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❊ fluff ❆ angst
enjoy!
last updated: 14th February 2022
𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒
.・゜゜・ harry styles ・゜゜・．
sunflowers ❊
→ harry is very much in love with his little family.
taken ❊ ❆
→ harry finally found the love and happiness he was looking for. but someone from his past comes back and he’s reminded of the pain he went through.
this love ❊
→ mornings are a beautiful time to reflect how much love you and harry have for each other.
1:32 AM ❊
→ a series of moments in yours and Harry’s life together that seemed to occur around 1:32 AM.
better ❆
→ he’s been neglecting you and that takes a toll on you.
delicate ❊
→ two lonely people find solace in each other for the night and something delicate blossoms from it.
it’s golden ❊
→ Harry brings you to the Grammy’s and it all ends in a wonderful night.
champagne problems ❊ ❆
→ Harry and Y/N meet again after things fell out for them.
lovin’ on you ❊
→ Harry loves loving on you and wants to take you on a date.
mother’s day ❊
→ it’s mother’s day and harry makes you breakfast in bed, no thanks to your little baby’s help.
halo ❊ ❆
→ Harry doesn’t believe in love and Y/N tries to figure him out.
stupid girl ❊ ❆
→ it's a silly thought for you think something fake could turn into something real.
stupid boy ❊
→ Harry comes to his sense and realises it's always been you all this time.
kissy ❊
→ you simply just adore Harry and his kisses.
music in me ❊
→ Harry and Y/N are both pining for each other but don't know how to tell the other.
doughnuts ❊
→Harry loves a lot of things; his amazing wife, his beautiful babies, and doughnuts.
love in venice ❊
→ there’s nothing more romantic than an evening stroll down the streets of Venice as Harry and Y/N figure out how to tell each other how they feel for each other.
italy waters ❊
→ in where Harry and Y/N enjoy a little swim under Italy’s summer sky.
cheesecake ❊
→ in where it’s her birthday and Harry just really loves his girl.
a broken forever ❆
→ she thought they had secured their forever, but he’s fallen for someone else.
clandestine meetings ❆ ❊
→ an illicit affair looked simple at first, until Harry falls hopelessly and truly in love.
my love, my life ❊
→ on the morning of his 28th birthday, harry reminisces meeting the love of his life and the life they made with each other.
sweet valentine ❊
→ on the special day of love, Harry asks his love a hypothetical question.
.・゜゜・ tom holland ・゜゜・．
home ❊
→ in which Tom is home from work and you can’t sleep.
oceans ❊
→ in whereby two lovers profess their love for one another in the oceans at sunset.
on a summer afternoon ❊
→ Tom and y/n enjoy nice day out on their Sunday afternoon.
.・゜゜・ peter parker ・゜゜・．
park walks and coffee ❊
→ today is a good day for coffee, walks in the park and accidently confessing your feelings to your best friend.
i got you ❊
→ you’re never not worrying about Peter coming back.
take care of you ❊
→ even after having a bad day, Peter’s always there to comfort you.
don’t be happier ❆
→ all y/n wants is for him to be happy. but not more than he was with her.
Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
Summary: When Doctor Strange's spell made the whole world forget Peter Parker, something went wrong (or very right). Now, you're the only person who remembers him. But it doesn't stop the nightmares from invading Peter's mind about the day where he might wake up and you don't remember him.
Warnings: Panic attacks, nightmares. This does not contain spoilers for Brand New Day but the Peter in this is Brand New Day Peter!
Word Count: 2.1k
A/N: I had an idea for this one the other day and it took me a few days to work on it as it's a pretty intense fic but I'm really proud of how it turned out in the end so I hope that people enjoy it even if it tears your heart out. Title is taken from the song The Anchor by Bastille (one of my favourite songs of all time).
Peter has tried to keep the nightmares a secret from you.
It’s been easy up until now. You’ve only been living together for a few weeks, finally giving up on both of you paying rent on your own apartments in the city when you spend half of your time at each others places anyway. It wasn’t hard for Peter to keep the nightmares to himself when most nights, he was sleeping alone.
What was easier now was waking up and seeing you beside him. He’d lay there staring at your sleeping form, noticing the way you breathed, how you nuzzled your head into the pillow, memorising everything about you as he tried to calm his breathing. Just incase none of this was real and the nightmares were real instead. The nightmares often took you from him.
You weren’t even supposed to be here.
Doctor Strange’s spell had done what it was supposed to do. The whole world forgot about Peter Parker. But something in the spell had gone awry and now you were the only person in the world who remembered him. Peter would never take that for granted.
But the nightmares always remind him of how fragile the world can be. How as quickly as it can give something, it can be taken away.
He wakes up pretty quickly most of the time. After how many of them he’s had by now, his body knows to wake him and get him out of there as soon as possible. It’s the panic that comes afterwards that’s harder to deal with than the nightmare. The crushing darkness of his room, the feeling that everything he’d dreamt might be real. But maybe it’s how comfortable he feels sleeping beside you that keeps him there a little longer tonight, in the world where he lost you too.
You’re used to waking up when you sleep in the same bed as Peter. There have been several times when you’ve slept over at his apartment and he’s gotten an alert on his phone in the middle of the night, causing him to spring out of bed, grab his suit, press a quick kiss to your forehead and go off to do what he does best. But what wakes you up tonight is different.
It’s the sound of whimpers that clue you in to the fact that something isn’t right. Still half asleep, you turn over, blinking your tired eyes to look at Peter. He’s laying beside you, sweat coating his body, head moving side to side. You hear the whimpers for what they are now. Murmurs of “No, no, no.”
