choso looks too enticing when falling apart, a complete mess in your hands. stroking his achingly hard length even though heâs just cum, seed dripping obscenely down his shaft. the glide of your palm smooth and slick, overstimulating him on purpose.
he feels dizzy, whining as you continue to play with him, âbabyâ hnnâ itâs too muchâ hah!ââ words coming out slurred.
youâre sucking in a breath at his whingy tone and the pathetic look in his eyes, heâs falling apart. his abs tense as he writhes, lower lip wobbling with his moans. looking entirely too good in his pitiful state, your cunt leaking into your panties.
âwaitâ fuckâ hnnââ he whimpers while trying to talk, head foggy and overwhelmed by the devastating pleasure youâre giving him, âi canâtâ ahâ iâm gonnaââ
âyouâre doing so good, cho,â purring low at him, âcum again for me, yeah?â
choso canât stop cursing under his breath, truly feeling like heâs out of his mind as he finishes again in a way he never has. fluid clearer than heâs used to and going further, feeling like the wind has been knocked out of him as he shakes slightly. insides twitching and his thighs quivering.
holy shit, you just made choso squirt for you. a large grin overtaking your face as you praise, âgood boy.â
⎠â wherein the puppy boy you thought hated you, was actually down bad for you. like, literally. on his knees, eating your pussy.â
⢠1.3k words ; smut ; hybrid puppy choso ; sub!cho ; swearing ; somnophilia ; pet names ; praise ; oral sex (f receiving) ; mentions of rut ; fingering ; mdni !!
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he was from an underground illegal fighting ring, bred to fight other hybrids and keep the cash rolling. eventually, the owner had been caught, and things escalated from there on.
for the first few months of staying with you, choso was cautious and had his guard up around you. of course, you couldn't blame him. nonetheless, you helped him settle throughout the months, letting him adjust at his own pace.
soon enough, he was less snappy towards you, finally tolerating youâ but still, cold. :(
but you're sure you can make him warm up to you even more!!
...
though you didn't mean like this...
it was already midnight, you were comfortably tucked in your bedroom, sleeping peacefully, wearing a cute babydoll nightgown with spaghetti straps and lacy hems.
until, you felt stirring in between your thighs.
you thought you were having a wet dreamâ wherein your cute puppy boy choso was slurping and messily eating your pussy out.
it was just a wet dream you had because you'd been fantasizing over him.
right?
but the moment you opened your eyes, your sleepy gaze first registered the mop of black hair in between your legs that had fluffy ears?
wait.
fluffy ears?
you gasped, back arching off of the mattress as a wet muscle of tongue lapped you up from your twitching hole to your hooded clit.
choso was immediately alerted, pulling away from your sopping wet pussy momentarily to look up at you with those teary, widened chocolate brown orbs of his that you always seem to get lost in with every eye contact.
his cheeks, marked with a horizontal black ink, was dusted with blush and... pussy juice.
"c-cho? whatâ what are you doing?" you asked, voice still raspy and soft from slumber, supporting your upper body on your elbows.
"fuckâ s-so sorry mommy, couldn'tâ couldn't help myselfâ please, please please please can i continue?" he hiccuped, panting and drooling over your lapped cunt. choso was shirtless, giving you a view of his ripped upper body, and wore only his black boxers that had a prominent bulge on the crotch, half-hidden by the way his hips rutted against your sheets.
his beefy arms were wrapped around your thighs, spreading you open, flexing ever so slightly around your soft skin, while his own skin was adorned with a thin sheet of sweat, almost burning.
burning? hot? heatâ a rut?!
"u-uhm, y-yeah, yeah g-go ahead cho..." you gulped, relaxing on your bed again, your nipples now pebbled and pressing against the fabric of your thin nightgown.
you were not going to pass on a chance of a lifetime.
or maybe choso liked you from the start, but just didnât admit it.
instantly, choso's eyes lit up, "t-thank you, thank you mommy... i-i'll make you feel really good, i'll be a good boy..!" his lips wrapped over your pussy with no struggle, a choked gasp coming from your throat as his lips slid around your clitoris, his thumb pulling your hood back so he can suck on your sensitive pearl freely while his other hand rubbed sweet tight circles over your pulsing hole.
"o-oh my fu-ck," you gasped out weakly, toes curling on the sheets, your thighs itching to close shut from how good it felt, but with choso's arms around your thighs, you doubt you can.
your puppy was so fucking good it had to border on a crime!
"does it feel good mommy?" he blinked up at you, his narrowed tongue circling your nub, thumb slowly pushing inside your hole.
"mmmnggh! y-yes, it- f-fuh-feels g-good baby, keep going... be a good boy for mommy..." you mewled breathlessly, reaching down to tangle your fingers in his locks (careful not to harm his ears) and push him down on your wet pussy (to which choso didn't seem to mind), buckling your hips for more.
your room was illuminated by the moonlight that seeped through the windows, filled with obscene slurping and squelching accompanied by your whorish voice and choso's grunts and whines.
the moon shone over your squirming form and choso's sweat-slicked one, hips desperately grinding on his face while he happily took it, his own hips humping your sheets.
