then, okay?” you said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the room. “And if I talk to the principal... maybe he'll even let me invite you over for a weekend.”
You dropped what you were doing and sat beside him.
“If you want to go, of course.”
“Of course I want to,” he answered immediately. He was completely sincere. “It's just that... Westchester is pretty far.”
“It's not that big of a deal,” you tried to encourage him, though you knew his real concern wasn't the distance, but the fare money.
You sought his hand on the mattress, intertwining your fingers while looking at him with a silent plea reflected in your eyes.
“We can video call every night. Text each other all the time... You'll see I won't feel that far.”
He smiled that sweet way he did when he really wanted to believe things would turn out fine, and nodded silently.
“Yeah, you're right. It'll work.”
You leaned toward him and stole a soft kiss from his lips. It was a brief gesture, but loaded with all the fear, love, and uncertainty you both shared.
“It'll only be a few months to see how they teach over there. And then I'll come back. I promise.”
A final series of memories surfaced. Though when your mind shifted to them, you immediately felt a tightness in your chest.
It hadn't been just a few months. The semester was consuming its final days, and you were still trapped in Westchester.
You weren't going to lie to yourself: you were starting to get used to the place. To the bucolic peace of the mansion, the warmth of your new peers, and the institute's teaching. It was an idyllic refuge. Professor Xavier had personally taken care of manipulating the threads of collective memory at your old school; he didn't erase the incident, but he wiped your face from everyone's memories. To the school board, it had just been an unfortunate physical altercation between two students whose names were better off forgotten. Your name was clean, but your soul remained chained to Queens.
To him.
You had sworn to write to him daily, to keep the flame alive against all odds. But at first, messages flowed like an overflowing river; later, reality turned into a dam. Classes demanded an almost superhuman level of concentration if you wanted to control the chaotic mass of your powers. Guilt devoured your chest with every hour that passed without replying to him.
When you finally managed to scrape a free weekend to return to the city, reuniting with him was a dagger to the heart.
Even without wanting to, you heard the bitter tide of his thoughts. Weeks ago, he had begged you to go to the high school dance with him, excited like a child, but Charles forbade you from going so as not to expose yourself.
“It's okay, I understand,” he had told you at the time, swallowing his disappointment.
But telepathy didn't allow you to deceive yourself. It wasn't just the missed party. It was the cruel taunts in the school hallways when he said he had a girlfriend, an invisible girl whom no one ever saw. It was the contempt of his classmates, the pity condensed in the teachers' gazes, the silenced disappointment of a boy who had to defend the existence of a love that seemed like a ghost.
You couldn't hold his hand in the street, or invite him out for ice cream, or be a living presence in his everyday life.
Those invisible wounds accumulated until they became an unsustainable mountain. And though he never uttered a single reproach—though he swallowed his tears so as not to make you feel guilty—you felt how he was bleeding out from within. He felt deeply lonely, desperately clinging to the sporadic visits of the ghost of the girl who was once his world.
One night, while the moon bathed the roof in silver, the question pierced you like broken glass:
Did he deserve a half-life? Did he deserve to love a shadow?
No. Good heavens, no. He deserved the full light.
“You seem strange,” he said.
The two of you were sitting on the fire escape outside his window, with the cold night air sneaking through your clothes.
“Are you okay?”
“I am,” you murmured, clinging to the iron bars with white knuckles so your voice wouldn't shatter. “Hey... can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Do you really think us... is meant to work?”
“Of course it is,” he answered immediately, searching your eyes with a blind faith that broke your soul. “We've made it this far, haven't we?”
But the words didn't matter. Your mind drowned in the tide of his true answer: a desperate inner plea not to lose you, crushed by the overwhelming fear that you were already leaving.
“Why do you ask that?” he added, his voice trembling slightly.
“Because I'm not the girl you deserve.”
“Are you breaking up with me?” He turned abruptly.
His hands had already moved to your shoulders, holding you with the same gentleness he had for so many years.
“I... I love you. I don't give a damn about the distance! I don't care what happened with your powers or any of this. I mean it. I love you.”
“And I love you,” you sobbed, feeling tears held back for months threatening to choke you. “I love you in a way you can't imagine. But...”
“No. There is no 'but'. Don't do this to me. Please.”