Dread fills you. “Peter,” you mutter, sitting up in the bed and reaching out a hand to place on his shoulder to try and gently shake him awake. “Peter, wake up. You’re having a nightmare, sweetheart.”
His eyes fly open, staring up at the ceiling for a split second before looking right at you. He murmurs your name and before you can even think about replying or to ask if he’s okay, he’s wrapping his arms around you and pulling you back down to the bed and into his chest. His body is warm and slick, still coated in sweat that you’re sure would have soaked through a shirt had he been wearing one.
“Are you real?” Peter whispers against your head. “Please tell me that this is real.”
Your heart cracks. “It’s real, Peter. I’m real.” You don’t even know if he can hear you but you try to make your words as loud as you can through the sudden feeling of thickness in your throat. You’ve never seen him like this before.
You can feel his heart racing and slowly you become aware of the fact that his breathing is quickening too.
“Peter, hey,” you gently try and push back from him, though his grip is still tight on you, clearly trying to convince himself that you are real. “Tell me what’s going on.”
His grip loosens enough for you to pull away a little. You reach up a hand to stroke his cheek. His eyes are screwed shut, breathing coming in small bursts. You recognise it for what it is immediately.
“Can you sit up with me for a second?” You whisper, moving to sit up and feeling immediately relieved when he listens to you and sits up too. “I think you’re having a panic attack, sweetheart. Can you open your eyes for me?”
You move to sit a little closer to him so he can see you in the dark room, only lit by the sliver of moonlight coming through the curtains. You reach up and swipe away a tear as it falls from his eye.
“Peter, open your eyes, sweetheart,” you try again.
His eyes slowly open and the sight of them so full of tears breaks your heart even more. That, combined with his still heavy breathing and the fact that he hasn’t uttered a word since he first woke up, worry you even more.
You reach down to take his hands in yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Can you breathe with me, Peter? In for four, out for four, okay? I’ll do it with you. Ready? One, two, three, four…”
Relief fills you as Peter starts to try breathing with you. It’s difficult at first but the more you count out loud, the more you do it with him, the better he becomes at it. His breathing starts to slow and even though there are still tears streaking down his cheeks, it’s progress.
You keep counting for a few minutes even after his breathing has slowed and the tears stop falling. Your hands don’t let go of his, though. You still want to keep holding him, anchoring him to the real world for as long as he needs it, even if he hasn’t asked you to.
“Are you okay?” You eventually ask, voice soft.
Peter nods once and then shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut again. You can’t help but feel the need to get closer to him so you make the split second decision to move to straddle his lap, letting go of his hands briefly to rest them on the sides of his neck, stroking your thumbs back and forth over his skin.
“That was a nightmare, wasn’t it?”
He nods again, hands moving to rest on your waist and pull you a little closer to him. “They’ve been happening for a while,” he replies, voice a little croaky from the tears and the panic attack. In the past, he’s been known to scare himself awake with a scream. Had he done that tonight? No… no, tonight your voice had been what he’d heard when he’d awoken. Your voice and your touch. You had cut through the noise. “And the panic attacks afterwards.”
“You’ve never said anything,” you frown. You’re not disappointed in him. You think you understand why he kept them to himself. But knowing he’s been struggling like this for a while and you’ve been unable to help him hurts a little.
“I didn’t… I didn’t want to seem weak to you,” he admits, meeting your eyes. His eyes are still full of tears, you notice. “I shouldn’t be having nightmares. Not when it was my choice.”
“Everyone has nightmares, Peter. I’d never think you’re weak for having them.”
Peter shakes his head again. “Not nightmares like these,” he continues. “These ones… they’re different. It’s not just nightmares like I used to have. About the blip or about losing fights or… about Aunt May. These ones…” He drifts off, closing his eyes again.
“You can tell me,” you hum, stroking your thumb over his skin again.
“In these ones, you forget me too,” he manages. “I wake up one morning and you’re asking who I am, why I’m in your apartment, in your bed. Or I come home and you tell me to get out of your apartment or you’ll call the cops. Or I try and text you and the message bounces back to me because I’m not in your contacts.”
Tears start streaming down his cheeks again as he tells you about his nightmares. They’re coming too fast for you to stop this time, even though you try. Even though there are similar tears tracking their way down your cheeks too, now. He’s been dreaming about you forgetting him. About Doctor Strange’s spell working on you, like some kind of delay. And you had no idea about it up until now. It’s been over a year since the day that spell worked. Has he been having these nightmares ever since then?
“Peter, I’m not going to forget you,” you sniff, removing one of your hands from him just so you can wipe your own tears from your face this time. “If the spell was going to work on me, it would have worked by now. But it didn’t. It didn’t and I’m still here.”
Peter blinks, finally looking back at you. “How can you be sure of that?”
You wish you could tell him with certainty that you were sure. That there wasn’t a part of you that thought that one day, the spell would take effect. That the delay would finally wear off and you’d forget him entirely. You’d had similar nightmares in the past, but none to the extent that Peter has clearly been having.
“We can’t be sure of anything, Peter,” you admit softly. “But we can be sure of right now. And right now I’m here, and you’re here and we’re together. And I remember you and I still love you like I have all along. That’s not going to change.”