"good boy, goodâ mngâ boy... y-you're going to make mommy cum if y-you keep doing that," your cheeks were flushed, sweat forming on your skin, body heating up, but it was nothing compared to choso's.
his face had been buried deep in your cunt with no intention of pulling away, drowning in the scent of your feminine musk, drinking your juices greedily like a starved man.
every naughty flick of his tongue on your exposed pearl, every sweet kiss on your fat labias, and every suck on your pink pussy flesh was driving you insane.
he knew every external spot that made you keen out.
the same spots you abuse and rub when masturbating.
of course, choso still pulled away ever so often.
... to ask for praise and reassurance.
"a-am i doing good, mommy?"
"i'm your good boy, right? only i get to eat you out like this, right?!"
"not there? are you sure, mommy? but you leak so much when i kiss your clit!"
gods, you needed to train his filthy mouth.
but then again, that same filthy mouth was the same reason why you're so fucked out already.
"g-good boy, right there, pupâ m-mommy's gonna cum soon," you gasped out, scratching your nails over his scalp that made his fluffy black tail wag behind him, his small fangs grazing your sensitive flesh with each dopey smile.
"then cum for me, mommy, please give me a reward for being a good boy." he begged, whining and sucking harder on your pussyâ kissing and licking all over, your juices spreading all over your inner thighs, biceps flexing on them.
"o-oh, fuck, choâ d-don't bite my clit like that!" you keened, trying to push him off as he gently grit and grind his teeth over your pink pearl.
your stomach was getting tight, the forming knot slowly uncurling, and your pussy throbbed like crazy.
finally, choso unwrapped one arm on one of your thighs and slid two fingers in while kissing your clit (as an apology? you didn't know), pumping his middle and ring finger in your tight heat with wet squelching, chocolate doe eyes hooded with deep lust as he eyed you from below.
"k-kyaaaahaahh!!!~~ âĄ" with one last pump, you finally came undone, your juices spraying everywhere.
choso pulled his fingers out at the last second, lips closing over your cunt as he drank your pussy squirt greedily, pink hearts forming in those hungry eyes.
after the last drops of your juices spilled from your pulsating hole, choso finally pulled away after placing a soft kiss on your clit that received the most of his relentless hunger. he began to loosen his remaining hold on your thigh, rubbing and kissing them instead while sitting back on his haunches.
"h-haah, thank you, cho..." your voice was soft and shy, a tired smile painting on your lips.
you felt tired, thus made you pull your nightgown back down and close your legs.
but choso splayed his palms on your thighs, spreading them open. his eyes were lidded and had hearts for pupils, a crazed, hungry grin painted on his lips, exposing his pearly whites and sharp fangs, tail wagging behind him. his voice dropped an octave down, though still deceivingly sweet.
ăâ¤ď¸ăđ, satoru .áă ..ărepostăË â ăđśđđˇđ˛ămaking out . gojo in a maid dress . premature ejaculationă⯠0.5k
gojo dressed in a maids outfit just for you
gojo surprises you by wearing a maid outfit, feeling embarrassed and part of him only playing around until heâs realising just how turned on you are. smile on his face as your hands play with the fabric of his skirt, chuckling at how flustered you seem to be.
âi didnât think youâd actually like thisâŚâ he hums, amused, âpervert.â
âiâve not said anything,â you frown, âand i donât want to hear that from you.â
âiâm not the one getting turned on by a man dressed as a maid.â
your hands are feeling him up, disguised as touching the dress in curiosity, âand what if i was wearing this?â
a long pause, âthatâs not the point.â
âmhm,â rolling your eyes, âi think itâs exactly theââ
heâs cutting you off with a kiss, lips full on yours, tongue licking against your own. youâre taking the lead back from him before he can really register that itâs happening, your hands sliding under his dress. fully intending to kiss him dizzy, overwhelm him with your touch.
if heâs done this for you then youâre going to enjoy it how you want, delighting in how he whines against you when your nails tickle against his thigh. sucking on his tongue when you pull back, loving the way his lips chase after yours, not wanting the kiss to end.
heâs huffing against you, frustrated that youâve pulled back and just when heâs about to open his mouth to verbalise that frustration; youâre leaning in to give a series of pecks to his lips. enough so he canât talk, especially since heâs returning each one like he canât help himself.
satoruâs cock twitches when your fingers drag up his inner thigh and back down, needy moan leaving him at your touch moving further away from his aching erection. biting into his lip to somewhat suppress the sounds heâs making when your mouth trails down his neck, sucking and nipping at his flushed skin.
for a moment he thought he was going to get to tease you a little more but heâs falling apart in your hands, his little outfit clearly getting to you more than he thought it would. his eyes glazing over as he just lets you do what you want to him, enjoying it far too much to even think about stopping you.
youâre being mean though, hands never touching his dick, only groping at his thighs, hips. even slipping up to drag down his abs but never where he wants you most. heâs so worked up, beyond horny and somehow touch deprived despite all of the touching youâre doing.
stepping on your tippy toes, you lean in to purr low against his ear, âyou look really cute in your dress, satoru~â hand moving higher than it has the whole time, grazing the hem of his underwear.
and heâs curling forwards into you, pitiful whimper leaving him as he cums prematurely into the fabric of his boxers. cock jerking as he moans into you, annoyed that heâs cum so soon but still enjoying the bliss of an orgasm. he canât believe heâs finished without you even touching him directly.