His hand gripped yours, the desperation palpable in the touch. The silence was dense, heavy, drowned out by the distant noise of city traffic. But the sentence was already passed in the deepest part of your being. Because you loved him too much to destroy him.
Even though you both changed the subject, the tension remained. Shortly after, you went back into the room. He lay on the bottom bunk, defeated, his chest heaving with silent panic. You leaned over him, stopping mere inches from his face, wrapped in the dim light.
“You know I would never hurt you, right?” you whispered, caressing his cheek with infinite tenderness.
“I know,” he replied in a thread of a voice.
“And you know I'm going to love you no matter what happens, right?”
“I know.”
He surged forward and kissed you. It was a desperate, almost voracious kiss, a trench against destiny. He held you by the waist and the nape of your neck with a strength bordering on agony, pressing you against his chest as if sensing you were turning into water slipping through his fingers.
Tears spilled uncontrollably from your eyes, wetting both your cheeks. He started upon feeling you cry and lowered his hands, alarmed, but you didn't give him time to speak. You kissed him again. You kissed him until breath escaped your lungs, mixing the bitter taste of your tears with the warm breath escaping his lips. It was the kiss of a lifetime condensed into a few seconds.
Trembling, you brought your fingers to your temple. A stifled, heart-wrenching sob escaped your chest.
Would you be capable? Was your love so boundless, so destructive, as to commit this cruel mercy?
Yes. Because loving him meant saving him from yourself.
With a silent scream that tore your mind apart from the inside, you deployed your telepathy and ventured into his memory.
You began erasing yourself.
You gradually dissolved the stolen kisses, the laughs in the debate club, and the college promises, but also the childhood afternoons in his living room, the scraped knees, and an entire life growing up together. You erased every conversation, every glance, and every shared heartbeat, transforming a colossal love into a hazy fog, into a mere nameless void.
You exterminated over a decade of memories piece by piece, watching the light in his eyes grow dull as the connections severed in his brain.
Your own mind wailed at the sacrilege of erasing the only pure thing you had left in the world.
Feeling the weight of his body relax under the telepathic sedation, you laid his head on the pillow with infinite sweetness. His eyes, now serene and empty of you, closed slowly.
You leaned down one last time, brushing your lips against his cool forehead.
“Goodbye, Peter.”
Peter. That was his name.
“A-Are you really okay? Did you get hurt?”
You were already on your feet. You hadn't realized tears were streaming down uncontrollably until you ran your fingers across your cheeks. Your hands were trembling.
An excruciating doubt seized you inevitably: what had made you forget him? How could such a piece of your soul disappear from your life?
“Do you need me to call someone?”
You hadn't articulated a single word since he helped you up. Your absolute silence only fueled the confusion and concern growing in his eyes with every passing second.
He was so different. He looked older, mature, undeniably handsome... but there was no doubt: it was him. It was your Peter.
From his perspective, you must have looked completely terrified. Your fixed stare and ragged breathing made you look as though you were seeing a dead man brought back to life.
“No,” you managed to reply.
Stumbling, you backed away from him. You grabbed your belongings immediately and walked to the counter, leaving a bill that doubled the value of what you had ordered.
Then you walked out. Without looking back.
Let me know if you want to be tagged in part two! ♡
Synopsis: He believed the entire world had forgotten Peter Parker, until the girl he never spoke to in class said his name. [Gif Creds: manny-jacinto].
First Peter Parker fic in celebration of the trailer drop ✨💃
(Edited 3/31: I officially made this into a small little series, so I DEEPLY apologize for the previous mess of formatting 😭🙏)
『••✎••』
His face changed in an instant.
The easy, half-apologetic smile Peter had been wearing—sorry, my bad, let me help—froze, then cracked. His brown eyes widened, pupils blowing out like he’d been hit with a flashbang. The color drained from his already pale cheeks, leaving the faint acne scars and the sheen of nervous sweat stark against his skin. His mouth parted, lips forming a silent what? before any sound could escape.
You blinked up at him, crouched on the grimy New York sidewalk, one hand steadying your precariously tall stack of books, the other hovering over the scattered ones at your feet. The world kept moving—the rumble of the subway beneath the pavement, the wail of a distant siren, the shuffle of pedestrians flowing around the two of you like water around stones. But in the sudden, suffocating vacuum between you and him, all of that noise simply dissolved.
"Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry," he’d been saying just a second ago, a familiar, breathless rush. He’d bumped into you—a classic traffic jam on the sidewalk—and your world had tipped sideways. Physics took over. Textbooks on organic chemistry and literary theory splayed out across the concrete like a fan.
He remembered you. He was sure of it. You sat two rows ahead and one to the left in Mr. Harrison’s history class. You never spoke, but he knew you were one of the smartest kids in the room, your hand perpetually in the air while he was usually trying to calculate if he had enough web fluid for patrol later that night. He’d seen you in the halls—a quiet, focused presence that never seemed to intersect with the chaotic orbit of himself, MJ, and Ned.
You smiled, a small, polite curve of your lips as you both reached for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. Your fingers had brushed.
"It’s okay, happens all the time." You had said, gathering the last book and tucking it into your stack. Then you looked him in the eye, a brief, friendly glance of acknowledgment, and said the words that had just short-circuited his entire nervous system.
"See you around, Peter."
And just like that, the universe tilted on its axis.
You’d pushed yourself to your feet, adjusting your bag, giving him another polite smile before turning to merge back into the river of people on the sidewalk. The moment was over—a simple, forgettable bump with a vague acquaintance from high school.
Except it wasn’t.
Wait.
His lungs seized. The name echoed in the hollow of his chest, a ghost of a sound, but it was the most real thing he’d heard in an eternity. Peter. Not "hey, kid" or "that guy" or the frustrated sigh of a landlord who never knew his renter’s name. Peter. Said with the casual familiarity of someone who had always known it.
A frantic, desperate energy seized him. He couldn’t let you go. He couldn’t let you walk away and vanish back into the faceless crowd, leaving him to wonder if he’d finally, truly lost it.
"Wait!"
He shot forward, a burst of speed that felt more like a spider’s leap than a human’s jog. He caught your arm just above the elbow. It was a gentle touch, barely any pressure, but you stopped instantly, turning back to him with a look of surprise, your brow furrowed. Your books wobbled in your arms.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in a silent room. He leaned in, not caring that he was blocking the flow of foot traffic, that a businessman had to sidestep him with an annoyed grunt. All that mattered was your face, your confused eyes, and the five letters he needed to hear again.
"Wait," he repeated, his voice raspy, thin. "What… what did you say?"
Your confusion deepened, a small line creasing between your brows. You glanced from his wild-eyed face down to where he was still touching your sleeve, then back up again.
"Uh…" you hesitated, clearly thrown by the intensity of his reaction. "I just said, ‘see you around’?"
"No, before that. The… the last part." He could barely breathe the words out. Please. Please say it again. Let him know he wasn’t hallucinating, that the loneliness hadn’t finally cracked him open.
You blinked, slow and deliberate, as if trying to decipher a foreign language. A flicker of something like concern crossed your features.
"Peter?" you said, his name a soft, questioning thing in the city noise. "Are you okay?"
The world shattered around him.
It wasn’t a question of how. He didn’t care how. Not yet. The sheer, overwhelming fact of it crashed over him like a tidal wave. The weight of a year’s worth of invisibility, of nonexistence, suddenly lifted. Air rushed into lungs that had been starved for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe. A tremor ran through his entire body—a violent, shuddering release of tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding.
He didn’t answer your question. He couldn’t. All he could do was stare, his grip on your sleeve slackening until his fingers just brushed the fabric of your jacket. He was looking at you, but he wasn’t seeing a college student with a stack of books anymore. He was seeing an anchor. A lighthouse in a fog that had swallowed him whole.
A shaky, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips—a broken sound that held the ghost of a sob. He stared at you as if you’d just handed him the entire universe, piece by precious piece.
You, completely unaware of the magnitude of the moment—of the dam you’d just broken—just stood there. You took in the dazed look, the trembling hands, the way he was looking at you like you were a miracle.
And you just looked… concerned. Worried for the weird guy from your old high school who was currently having some kind of meltdown on a public sidewalk.
"Peter," you said again, a little firmer this time, reaching out a hesitant hand. "Seriously. Are you alright?"
And he was. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was more than alright.
꒰ summary ꒱; the blue lock boys meet you, who absolutely mogs the hell out of them and they either embarass themselves or just flat out fumble ૮꒰ “ . . ꒱ა
isagi spots you when you come up to him during a fan meet.