For a few moments, Peter does nothing but stare at you. Even though in the dark room, he can’t see you that well. He focuses instead on what he can feel. The weight of your body atop his. The warmth of your legs over the top of his. The feeling of your shirt and your skin where his hands sit on your waist. He reaches one of his hands up to cup your cheek, wet with tears like his are too. His thumb moves to trace your lips. He works on calming his breathing again as he takes in the feel of you. You’re here. You’re real. You remember him.
He can’t help but lean forward, then, and capture your lips in his. His hand moves to hold behind your neck as he kisses you, still focusing on how you feel, how warm your lips are, the taste of the salt of both of your tears mixing together, the faint taste of your lip balm, the one you always put on before bed. He memorises feelings like this for the next time he wakes up in a panic from a nightmare like the one he’d just had. Feelings like these to remember what it feels like to have you, to hold you, to love you and to have you love him back just as deeply.
Eventually, when he needs to breathe again, he pulls away regretfully from your lips. He rests his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry I woke you, love,” he mutters.
“I’m not,” you say. It’s the truth. You’d rather be here with him awake now than sleeping beside him, unaware of everything he was going through and unable to help him. “Wake me up next time it happens, please. Every time it happens.”
Peter knows better than to argue with you. “Okay,” he agrees. “I will.”
The two of you sit there again for a few moments, soaking in the feeling of each other. You feel closer. Things have changed in your relationship tonight. For the better, you think.
“You think you can try and sleep again?” You ask.
He nods, if only for your benefit. He doesn’t know if sleep will come for him again tonight, but he’ll happily lay with you in his arms, feeling the way you breathe and letting you sleep beside him. “Yeah, I can try.”
Before you can move off of him to lay down again, he leans forward to kiss you again. The kiss is deep but gentle, soft but firm. It’s another attempt to memorise the way your lips feel against his. Something to think about as he tries to sleep again beside you. Something to hold onto.
He wraps his body around yours as you both lay back down to try and sleep again. He makes sure the blanket is pulled back up around you to keep you warm and presses a soft kiss behind your ear as you snuggle back into him.
“I love you,” he whispers, needing you to hear the words since he didn’t say them earlier.
“I love you too, Peter,” you reply quietly. “I’ll love you forever.”
peter parker x fem!reader, brand new day
an unexpected visit from spider-man distracts you from your typical routine of arguing with your noisy upstairs neighbors in your head. (3.1k wc)
read part two!!
notes: fluff, upstairs neighbor peter, nursing him back to health, descriptions of injuries / self-administered stitches
It didn’t take long for you to get tired of the nightly noise from the apartment above you. The constant whirring of some sort of machine, the conversations between a (you presumed) young man and older woman, not to mention the bumps and thumps. When you first moved in it was easy to ignore. Hell, you’d put up with a noisy neighbor if the rent stayed as low as it was, but now you were a seasoned enough tenant that you felt like you could complain. The thought was tempting, especially on noisy nights. You’d play out the confrontation fantasy in your head. A braver you would knock on the door, the asshole would answer, and you’d get to chew him out. He’d be rude enough that you wouldn’t feel guilty about it but he would ultimately retreat and never make a noise again. This scenario played out almost every night in your head while you laid in bed with little variations based on the noise level. Sometimes it involved a firm slap to the face. Other times, when his voice sounded weak over the whizzing of whatever he was doing up there, you felt softer. You’d show up and say something gentle like, “hey, do you mind being a little quieter? It’s almost 2 in the morning.” It wasn’t like you were trying to sleep yourself, you often stayed up late into the night doing whatever you pleased. In some ways, it was nice to have some sort of not-so-silent companion. Weirdly enough it made you feel less alone in the big city. Maybe you were being too sentimental over someone who had no idea who you were, but pretending that there was a real camaraderie between two night owls meant something to you.
Some nights even made you worry, the silent nights. Nights where your mystery neighbor would suddenly slam his window, run the shower, then presumably go to sleep. Maybe he is sneaking out and that lady is his mom, you often wondered, but he doesn’t sound that young. You hadn’t run into either of them as far as you knew so there was no way of telling. Tonight was one of those silent nights that made you wish for the safety of a complete stranger. Well, maybe not a complete stranger, he was your neighbor and make-believe kindred spirit. You couldn’t help but stay awake a little longer than you typically would, waiting for that window to slam and signify his safe return.
All of these thoughts were freely flowing through your mind as you poured another mug full of tea. There were some candles and low-light lamps illuminating your space while the news quietly played from the TV. It was a calming night, the only piece needing to complete the puzzle was that window slam. Call it neighborly concern or call it obsession, but you couldn’t relax until you heard it. Maybe I should talk to my therapist about that. I definitely have an empathy problem—
Your thoughts were interrupted by a loud thud. This wasn’t from the apartment above you, instead it came from eerily close by. Like, a few feet away close. Instinctually you ducked below your kitchen island, your blood rushing to your ears amplifying the sound of your own heartbeat. After a moment of panic, you foraged as quietly as your could in your drawer and fished out the largest butcher knife you could. Okay, okay, you got this. You are not going to die. Nobody is willing to die for the shit I’ve got in here, just go scare them off. Slowly you tiptoed to your bedroom, your mug now abandoned on the kitchen floor. You hugged the walls all the way to your open bedroom door. While the rest of your apartment was lit, your bedroom was pitch black, the perfect lighting for a burglar to hide in. Perfect.