âdid you cum already?â you coo, âsatoru⌠thatâs a little embarrassing.â
he's so flushed, embarrassed and completely turned on, âiâm fucking you until you cry,â he grumbles, throwing you over his shoulder and walking away with you.
synopsis: you go with your roomate, nerdjo, to shop for his Pokemon cards
pairing: gojo x gn! reader
content: "pre-relationship", nerd!gojo, roomate!gojo, no prns used for reader, no use of y/n, fluff!!!, 935 words
You jolted awake, being shaken relentlessly by your roommate.
âHey! Dude! Wake up! Hey! Hello?â his voice echoes in your half asleep mind. What could possibly make him wake you like this. A fire?
You murmur, still half-asleep, âWhat?...What do you want?â
You begin to slowly lift yourself off your extremely comfortable bed and blink yourself awake. Looking at Gojo, who's hovering over your bed, you see his wide, excited eyes.Â
âThe Gamestop near us restocked their Mega EvolutionâPitch Black Pokemon TCG set. We need to go before the scalpers come!â
You stare at him. He might as well just have yelled at you in a mixture of Pig Latin and German. Whatever he just said, you have no idea what it meant.
You groan as you throw your legs over the side of the bed, âWhatâŚtime is it?â Your voice is gravelly, still dehydrated.
â6AMâHurry up! Get dressed!â
Before you could even fully stand up, Gojo tosses a pair of jeans right at your face.Â
âNot even a good morning,â you mumble to yourself as you begrudgingly throw on whatever clothes are closest to you. Itâs not like the basement-dwellers at the Gamestop will care about what you're wearing.
After a few minutes, youâre spinning your car keys on your finger. Sadly, youâve somehow become this guy's personal chauffeur. Gojo was already waiting next to your car parked outside.
You sigh as you drag yourself into the car. A full hour of your already puny life is going to be wasted opening Pokemon packs with this nerd on the floor of a Gamestop.
âSoâŚwhat are you going to even do with these cards once you get them?â you ask as you put the car into reverse.
âWell, I put them in this toploader binder to keep them safe.â
Your brow furrows, âAnd thenâŚ?â
âWhatddyaâ mean âand thenâ?â he asks as if you personally insulted everything he lived for, which, to him, is basically what you did.
âI meanâŚthereâs nothing more to it?â
âI guess some people actually play the trading card game. But there's not really any tournaments near us.â
âSo itâs just glorified gambling where all your spendings sits in a binder and collects dust?â
âIt doesnât collect dust! I look at them all the time, I swear!â
âYou didnât deny the gambling part.â
He scoffs and crosses his arms.
âAlright,â you say as you pull into the mall parking lot, âWe made it to the casino.â
He grumbles as he gets out. You follow suit.
Almost instinctually, Gojo treks through the busy mall as if he had a primal instinct telling him exactly where the Gamestop was. In under five minutes, you were already there.
Entering the Gamestop, youâre greeted with the smell of must, old carpet, and something unidentifiable, probably the odor of the several unshowered men in this store.Â
âThere it is!â he rushes over to the stack of shiny, plastic packs on the shelf full of other playing card sets. Bending over, he reaches to the very back of the stack, grabbing three packs of cards. You look down at the price tag stationed below the stack. 9.99 per pack.Â
You exhale slowly, âYou know thatâs like $30, right?âÂ
He nods, completely aware of the amount of money heâs wasting on his glamorized spending.
You both walk up to the checkout. Gojo places the packs on the counter. As the cashier rings up the cards, you pull out your card. This doesnât go unnoticed by Gojo.
âStopâstop that,â he softly pushes your hand away from the register, âIâm fine,â he chuckles.
You quickly slide your card on the payment terminal before he could stop you, âItâs okay, Gojo,â your lips quirked into a smile as you put your card back into your wallet, âI like seeing you happy.â
He reached to rub the back of his neck, a nervous habit he developed when he got embarrassed but didnât want to show it.
âThanks,â he whispered, picking up the Pokemon packs. He hands you the first pack, âYou open it, since you know, you paid.â
âReally?â You really were surprised; he loved opening these things, treating them like they were his own newborn children. âOk then,â you begin to unwrap the pack, starting from the back like youâve watched Gojo do.
You flip through the cards slowly, one by one. You glance for a second at Gojo. His eyes were bright with anticipation. You werenât lying when you said you liked seeing him happy. Making it to the very last card without much reaction from Gojo, you look down at the final card in your hand. You pause. Its surface was reflective and black, unlike all of the other cards you just skimmed through.
âGojo, why does this oneâlook different?â you bring the card closer to your face to read it, âMega Darkrai?â
Gojoâs eyes widened, practically popping out of his face.
âMega Darkai!?â he took the card out of your hand to confirm, âThis is at least $394!â He puts the card in the toploader he was carrying in his pocket before jumping and wrapping his arms around your neck. Your body is met with his warm frame. It felt like being pressed against a slightly soft, warm wall.
He lowers his face to whisper a gentle âI love youâ into your ear.
You laugh and you hug him back.