"so, you've been a fan for a while?" he starts, trying some small talk, finally glancing up from the jersey you'd requested his signature on, making eye contact with you. he knew it was from a collection sold a while ago, before he'd grown tons in popularity.
only to immediately avert his gaze back down because of how beautiful you are.
is it even right to be within 2 feet of you? he could swear a goddess just appeared before him.
"i am! i've been supporting you ever since..."
he could barely hear the array of words and compliments you were gushing anymore, too caught up on the sight of you.
he was imagining how pretty you'd look in his jersey, maybe getting married someday-
"...so yeah, i've been supporting you for a super long time! it feels so nice to finally meet you," you continued, snapping him out of his trance-like state of admiration.
"say, can i actually get your-" he's cut off before he can finish his sentence.
you were gently reminded by someone to keep moving along the line, leaving you waving back at isagi, leaving him in despair.
"-number..."
his first ever attempted shot and he got brutally blocked by his own security.
rin itoshi
you were rushing to be somewhere and happened to run into rin by chance.
you'd tripped over your shoelace and managing to land directly in front of him, wincing at the sharp pain shooting through your legs on impact.
he halted, careful to not step on you.
"ouchh, i'm so sorry!" you apologized profusely before actually meeting the gaze of the man standing above you.
it was rin itoshi.
your soul almost left your body right then and there, scrambling to back up to your feet, dusting off your pants.
"i am such a big fan."
he had no clue on how to respond.
first of all, you'd just tripped directly in front of him, then blinded him with your face card, and now you were stood in front of him like a soldier, acting unfazed, mentioning being a fan?
"your arm's bleeding," he stated, barely reacting, too focused on your perfect features.
"no it's not," you denied, determined to not embarass yourself in front of him.
he scoffed, reaching in his bag to fish out anything to stop the bleeding.
"shit, i'm gonna be late!" you panic, turning back around, running in the opposite direction.
his gaze follows your sudden movement.
he'd never admit it, to himself, but he was dissapointed he barely a conversation out of you.
maybe he just wanted an excuse to stare at your perfect features longer.
was he the fan or were you?
nagi seishiro
nagi's sitting on a swing in a playground, feet planted on the ground firmly, absolutely locked in on a mobile game he was playing.
you were there with your little sibling, having been forced to take them to play.
you weren't keen on refusing and risking upsetting your parents, so you'd simply gone along.
you strolled over to the swings, sitting on one beside another kid as you watched your little sibling terrorize the other children around, screaming on the slides.
it wasn't long before you noticed it in fact wasn't a little child next to you on the swings but nagi seishiro.
you gasped upon realizing.
"oh my gosh, are you nagi?"
he looked up briefly to nod, only to instantly glue his eyes onto the vibrant screen once more.
"i'm such a big fan!" you'd squeal, excitement radiating off of you.
he paused his game, doing a double take.
you were absolutely breathtaking.
the gentle breeze tousled your hair, framing your face perfectly, making you look like an angel.
was he dead? had you come to take him away?
"hellooo?" you raised your voice, tilting your head to the side, trying to catch his attention.
his phone nearly slipped from his grip, noting the close proximity between him and the beautiful woman beside.
"hi." he sat up, cheeks dusting a rosy tint, aware you most probably noticed him admiring you (it just looked like he was glaring at you because he held the straightest face throughout)
he sat there, stiff as a rock, unsure of what to do.
should he try make conversation? would you think he's weird?
"oh, i've gotta get home, it's getting pretty late!" you spoke up, waving as you walked back over to your little sibling, holding their hand on the way out.
and just like that, he'd lost his only chance of talking to you.
he'd tried to pull his focus back down to his game, only to see the large "you lost!" text across his screen, almost as if taunting him.
he grumbled in annoyance.
sae itoshi
sae's just about done with a morning run, sweat coating his toned biceps peeking through the tank top he had on.
he was stopped at a traffic light, waiting for the light to illuminate green.
unexpectedly, he felt a tap on his shoulder, tilting his head to the side reluctantly, not having enough motivation in him to deal with someone this bright and early in the morning-
oh.
"hi, i'm a big fan of you!" you exclaim, a bashful smile spread across your lips.
and just like that, he had to double take.
he paused, fully, turning to really face you now.
the sunlight filtered through the trees above, the glow accentuating every gorgeous feature.