With a rush of bravery you jumped out from behind the doorframe and flicked on the overhead light, shouting, “Whoever the hell is in my apartment get out now!” Your shaky hands held the knife out in front of you like you were afraid of it. The room flooded with light, revealing a sight you couldn’t have imagined in your wildest imagination. Standing in the middle of your bedroom was Spider-man, donned in his red and blue suit. He whipped around to face you immediately and threw his hands out in defense.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry, I did not mean to break into your apartment, I was- uh, trying to, you know what? It doesn’t matter, I’m gonna let myself out, I am so so sorry, please don’t scream.” His words tumbled out almost incoherently, his arms waving around wildly as he spoke. The knife slipped from your hand as you stood with your jaw agape. However as soon as he made his way to the window, you snapped back to your senses. With him turned to the side you could see long, dark gashes along his ribs. The closer you looked you could see they were littered all over his body and face.
“Wait, wait! Holy shit, are you alright?” He froze at that, panic taking over once again.
“I’m fine, all in a day’s work, or night’s work, whatever. Have a great one, by the way, goodbye!” When he tried to move, a wince ripped through him. You took this as your signal to march in between him and your open window.
“No, please, just wait a second. You break into my apartment looking like you just got dragged through hell. You obviously aren’t alright. Just, take a second, alright?” He turned to face you again, stilling as he considered your words. Silently, you turned away and started walking to the living room. After a moment you could hear his feet padding behind you. Your heart was still thumping out of your chest but at least you were in control of this moment. When the two of you finally got to the living room you pointed to the small but cozy living room.
“Wait just a second so I know you aren’t losing your mind. Just- just lay down on the couch,” you called out while you rushed over to your small linen cabinet to grab some towels for him to lay on. No way were you letting him stain your couch, you saved up good money for that thing. After gathering up as many as you could possibly spare to lose you began laying them out in layers over the fabric. However Spider-man didn’t budge, instead opting to awkwardly shift his weight from one foot to the other from the corner of the room.
After a moment he finally spoke up, “Are you really sure? I can take care of myself pretty well, this isn’t nearly the worst I’ve been roughed up before.” That stunned you again, a wave of sadness washing over you. You looked over your shoulder at him with a somber expression as you struggled to find the right words. It was hard to imagine that the man who protected your city day and night, no matter how big or small the threat was, going back to an empty home and patching himself up alone. You felt your heart shatter. It had to be lonely. It wasn’t fair. You let the silence simmer a moment longer.
“Well, not tonight you aren’t.” You meant to sound more authoritative but it came out too gentle, like a loving scold. Your hands smoothed over the towels with finality to ensure they were laying as flat and comfortably as possible before you moved out of the way. He hesitated one last time before finally giving in. His back hit the couch with a sharp exhale, his muscles melting into the springs as he situated. You started making your way to the kitchen when he called out to you again.
“Thank you… random lady whose apartment I broke into.” A little laugh slipped from you. Despite his condition he still could crack a joke, that was the Spider-man everyone knew and loved. Or, thought they knew, at least. Retrieving your mug from the floor along with a clean one for Spider-man you poured more fresh tea out and began searching for your first aid and sewing kits.
“You can thank me after I finish maiming you with a sewing needle… sorry you couldn’t stumble into some nurse’s apartment or something.” After gathering all the supplies you made your way back to the couch, pulling a chair up so you could sit beside his reclined figure. He sat up a bit when you did and nervously scanned over your kit. Instead of paying his caution any mind you shoved the mug into his hand.
Again, he started rambling.
“Listen, I’m really thankful for the tea and the couch but I seriously cannot let you patch me up. I mean, these wounds aren’t really the type you can sew up, not most of them at least. Plus, I heal super quick. Double-plus, I can’t let you see me, like at all.” Your hand met your forehead, pensively rubbing over your forehead.
“How about… you can fix yourself up if I just turn around while your mask is up? Maybe I could just get you some ibuprofen and an ice pack?” He let out a breathy laugh at that and nodded softly.
“Yeah, that’d be really great.”
“How about a snack?”
The fridge light poured into your kitchen as your eyes scanned through every possible option you could provide. What do you make for a local superhero who is bleeding out on your couch? From the living room you could hear the sharp hisses of someone repeatedly shoving a curved sewing needle into themselves, a noise you never wanted to hear again in your life. As that sound registered in your mind you suddenly became aware of how ridiculous this situation was.
“So, how often do you stumble into random people’s apartments?” You began pulling out ingredients for a turkey sandwich and ignored the urge to turn around and face him.
“Well this is sort of a one and done thing for me. I think I got a concussion or something, I was just swinging and… thought I was at my place, I guess.” While you weren’t paying any attention to the TV but you became aware of it when it went quiet.
“Sorry, I had to turn it off. Only thing worse than having your ass beat is watching the view from a helicopter.” It was your turn to laugh now as you finished assembling the sandwich. Then, you started packing ice into a plastic grocery bag and twisting it tightly.
“Alright, let me know when I can turn around.” After some scuffling he finally replied, “You’re good!” When you turned around he was back to his reclined position, a pile of bloody needles and thread laid out neatly on a towel.
“Jesus, that’s brutal.” He shook his head with a chuckle, you could only imagine what his expression was under the mask. Despite not being able to see his face you imagined it was handsome. There was no way someone that brave, athletic, and clearly fit wasn’t hot too. The thought made a warmth rise in your cheeks. You had always been a fan of Spider-man, even entertained thoughts of a moment like this. He didn’t have to know that, of course.
You handed him the plate which he took in his lap while he reached for the ice pack. Quickly, you pulled it out of his reach.
“Nuh-uh. You are not eating that sandwich with one hand on my couch. You eat it, I’ll hold the bag.” Deep inside you knew you just wanted to be close to him for as long as you could.