âLetâs get home so we can protect that thing, yeah?â you say as you release him. He nods, grinning ear to ear. Grasping your index with his soft hand, he walks with you out of the store.
a/n: yes, i had to unfortunately go on REDDIT to find out the newest Pokemon TCG pack and their prices
scar!jo who doesn't care if a scar reopens, but thinks it's adorable that you worry and do first aid on him. scar!jo who lets you trail your fingers across all his scars, one by one, gently and carefully, even if he's struggling to let you do so. scar!jo who loves when you kiss and nip at his sensitive neck scars while he's fucking you senseless.
sometimes peter needs a break from the superhero life.
sometimes he needs his, mommy. (18+)
ￍ inspo: here (@filmjules) âĄ
peter slumped against the door frame of the small, dimly lit apartment, the mask that concealed his identity now peeled off and discarded carelessly on the floor. his suit, was half-zipped down his chest, revealing the sweat-slicked skin beneath. the cityâs noise still buzzed in his veins, a series of sirens, the rush of web-slinging, and that endless adrenaline that came with being a hero. but the second he saw you waiting on the bed, legs spread in nothing but black lace, everything else faded.
you aimed a finger at him, your voice an inviting purr. âcome here, baby. mommyâs got you.â
he crossed the room on shaky legs, his hardness already straining against the tight fabric of his suit. you tugged him down onto the mattress, straddling his hips before he could catch his breath. your hands working the rest of the suit off with practiced motion, cool air hitting his flushed skin. the room smelled like you, vanilla lotion and that subtle, clean scent of your wetness. he could hear his own pulse hammering in his ears, a deafening rhythm that drowned out all other sounds.
you wrapped your fingers around his thick cock, stroking once, slow and firm, thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum at the tip. âlook at this. already leaking for mommy. you need it badly tonight, donât you?â
peter whined, hips jerking up involuntarily. âf-fuck, yes. please.â
you sank down onto him in few smooth motions, wet heat gripping him to the base. the stretch burned sweetly, your walls fluttering around his length. he felt every inch, your slickness coating him, the way your clit dragged against his pelvis when you bottomed out. you rolled your hips in tight circles, grinding down hard, and the wet sound of it filled the room. peterâs hands flew to your thighs, his fingers digging into the flesh.
âhands off,â you ordered, voice low and rough. âyou just lie there and let me take care of you, baby.â
he obeyed, arms dropping to the sheets, chest heaving. you rode him with purpose, lifting almost all the way off, then slamming back down, the slap of skin on skin sharp and filthy. your chest bounced with every thrust, nipples hard against the lace. peter watched them, mouth watering, the sight making his balls draw up tight.
you leaned forward, palms on his chest, nails scraping over his nipples. âyouâre throbbing inside me, baby. mommyâs pussyâs got you right on the edge already, huh?â
âyesâ fuck, mommy, please let me come,â he gasped, voice cracking. sweat slicked his forehead, he could taste salt on his lips when he licked them, your scent was everywhere now, thick and musky, mixing with the smell still clinging to his discarded suit.
you slowed your movements, grinding in lazy movements that kept him buried deep but delayed the pleasure he craved. every time his cock twitched, you clenched around him, squeezing just enough to make his vision blur. ânot yet. beg prettier.â
peterâs thighs trembled beneath you, the denial hurt in the best way, pressure building at the base of his spine, leaving his balls aching. âplease, mommy, iâve been good. iâll do anything. just let me fill you up. i need it so badâ your pussyâs so tight, iâm gonna lose itââ
you picked up the pace again, riding him hard and fast, the headboard knocking the wall. your inner walls twitched, milking him with every stroke, peterâs breath came in ragged pants, he could feel the slick mess you both were making, your juices running down his shaft and over his balls. the wet sounds grew louder, your clit rubbed against him on every movement, and he watched your face, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, that little crease between your brows.
âmommyâs close,â you panted, voice breaking into a moan. âyou feel that? youâre gonna make me come all over this cock, and then maybe, maybe, iâll let you finish.â
his muscles locked, every feeling in his body reacted. reaching between you, your fingers circling your clit while you bounced, the sight of you touching yourself on his cock nearly undid him. he felt you start to flutter, then clamp down hard as you came, a gush of wetness soaking him, your cry rough and raw.
only then did you lean down, lips brushing his ear. âcome for mommy. now.â
the permission hit like a wave. peterâs hips snapped up once, twice, and he spilled deep inside you with a broken sob, cock pulsing thick ropes that you milked out with slow, purposeful rolls of your hips. the orgasm ripped through him endlessly, his vision fading at the edges. he felt every pulse, every squeeze of your pussy wringing him dry, the heat of it flooding back around his shaft.
you stayed seated on him, rocking gently through the shock, fingers stroking his sweat-damp hair. peterâs chest heaved, eyes glassy, the chaos of the city finally quiet in his head. all that remained was the throb of his spent cock inside you, the sticky warmth between them, and your soft, satisfied hum.