"oh- thank you." he replies, voice gruff, unable to keep his eyes off of you.
"can we take a photo together, pleaseee?" you beg, batting your lashes up at him.
normally, he would've declared a curt 'i'm busy' and walked off, but how could he right now?
"sure."
you snap a photo with him, giggling like a highschool girl who'd just seen their crush smile at them in the hallways.
"thank you so much!" you grinned, looking back on the photo, unable to believe the situation was real.
to be honest, neither could he.
well, he too, wanted a photo with you now.
michael kaiser
you met kaiser at a fan meet, every word he spoke to you dripping in ego, not bothering to look up from the little plushie of him you'd requested he sign. he couldn't refrain from letting out a snort at the sight of it.
however, when he finally did look your way to return it, he was convinced he was hallucinating.
you were absolutely beautiful.
the type of girl he'd see in a movie and dream about for a day or two afterwards.
you were standing before him, smiling gleefully, faint blush on the apples of your cheeks.
"i'm such a big fan, thank you!" his hand grazed yours unnecessarily on purpose, holding your fingers still between his for a moment.
he inspected the acrylics you'd adorned your nails with, paying close attention to you now.
"pretty nails for a pretty girl," he remarks boldly, observing the subtle tremor of your hands in his grip, a cocky smirk playing on his lips.
you didn't get time to react, being prompted to move along the line by security.
"kaiser, don't try that again, you're well aware it isn't allowed."
"i know, but she was cute," he snickered, marvelling in the sight of your flushed face as you walked away.
alexis ness
ness met you in a library.
both of you ended up reaching for the same book, fingers rubbing against eachothers.
his eyes meet yours to apologize and they proceed to widen before he can even begin to.
your beauty was captivating.
he looked you up and down, trying to play it cool and not act like a loser. "i'm sorry about that, you can have the book-"
"wait, i'm a big fan!"
"o-oh yeah, me too," he blurts, too focused on your entrancing smile.
"you too?" you repeat, giggling, an eyebrow raised.
and goodness, you looked impossibly prettier while smiling.
he mentally face-palms, a breathless laugh escaping him, forcing his smile wider.
he starts another sentence, attempting to shoot his shot. "h-hey, we should-"
you hear one of your friends call out for you, waving at ness, leaving him and the book behind all alone.
he clutches the book tight in his palm, dissapointed in himself. (he managed to find you on instagram like a week after that)
bunny iglesias
you were busy with your shift at a cafe at the time, being motioned over to take his order
your jaw nearly dropped upon seeing who you were serving.
but he was equally as surprised.
pleasantly surprised.
you were drop-dead gorgeous, the type of woman he'd spot on the cover of a vogue magazine.
"oh my gosh, i'm a really big fan," you burst out with a sound of unadulterated surprise, unable to believe your eyes.
he noticed your grip trembling on the pen you held, eliciting a soft chuckle from him.
"thank you, cariño," he grins, basking in the admiration in your eyes.
"why's such a pretty lady like you working here, hm?" he questions, attempting to make some kind of move on you.
before you could respond, a waiter called out for you, leaving you forced to comply.
you sighed softly, giving him a sudden wave off as you walked off to attend to seperate matters.
bunny never got the chance to see you again after that (leaving him bummed out for the rest of the day)
hugo vivian
you'd bumped into him on the street due to the tears blurring your vision.
he held you steady to prevent you tripping and falling as you stumbled backwards.
he was mildly stunned at the tears streaming down your face, then he found himself taken further aback at how stunning you were.
even with your lashes wet and your nose red, you were the most gorgeous woman he'd laid eyes on.
you realized who it was you'd ran into, mood shifting right away.
"w-wait-" sniffle "i-i'm a huge fan." your voice wavered, struggling to compose yourself.
"is that so?" he murmurs, too focused on how ethereal you look before him.
he reaches out, thumb wiping excess tears pooling around the edges of your puffy eyes.
you stifle a shriek as he does so, cheeks flushing beet-red.
he sees no problem in his actions; he's simply trying to cheer up a beautiful girl.
"i actually- have to go-" you blurt out, offering him a smile on your pretty lips before you rushed off.
at least he got to see you smile, but he hadn't gotten the chance to ask for your number.
what a bummer, he thought to himself. you were far more captivating compared to any of the blank books he'd ever skimmed through in his life time.