He snickered and shook his head, “You seriously are protective over this couch, lady. And no way, you’re forgetting my golden rule.” You huffed back.
“Treat others as you’d like to be treated? Isn’t that what I’m doing right now? And I have a name, ya’know.”
“I mean seeing my fa-” He froze. “Wow, I really look like an ass right now, don’t I? What is your name?”
“But that’s not fair though, right? You don’t get to know my name if I can’t know yours. That’s my golden rule.”
“Well then who am I gonna write my long-winded thank you card to? Just ‘beautiful lady who fed and pampered me?’” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice while your face grew even hotter. Instead of indulging any further you pressed the ice pack against his mask, taking a twisted pride in the hiss that came as a result. You stood above him and turned your face towards the ceiling without explanation, the implication serving its purpose. After a brief pause you could hear the shifting of his mask and feel the sensation of him chewing.
In between bites he spoke up, “I’m trusting you a lot right now, you know.”
“I’ve only known you for about thirty minutes, it’s a wonder someone hasn’t exposed you already.” He swallowed before replying.
“Well if everyone I met made me a sandwich and a towel bed I’d probably be in a bit more trouble.” Again, your mind drifted to the underlying tragedy of the situation. He probably had nobody, when was the last time someone helped him? Under the cold compress you could feel him reach past your body to retrieve his mug and take a long sip before adding, “I should probably break into more strangers’ houses.”
“Or maybe you could just knock next time.” He was quiet after that, instead focusing on each bite as he absorbed your words. It’d been a long time since he had spent time with anyone who cared about him, much less let himself be taken care of. Selfishly he wanted to prolong it as long as he could. When the final bite of his meal was gone he considered pretending to still be eating or just keep sipping his tea as slowly as possible to prolong the moment, but he knew that wasn’t right. He had already intruded enough, he was just glad you didn’t try using that knife on him or immediately kick him out. With great restraint he put the plate on the table, his arm grazing your thigh. The contact sizzled for a moment, sending a wave of electricity through your body. You could feel him pulling his mask back down but neither of you said a word. Instead, you just looked down at him. His head slowly turned up to face you as well as he slowly clasped one hand over yours, gently applying more pressure. It wasn’t an invitation to take the ice pack from you, rather a silent expression of his gratitude and a plea for you to stay just as you were. You could feel the warmth of his hand through the cool fabric of his gloves, a sensation that made your heart race. He felt it too, the smallness of your hand under his gloved one. He closed his eyes briefly, imagining what it might have felt like if he wasn’t wearing it. What it would have been like if he met you on the elevator as Peter Parker. It was true that he was concussed, but it wasn’t like he had ended up very far from home. Replaying the memory of him swinging into your window, he could see it clearly now. He had only missed his own bedroom by one floor. Both of you stayed like that for a while longer before he spoke again.
“I should probably go, I think.” You didn’t say a word, just pulled back your hand and made space for him to stand. Now that he had moved you could see the amount of blood on the towels but it didn’t cross your mind to worry about the couch. Something inside of you turned over, another wave of sadness washing over you. You would miss him, you were sure of it. You wondered where he would go. Did Spider-man have somewhere to call home tonight or would he go back out on the streets, fighting off whatever went bump in the night? He stood slowly with a groan, his free hand finding a sore spot on the small of his back. Leading the way, you guided him back to the window. It seemed right to have him leave the way he came. He took a long look around your room now that you weren’t threatening to stab him, taking note of the piles of pillows and duvets. Maybe in another world he could sleep on a bed like that next to a girl like you. He had always wondered who his neighbors were, it was hard to imagine that you had been right below him all along. When he finally got to the open windowsill he stilled for a moment, committing you to memory one final time.
“Are you sure you can’t tell me your name?” He couldn’t help himself. Sure, he knew he couldn’t return the favor, but he wanted to give it one last try. He wanted something to hold on to after tonight. You shrugged at him with a teasing shake of your head.
“You know the rules, Spider-man.” There was a pause. He didn’t want this to end, but like everything else good in his life, it had to. Slowly he lowered himself onto your fire escape.
“I guess this is goodnight then.” Your lips tugged into a frown at that. You didn’t want him to go. If you had it your way he would have slept on your couch, woken up and eaten breakfast, maybe washed himself off, anything that could relieve him for even one moment. Unbeknownst to you, he could sense that from you. Thankfully you didn’t press the offer, he wasn’t sure he could say no.
“Thank you so, so much,” he said with a softness akin to a whisper.
“Thank you, for everything you do.” Even through the mask you could tell he was smiling. Then just like that he was gone, the whizzing of webs pulling him out into the night. A deep breath left you as you stood in your now empty room. Unable to do anything else with yourself, you made your rounds through your apartment to turn off the lights. You would deal with the couch and the plates and the mugs in the morning. For now you just needed to rest.
Pulling your covers over yourself, you let yourself mull over every question that crossed your mind. Was there more danger waiting for him? Did he ever get lonely? It seemed that way to you. Your eyes couldn’t stay open another moment, but just before you teetered off the edge of sleep, you heard a familiar slam. At least he was home safe.
summary: peter parker breaks into your apartment (on accident). it's snowing. he can't see that well.
w/c: 1.3k
a/n: hellooooo it's time i started writing for peter. i needed to add another sad white boy to my arsenal. this'll have another part to it coming sooooon :)
.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ requests are open (as always), likes, comments, & reblogs are much appreciated !
The first time Peter Parker breaks into your apartment, it’s snowing outside.