âgood boy,â you whispered. âmommyâs got you.â
⥠enjoyed reading? if you'd like to support my writing, my ko-fi is linked in my pinned!
thinking about subby!peter who canât help but cry whenever you touch him, desperate for any contact after years of being alone with only his hand to give him any satisfaction. when you wrap your hand around his leaky, achy cock for the first time in years, he feels like heâs gonna cum on the spot. but itâs when you put your mouth on him that he actually does.
immediately rushing out apology after apology, âfuck, fuck, iâm sorry. you justâgodâyou feel so good,â as his warm cum spurts down your throat. obviously you knew this might happen, so you were prepared to swallow it all down, watching in content as his face blooms an even darker shade of red. you donât stop, even when you see the tears start to well in his eyes, it just makes you want to keep going until he literally canât take it anymore. poor peter hasnât had this in years, he deserves to be sucked dry.
even as heâs pushing your head down, sobbing more and more apologies while forcing his entirely too thick cock down your throat, youâre in control. he knows it. he knows youâre just being so so nice and letting him feel like he has any control over this. he wouldnât know what to do with it if he actually did, though. thatâs why he needs you to guide him. he needs you to keep milking him, jerking him off, even as his salty tears roll into his mouth and his hips are shaking as his cum is spewing all over himself, making a huge mess that heâll have to clean later.
when you coo the words, âneed a break yet, baby?â peter is inhumanly quick to shake his head and cry out a series of nos. âno, no, no. please donâtâplease donât stop. i can take it, please. i promise. iâll be good, just please keep going.â and who are you to deny him of his pleasure? heâs feeling too good to stop, and itâs probably the sexiest thing youâve ever seen. an independent, strong, hot fucking superhero, begging for you to keep going.
masterlist
note weâre just gonna pretend that the picture isnât from the context it was... ok?
âď¸ warnings: pre-brand new day canon compliant, fluff, huge idiots in love, hurt/comfort, typical depictions of violence (fighting, blood, guns, injury), near death experience, angst, light banter, suggestive themes, abandonment issues, touch-starvation
âď¸ word count: 9.6k
âď¸ a/n: there are no major spoilers for bnd in this fic !! i've only mentioned/alluded to things that were already shown in the trailers, so you do not need to watch the movie to understand.
synopsis:
You have been Spidermanâs communicatorâhis eyes for crime and the voice on the other end of a staticky little radio that took him less than an hour to build. He doesnât know your name, or what you look like. And you donât know a single thing about him. Peter tells himself itâs better this way, that keeping you at armâs length is the only way he can keep you safe. But that promise slowly frays the longer he speaks to you.
â previous fic | marvel masterlist
âAlright, Spiderman. Thereâs a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect isâuh, hello? Is this thing on?â
Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say âSpiderman.â While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.
âYep, I hear you loud and clear,â Peter says from his end. âIâm already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look likeââ
âSpiderman? Hellooo?â Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. âUghâis this radio even working? Are you still there?â
He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearerâand preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.
âIâm here!â Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.
âAh! There you are!â you say, sounding like youâre smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. âMissed your voice for a second.â
Peterâs face flushes under his mask.
âDetecting a sudden increase in body heatâspecifically around the facial regionâand a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performedââ
âShut up, Evie,â Peter mumbles, hoping you didnât hear him from the other end of the line.
He hadnât gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.
âAre you blushing, Spiderman?â
âWhatâno!â Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. âJust tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?â
You chuckle again. âOkay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsomeâif it werenât for the ski mask covering his face.â
Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.
âNowâs not the time to play around,â he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.
He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesnât need your comms in hereâhe can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, andâŚ
âSpiderman!â A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. âYouâre dead, kid!â
âOh, jeez,â Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.
âOh, and I forgot to mention,â your voice statics through. âHeâs heavily armed.â
âYeah, good comms,â Peter scoffs sarcastically.
âWho the hell are you talking to?â the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. âIs that a bomb? Drop it!â
Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?
The manâs grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.
âCome on, man. Donât shootâthere are innocent people in here!â he tries to interject.
âInnocent dead people soon, if you donât put that weapon away!â the man barks back.
âThe police are on their way,â you explain, serious this time, through the radio. âTake care of that gun now, or heâll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.â
âOkay,â Peter says. âTime me.â
âStarting now?â
âStarting now,â he confirms before switching off the radioâs microphone input.
The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shootâbut Peter moves faster.
Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesnât even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.
From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. âYou got it, Static?â
He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. âThat was fifteen seconds. Good job,â you applaud. âAnd are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.â
Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.
Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fightâif you would even call it thatâwas just a quick pit stop.
âWell, thatâs just what Iâm gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,â he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. âUnless⌠you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.â
You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.
As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.
This isnât the first time heâs teased you to get you to give up your name, and youâve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.
âVery funny,â you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. âI could say the same thing to you.â
Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. âI donât knowâI think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.â
For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luckâwhen Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thingâyou find yourself completely at a loss for words.
He doesnât even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe itâs the suit, or maybe itâs that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.
But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.
Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.
âThatâs a shame,â you tease. âI wouldâve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.â
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said itâthat sultry little rasp that even the static couldnât mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.
âDramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suitâspecifically around the groin regionâappears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousalââ
âEvie!â Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesnât help his situation at all.
âGot you to blush twice today.â You taunt. âI think thatâs a record, Spidey.â
âI wasnât blushing,â Peter lies. âAnywayâenough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?â
You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. âNothing,â you say. âBut whatâs the rush? Youâre given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard youâve been pushing yourself.â
Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. âAw, you donât have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.â
You blow a raspberry, and Peterâs smile widens.
âYeahâwell, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she canât make as many good jokes as I can.â
Peterâs tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. âAre you getting jealous of my assistant now?â
A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.
âGodâyouâre so full of yourself, aren't you?â you huff. âIâm your partnerâso itâs only natural for me to look out for you.â
âWeâre partners?â
âHavenât we been this entire time?â
Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.
Partners. He hasnât had anyone he could call a partner since everything happenedâsince he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasnât had a real, caring partner since⌠them. Ned and MJ.
And now, after all that time spent in solitude, heâs finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone heâs never even seen, whose name he doesnât even know. All he knows about you is that youâre smartâsmart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequencyâand that you live in New York. He couldâve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe youâre even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.
âSpiderman? You still there?â you ask, snapping him out of his daze.
Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so⌠small. Like you donât want to hang up, even if there arenât any crimes to report.
âIâm here,â he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. âIâm not going anywhere.â
You smile at that. He can hear it. âOkay. Good.â
The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your endâjudging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.
âHow about we play a game?â you ask before the radio falls into silence again.
Peter raises a brow under his mask. âA game?â
âYeahâevery time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.â
He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. âOkay, sure. And since I just finished oneâdoes that mean the game starts now?â
You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. âSure. Want to go first?â
Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling youâre both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.
And by letting him go first, it feels like youâre giving him the chance to set the tone.
âHm. Let me think.â He rubs his chin through his mask. âOkayâIâm ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.â
You snort. âThe first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?â
âHeyâcoffee can be fun!â Peter interjects. âNow tell me yours.â
A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. âFine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.â
The white lenses of Peterâs goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. âOhâso youâre pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?â
âWhat?â You giggle along. âIâm not! Thatâs my actual orderâespecially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.â
Peter imagines it: a girlâa pretty one, judging by your voice and personalityâordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.
âSure. And Iâd tell you to try a hot Americanoâbut based on the order you just gave me, I donât think youâd like it very much,â he jokes.
You chuckle. âNo, probably not.â
Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.
He clears his throat. âSo, uhââ
âCan I ask you something?â
You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. âSorry. Go ahead.â
âOkay,â you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever youâre about to ask. âIâve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?â
Peter pauses, confused by the question. âNo. Itâs on twenty-four sevenâjust in case something happens, you know?â
You hum softly. âI get that. But I guess what Iâm trying to ask is⌠donât you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?â
Peter stays quiet for a moment.
In truth, thereâs a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring throughâjust in case you might⌠need him.
There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isnât during consistent parts of the dayâmeaning youâre either at work or in class. Itâs usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, heâll see your receiver light up and youâll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.
Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesnât even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.
Peter finally found someone he cares aboutâand he isnât going to risk losing you.
âI⌠I guess I do,â Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. âI always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.â
You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasnât enough to buy it.
âAnd I guess I also keep it on⌠just in case you ever want to talk.â
Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasnât enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. Youâre quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.
âIn that case,â you speak softly, âIâll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.â
His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.
Peter hasnât felt this way since high school. Heâs grinning ear to earâa smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that thereâs a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.
âDonât say that,â he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. âYouâre gonna get annoyed with me.â
âWhoâs to say Iâm not already?â you joke back.
And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.
He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that heâs actually surprised Evie hasnât called him out on it yet.
He wants to make this lastâto say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.
Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.
âOh, God,â you mutter quietly.
Every hair on Peterâs arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. âWhat is it, Static?â
âThereâs an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,â you explain. âNYPD comms just flagged itâthere are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.â
Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. âHow many hostages are we talking?â
âAt least fifty. Commuters, staffâthey were trapped during rush hour,â you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. âIâm tapping into the security feed right now. Theyâre holding guns, and⌠it looks like thereâs a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.â
The wind roars through Peterâs mic as he accelerates through the air. âHow much time is on the clock?â
âIâm trying to zoom inâeight minutes,â you say. âTheyâve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.â
âAlright, no breaches,â Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. âYouâre my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.â
âThe skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,â you reply instantly. âIt leads directly into the ventilationsâhigh enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.â
âGot it,â Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.
Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.
âOkay, Iâm in position,â Peter breathes through the radio. âTime me?â
He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.
âBe careful, Spiderman.â
He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.
Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him toâhe wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.
He lands gently right in the center of the terminalâbut his plans for discretion donât last when a hostage looks up and yells, âWeâre saved, everyone! Itâs Spiderman!â
Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.
âOh,â Peter smiles. âMaking my job a lot easier. Thanks.â
Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.
The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the menâwho are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.
Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.
When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.
âSWAT is moving inâmind the doors and tripwires!â
âShit,â Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exitsâbut itâs already too late.
The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peterâs ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freezeâand a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.
Itâs quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.
âWait!â Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.
But itâs too late.
âSpiderman! Get out of there!â you cry out through the radioâright before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.
Pressure and heat slam right into Peterâs chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.
Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.
Evieâs voice sings in his ear like a taunt.
âDetecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathingââ
Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.
âSpiderman! Answer me!â Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.
He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. Itâs broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.
âPleaseâare you there? Spiderman! Check in!â
âTime, Static,â he manages to croak out.
Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. âThe ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longerââ
âWhatâs the time, Static?â he repeats with a wet cough.
You suck in a sharp breath. âFour minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!â
âPeter,â he croaks, coughing up more blood.