It isn’t an intentional break-in, really— just an unfortunate miscalculation of floors due to limited visibility because of the snow. He only notices that he’s in the wrong apartment when he clicks the window shut, turns around, and sees you.
Your computer sits open on the coffee table, the old plush of your worn loveseat dipping beneath your weight. It seems to him like you’re in the middle of something, based on the way your fingers move tirelessly scrawling something in the notebook on your lap. It also seems like you’d barely noticed his arrival.
Peter stands awkwardly by the window, hands drumming at his sides. Should he wait for you to notice him? Should he leave before you do? He decides that it’s probably better that Spider-Man doesn’t gain the reputation of breaking into girls’ apartments and starts to pull the window open from the bottom, when—
“What are you doing here?”
He whips around to face you. You’re standing now, notebook and blanket thrown haphazardly to the floor at the sudden motion. You’ve got this shocked look on your face, because obviously it’s normal to be shocked when a masked vigilante breaks into your apartment. He curses himself internally and watches as your eyes scan the apartment.
“Is— is something going on? Am I in trouble?” You ask.
“No!” Peter interjects, and when you flinch at the volume of his voice, lowers it and holds his arms out in front of himself, “No, no! I just, uh— this is the, uh… it’s wrong.”
“It’s… wrong?” You echo.
What an idiot. He’s got such a way with words. If E.V. doesn’t play this on loop to embarrass him later, his brain will do it for her.
With a rapid flailing of his arms, he clarifies: “No! I mean, it— it’s wrong, because this isn’t my apartment.”
By the look on your face, you’re not as terrified by the intrusion as before. A small smile creeps onto your lips as you glance around, almost as if to prove his point. “Well, yeah, dude. I could’ve told you that.”
He inhales deeply. Exhales like he’s blowing away his inability to speak. Emphasizes every word like he’s trying to correct himself. “I am not in my apartment.”
At this point, you’re not as on guard as you were. Wordlessly, you sit back down, pulling the blanket over your legs and lifting the notebook from the ground. Your hand resumes its busy motion of writing in the notebook, gaze focusing back on the laptop screen that illuminates your figure.
You’ve, seemingly, gone back to work. Peter has not. He stands there like an idiot.
After a moment, you cock an eyebrow at him. “You good?”
His face is probably scarlet— not that you’d even be able to tell through the already red fabric of his mask, but it’s the pure notion of it. He opens his mouth once, twice, trying to get any semblance of a coherent sentence to tumble from his mouth. “I’m— I’m going to leave now.”
You smile— wide, genuine, a laugh huffing through your nose as you do. “See you, Spidey.”
Peter fumbles with the already open window, blindly shoots a web, and swings back out.
The second time he breaks in, it’s pouring.
He’s absolutely sure, even with the fact that he can barely see the building with the rain beating down on him, that he’s made it into the right apartment this time. There’s no way that would happen again. He’s absolutely sure of it.
That is, until his feet land on an unfamiliar floor and the smell of vodka sauce floats in the air. A spoon clatters on the kitchen counter.
“We have got to stop meeting like this.”
It’s you, wrong-apartment-girl from before. He did it again. Son of a bitch.
Footsteps pad through your apartment and as he begins to lift his head to glance around, he notices that he’s dripping water all over your floor. A thought from May creeps into the forefront of his mind, something about ice cubes and water and hardwood floors. He quickly goes to stand off the hardwood to save the floors, but then realizes he’s now leaking water all over your nice rug.
You return from what he presumes to be the bathroom or the bedroom with two green bath towels in your hands. You hand one to Peter, which he gratefully wraps around himself, and drop the other to the puddle of water on the hardwood.
“Sorry about that, by— by the way. And— about this.”
After pushing around the towel on the floor with your foot, you pad back to the kitchen and start to stir the saucepan again. “What? You mean the fact that you keep breaking into my apartment?”
“It’s not on purpose, I promise!” He stutters, hands moving so fast that the towel nearly falls to the ground. “It’s just— the weather, and I miscounted, and—”
“Relax. I’m joking.” You say, turning off the burner beneath a pot of noodles. “Would you come strain this for me? Colander’s in the sink.”
Peter, to his own horror, obeys. He walks to the kitchen, slips on two green gingham-patterned oven mitts, and watches as the pasta produces a cloud of steam above the colander.
“Rigatoni? That’s— a good choice.” He says, small, and realizes at this moment how ridiculous he must look: Spider-Man, wielding no weapon but two oven mitts, marveling at your chosen type of pasta.
“Yeah? Thanks.” You laugh, ensuring that each burner knob is set to off. A clinking of dishes sounds from behind, and as Peter turns, he’s met with two flower-patterned ceramic bowls on the counter top. “Wanna stay for dinner? I probably made too much for just me, anyways.”
At first, he’s hesitant. He broke into your apartment, and you’re asking him to have dinner with you? It’s all backwards— not that he’s ever enact it in the forwards way, anyways, but regardless.
At his lack of response, you smile and pour the strained pasta from the colander to the pot. “What, no time to eat? Old lady stuck in a tree, or something?”
He can’t help but laugh at your joke. What else has he got to do, anyways? It’s not like he’s got anyone at home to have dinner with. “I’ll have some. That’d— that’d be nice.”
Peter pulls his mask up to eat, barely above his lips. He’s cautious about lowering it in between bites as you sit across from him at your small table. He notices you stab multiple noodles onto your fork and bite down on them, fork now clean.
“So… Spider-Man.”
“So…” Peter echoes, voice trailing off slightly. “I don’t think I ever caught your name.”