âW-what?â you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. âYouâre breaking out.â
âOur little gameâremember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,â he wheezes, fighting for air. âMy name is Peter Parker.â
A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.
âStatic? Are you still there?â
âI canât hear you, Spiderman.â
The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.
On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.
ââŚwe return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,â the reporterâs voice echoes through your quiet room. âIt has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.â
You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you havenât touched.
âIn a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,â the reporter continues. âAccording to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffledâand deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.â
Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.
He woke up.
He survived.
You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that heâs been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to knowâbecause you felt like that mightâve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.
A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesnât mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. Youâre not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.
You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.
Your receiver light blinks greenâit has been on this entire time.
For the past seven days, youâve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that youâll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you wonât miss him if he calls.
A few more days pass, and youâre sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like youâve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.
Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you itâs 3:41 in the morning.
With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair backâbut the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.
A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.
You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.
âHello?â you say, your heart racing. âHello? Is someone there?â
The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that youâand whoever is on the other lineâare connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.
ââatic?â
That voiceâso familiar, so gentleârings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. Youâve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.
âStaâtâic,â Peterâs voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clearâclearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. âThis is Spiderman. Are you there?â
Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.
âOh my God,â you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. âYouâre okay. Youâre here. Thank God. IâI thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospitalâI hoped you were okay. Iâve been waiting for your call all week. Iââ
âHey, hey,â Peter coos softly on the other end. âItâs okay. Iâm here. Iâve been here the whole time. Iâm not going anywhere.â
You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like heâs lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.
âWhere have you been?â you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. âWhy didnât you call sooner?â
âI know, I know⌠Iâm sorry,â Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. âMy suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.â
A shaky breath leaves his lips. âWith the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldnât be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding itâI even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.â
You let out a wet, teary laugh. âSo thatâs why you sound like that.â
You can picture him grinning on the other end. âA lot better, huh?â
That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.
âI missed hearing your voice.â
Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, youâre collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.
âI missed hearing you, too. Youâd better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely canât bear losing you forever,â you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.
Peterâs grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. âIâll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you donât lose me.â
You smile into your pillow. âGood.â
A comfortable silence settles between you twoânot the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.
âWere you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?â Peter asks softly.
You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. âYou were cutting out too much.â
He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.
âIt was about our gameâthe fun facts one,â he says, his voice careful, like heâs walking on eggshells.
You couldnât catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himselfâa piece he wanted you to have in case he didnât make it.
You hold your breath, waiting to see if heâll offer it up again.
âAnd since I completed a successful mission,â he continues, swallowing hard. âI thought Iâd continue with that trade.â
You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confessionâfor him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.
Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.
âDo you⌠have a boyfriend?â
You blink.
The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to sayâa big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his lifeâthat was not on your bingo card.
âWhat?â you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.
Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.
âO-or girlfriend! SorryâI shouldnât have assumed! I mean, you donât have to answer! Itâs justâitâs a fun fact! A personal fact! Thatâs how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something⌠orââ
A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.
âSpiderman,â you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.
âYeah?â he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.
âNo,â you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. âNo boyfriend. No girlfriend.â
A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.
âOh, thank God,â he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesnât catch itâbut you hear it anyway. âI mean⌠cool. Thatâs cool.â
You snort. âOkay. You know how the game goes. Now itâs my turn to ask.â
âDo I have a girlfriend?â he prompts.
You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. âOr boyfriend. I donât judge.â
A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. Heâs quiet for a few seconds, making you think heâs just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.
âIâum⌠I used to have this girl,â he murmurs. âWe were dating for a whileâbut it didnât work out.â
The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man whoâs been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldnât even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know itâs not your place.
âWhat happened?â The words spill out before you can stop them.
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.
âWell, thatâs something youâre gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,â he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and youâre more than happy to fall right back into it.
You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.
âDeal. But letâs not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,â you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. âI just want to keep you all to myself tonight.â
You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.
But Peter laughsâa full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. Itâs a laugh that never fails to make you smile.
âUsually, Iâd oppose the idea of ignoring crime,â he says softly. âBut for you? Iâll stay. For as long as you want me to.â
You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. âGood. Goodnight, Spiderman.â
âGoodnight, Static.â
And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each otherâs breathing lull you to sleep.
Itâs a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.
Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.
The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone insideâwhich is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.
He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.
âSorry,â Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.
Standing inside the coffee shop is a face thatâs all too familiarâsomeone he hasnât seen in a long, long time.
Ned.
Peterâs feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isnât alone.
Heâs standing next to a girlâa pretty girl, at that. And one he doesnât recognize.
Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.
âAnd for the missus?â The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.
You glance up at the menu board, though you donât really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.
âCan I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanillaââ
Peterâs heart stops.
ââone pump of regular hazelnutâŚâ
That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.
âAnd two scoops of vanilla bean powder,â Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.
ââŚand two scoops of vanilla bean powder?â you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.
The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture heâd built in his headâexcept for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.
The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.
The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldnât wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.
His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.
âHey,â you smile politelyâa soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. âAre you using this chair?â
This is it.
Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.
Hi, Iâm Peter. Peter Parker. The guy youâve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.
Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his earâidentical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.
Just in case either of you calls in.
Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeperâadding a slight rasp for good measure.