“And I don’t think I ever caught yours.” You say, grinning, eyes shining as you corner him with words.
Peter huffs a laugh. “Touché.”
A rigatoni-filled silence passes while you both continue to eat. “Fine. Keep your secrets. Remain mysterious.”
“That’s the plan.” Peter grins. He gestures up and down to himself with his fork. “Masked vigilante? It’s… kinda my whole thing.”
“I get it.” You say, stabbing a few more noodles with your fork. “Anonymity is key.”
“Exactly.” He answers. After a few moments, he speaks again. “I still didn’t get your name.”
You don’t answer. You shrug, grinning as you finish off the noodles in your bowl. The way you’ve chosen to deflect the topic makes him laugh. “What? Am I just gonna call you wrong-apartment-girl forever?”
You laugh too. “Hey! If anything, my name should be totally-innocent-repeat-victim-of-home-invasions-girl!”
“That’s… something. Very wordy.”
“Well, not all of us can be Spider-Man.”
As if on cue, his phone beeps: Bank robbery. 51st street. What an appropriate reminder.
Peter stands, firmly tugging his mask back into place as he deposits his bowl in your kitchen sink. You smile at him from the kitchen table.
“Stay dry out there, Spider-Man.”
He tugs open the window and plunges into the rain once more.
summary: you are grieving someone you can't remember, while Peter is grieving someone who's standing right beside him.
haracters: peter parker x reader
contents: sad sad sad, spiderman brand new day spoilers? and angst!
word count: 6.4k
You couldn't explain why, but you lived with the persistent sensation that someone was watching you.
It followed you out of lecture halls and across campus sidewalks. It lingered in the little coffee shop in Queens where the barista had memorized your order, in the subway car after late-night movies, in the backseat of yellow cabs carrying you home from dates that left you wondering why you'd bothered in the first place. The feeling arrived without warning, settled beneath your skin, and refused to leave.
For a while, you entertained increasingly irrational explanations. Maybe someone had become obsessed with you. Maybe you had unknowingly caught the attention of the wrong person. That feeling haunted you like a nagging doubt. Andy patiently dismantled every paranoid theory until your fears sounded almost embarrassing out loud, and eventually you laughed them off with him.
But that doesn’t mean you didn’t find yourself looking over your shoulder at every corner.
The irony was that your instincts had never actually been wrong. You just weren’t looking in the right places—like up at the New York sky, among the skyscrapers and the billboard lights.
He never convinced himself that it was healthy. He wasn't spying out of jealousy or some misguided desire to haunt your life. Watching you had become a ritual born from guilt, and guilt was remarkably persuasive.
If he could see you laughing with friends, making it home after dark, walking away untouched from whatever dangers the city invented each day, then he could breathe a little easier. It was the closest thing to peace he allowed himself. Whenever Spider-Man wasn't chasing armed robbers across Manhattan or helping Captain DeWolff untangle another investigation, he always found himself drifting back to you without meaning to, settling somewhere high enough that you would never notice.
Distance had become the only promise he still knew how to keep.
There was a peculiar cruelty in witnessing someone continue living while your own life refused to move. Yours adapted to the passing months with quiet determination. New routines replaced old ones. Faces came and went. You smiled more, rolled your eyes at bad jokes, discovered new favorite cafés, complained about impossible assignments. Time welcomed you without hesitation. And that was like a stab to Spider-Man’s poor heart.
Peter remained suspended in the exact moment he had chosen to let you go.
The first year after Doctor Strange's spell was almost unbearable. Every memory the world had carried of Peter Parker disappeared as though someone had erased him from history with the swipe of a hand. His friends, the Avengers, Ned... you. Everyone looked at him with the polite unfamiliarity reserved for strangers. He had expected loneliness. He hadn't expected how loudly it echoed whenever he saw you laughing with someone who had no idea how your smile used to look when it belonged to him.
Some afternoons, fate seemed determined to test whatever resolve he had left. You'd cross paths on crowded sidewalks or reach for the same door at the same café, and he'd manufacture an awkward apology just to hear your voice for a few seconds longer. You always offered him the same courteous smile—the kind people exchange before forgetting each other entirely—and continued on your way.
Every one of those encounters demanded more restraint than fighting a supervillain.
He wanted to stop you. To tell you that none of this had been your fault. That there had once been late-night conversations, shared apartments in your daydreams, arguments that always ended with laughter because neither of you could stay angry for long. He wanted to confess that he still knew the exact cadence of your laugh, the way your hand instinctively searched for his whenever you crossed a busy street, the tiny scar near your wrist that you had forgotten existed. More than anything, he wanted to hear you say his name like it still belonged to him.
Instead, he watched you disappear into the crowd, carrying a life from which he had deliberately removed himself.
That was the wound he could never cauterize. The spell had taken your memories, but the lie had come from him. You believed the relationship had ended because he'd fallen out of love, because somewhere along the way he'd decided you were no longer worth fighting for. Peter had willingly become the villain of your story if it meant you would never become collateral damage in his.
People often imagined heroism as impossible choices made in spectacular moments.
Peter had learned it was far more ordinary than that.
Sometimes heroism meant surviving the consequences of your own decision every single day afterward.
And there wasn’t a single day in Peter Parker’s far-from-ordinary life when he didn’t regret what he’d done to you. It was a dilemma, because he knew that the only way to keep the one he loved most safe was to make you think that none of it was real.
Peter had already convinced himself that nothing would ever eclipse the day Aunt May died.
He was wrong.