âNo, go ahead.â
That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. âCool, thanks.â
You slide the chair up to the table youâre sharing with Ned, and just like thatâunaware that youâve completely flipped his world upside down and inside outâyou fall right back into conversation with him.
The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.
He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.
Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He canât reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that nightâwhen he was trapped under rubble and bleeding outâwas just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that heâs here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he canât risk letting you into his world.
Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter canât afford to lose you.
Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like heâs already lost you anyway.
âSo, tell me more about this party.â
âWell, itâs a housewarming party,â you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. âTwo of my friends moved into an apartment recentlyâso weâre celebrating tonight.â
Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in withâif not him.
âThatâs⌠cool,â he finally answers in an indifferent tone.
You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. âYeah. And since Iâll be busy socializing, I wonât have my receiver on all night. But Iâll try my best to check in with you.â
Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. âIâm a big boy. You donât need to check up on me.â He glances at the window. âIâm more worried about you, though.â
You step aside for a pedestrian whoâs rushing past. âWhat for?â
Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. âWell, youâre a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where youâre at.â
You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.
âDonât worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because Iâm a woman, then Iâll never get anything done in this city.â
Youâre greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.
âDo you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?â You ask Peter.
The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.
Peterâs cackle draws you back in. âAnd youâre drinking?â
You canât help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two casesâone in each handâand shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. âYes, because Iâm an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. Itâs Friday night.â
A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himselfâa night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.
You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.
âOkay, I gotta head out. Iâll check in with you later tonightââ
The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.
âYou know Spiderman?â the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.
A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.
âStatic? Who is that? Whatâs happening?â
âYou must be mistaken,â you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. âIâI donât know Spidermanââ
âBullshit!â the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.
You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peterâs voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.
âTell me your locationâwhere are you? Iâm comingâ!â
â103rd Street,â the man answers with a grin. âThatâs where your little lady is atâon the floor, bleeding outta her lip.â
The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where youâre prone on the ground.
âDonât lay a fucking hand on her,â Peterâs voice crackles through the wind and speaker. âWhat do you want from me?â
The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.
âThatâs the thing with people like you who try to play hero,â the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. âYou stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we arenât the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to surviveâand itâs people like you who keep stopping us.â
He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.
âWeâre just trying to eat,â the man spits into the receiver. âSo if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick paydayâthatâs not evil. Thatâs just survival. Thereâs a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.â
The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.
If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But heâs not holding just any person. Heâs holding youâthe only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isnât a single shred of restraint left in Peterâs mindânot when your life is on the line because of him.
âI donât give a shit about your excuse,â Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. âIf you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to Godââ
âItâs too late, Spiderman.â
From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.
The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peterâs eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.
The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesnât hit you.
Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his angerâso he settles with his fists.
One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the manâs face, tainting Peterâs suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.
âSpiderman, stop!â
You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.
Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isnât done. He canât rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.
He canât rest until he knows, for certain, that youâre safe from danger.
He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for goodâuntil your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.
âStop! Itâs overâitâs done,â you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. âThe police are coming.â
Peter looks around, his chest heaving.
Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.
He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.
âHold on,â he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.
You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. Youâre too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding youâthe very man youâve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.
He doesnât look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.
Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly youâre holding him.
He doesnât say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.
Your eyes donât leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man youâve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isnât his first time seeing you.
There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like thisâunder circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.
âIâŚâ your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.
Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.
âLook at what he did to you,â his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like itâs all his fault.
You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. âIf Iâd known I was going to see you tonight, I probably wouldâve worn more makeup.â
You try to joke, but he doesnât laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.
âI canât believe youâre right here,â he breathes. âAnd Iâm holding you.â
Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means heâll have to say goodbyeâand he doesnât know when heâll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.
For the first time in years, it feels like heâs found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves thisâeven if it's just for a few minutes.
âYou know what I look like,â you smile painfully. âYet, I still donât know a single thing about you.â
Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. âIâm sorry.â
You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it upâgiving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants toâholding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.
As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. âI canât.â
With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.
The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touchâthe first grace of warmth heâs felt in forever.
His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lipsâbruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.
His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like heâs in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.
You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.
Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. âI wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.â
âI am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmthââ
âShut up, Evie.â
You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.
âA successful mission,â you smile up at him. âYou know what that means.â
He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that youâre hearing it up close for the first time.
âYouâre right. You go first.â He prompts.
You tell him your name, but he doesnât react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smilesâalmost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though heâs known your name all along.
Peter repeats it softly. âItâs beautiful,â he says.
Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.
You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. âWhatâs yoursââ
Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.
Peterâs senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.
Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.
âOh my god, there you are!â Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. âWe were wondering why you werenât answering our callsâthen someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Streetâwhich is where you were goingâand wait, is that Spiderman?â
Standing right behind him is MJ.
âYou scared us!â she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.
âIâm okay, you guys shouldnât have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,â you motion behind you, âthis isââ
Peter doesnât even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.
âGod,â Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. âSee! Itâs like I told you, MJ! Heâs like Peter Panâif you really believe in him, heâll show up!â
âOkayâyou know, your fanboying really freaks me out,â MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. âAnyway, Iâm glad youâre okayââ
A shudder passes through your body.
My name is Peter Parker.
âPeter,â you whisper with a sudden realization.
đ first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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