Grief had settled somewhere beneath his ribs, dense and immovable, mixing with a fury that had nowhere to go. He was angry at the city, at the villains who kept crawling out of it, at himself for believing, even for a little while, that he could divide his life cleanly in two. There was no Peter Parker without Spider-Man. One identity inevitably bled into the other, and everyone foolish enough to love him eventually paid the price.
May had.
How many more people would?
Indeed, with great power comes great responsibility, and Peter learned this the hardest way.
A week after May's funeral, Scorpion found the one wound that hadn't stopped bleeding. He didn't come after Spider-Man. He came after you.
Peter still remembered every second with nauseating clarity. The skeletal frame of the unfinished building. The rain turned steel slick beneath his feet. The timer wired to the explosives flashing numbers that disappeared too quickly to comprehend. You were trapped in the middle of it all, wrists bound, blood trickling from a cut along your cheek.
He had never moved faster.
The city blurred into streaks of glass and concrete as he hurled himself between buildings, every web fired on instinct alone. He could hear the countdown long before he reached the scaffold.
Three.
Two.
One.
The explosion erased the night.
A blast of white and orange swallowed the skyline, bright enough to rival lightning. The shockwave hurled twisted beams through the air, ripped metal from its bolts, shattered windows blocks away. Peter saw your body thrown into the smoke before his mind had time to process it. He reached you on instinct, wrapping himself around you as fragments of steel screamed past his back.
Even afterward, when the ambulance lights painted the streets red and blue, one thought refused to leave him.
Milliseconds.
If he'd been one swing slower… His mind returned to that unfinished sentence more often than he cared to admit.
A few days had passed, and you were still recovering from the huge shock and the head injury. Your father, who had never truly endorsed your relationship with Peter Parker, forbade the young man from visiting you, turning him away every time he showed up with a half-smile and a small bouquet of flowers.
This couldn’t happen again. He couldn’t let your life be put at risk over and over. If anything happened to you, just as it had happened to May, he’d never be able to forgive himself.
On the sixth evening, as the sun bled across the horizon in muted shades of gold and amber, he stopped asking permission. Spider-Man slipped through your bedroom window as quietly as the wind lifting the curtains.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender. The steady rhythm of your breathing was the only sound. You were asleep, your face peaceful despite the bruises shadowing your skin, one arm curled carefully against your ribs and knowing that he had caused them left him clenching his fists.
The curtains stirred again, and your eyelashes fluttered. Slowly, your eyes focused on the red and blue figure standing near the foot of your bed. Confusion gave way to recognition almost instantly.
“Pete?” Your voice was rough from disuse. You pushed yourself upright, only to stop halfway as pain caught beneath your ribs.
Peter crossed the room immediately.
"Easy," he murmured, instinct overpowering every speech he'd rehearsed. "Don't push yourself."
He peeled the mask back over his head, revealing the cuts that still hadn't fully healed and curls flattened from hours beneath the fabric.
Relief spread across your face so quickly it almost undid him.
“You’re here.” Your fingertips brushed his cheek with impossible tenderness. "I thought..." A weak laugh escaped you. "I thought you were angry with me."
Peter frowned.
"Angry?" The word sounded almost foreign. "I'd never be angry with you."
"Then why didn't you come?"
Peter looked into your teary eyes and felt the final sound of his heart breaking.
He could have told you about the flowers. About your father's closed front door. About standing across the street some nights just to make sure your bedroom light eventually went out.
Instead, the lie began quietly.
"How are you feeling?"
You studied him for several long seconds.
"Better," you answered carefully. "Everything still hurts a little... but I'm getting there."
Peter nodded, though he barely heard you.
His gaze lingered on the bruises peeking above your blanket.
“Peter,” The fear in your voice finally pulled him back. "What happened?"
He swallowed.
“I’m sorry.”
Your expression softened with confusion. "For what?"
When your hand reached for him again, he stepped back before he could stop himself. The movement landed harder than any words.
"For all of this." His voice sounded distant, almost detached. "If I hadn't come into your life, none of it would've happened."
"Peter, that's not—"
"It is." The interruption came sharper than he intended. His eyes trembling with sorrow and tears he couldn’t shed. "You almost died because someone wanted to hurt me."
“I’m right here, Pete.”
“But you might not be, like…” May's name caught somewhere behind his teeth before he forced it out. "Like May."
You shifted despite the pain, determined to be closer to him.
“I know what you're thinking.” You sighed.
"No, you don't."
"I do." Your eyes searched his. "And if I had to make the same choice again... I'd still go after you."
Peter stared.
"I love you enough to do it again."
Peter looked away. He felt something inside him splinter.
“Are you listening to yourself?”
“Well, I…”
“No, you’re not listening. You’re saying you’d put your life at risk without a second thought—that can’t happen.”
“Well, I love you, Peter. What do you want me to say?”
For a second, he was silent, analyzing and digesting your words. Under any other circumstance, he would've laughed softly, cupped your face, and kissed you until neither of you remembered why you'd been arguing. And he wanted to. God, he wanted to so desperately.
“This isn’t right,” His voice barely rose above a whisper. “This love shouldn’t exist.”
He heard your breath rending the air into shreds. You looked at him with tear-filled eyes, your heart shattered. You blinked, waiting for him to take it back, but he didn’t.
“You… You didn’t mean that, did you? You—” You swallowed hard. “It’s not true.”
He finally looked at you.
“I do.”
"No." Tears blurred your vision. "You're lying."
"I've never been more serious." The certainty in his voice was practiced but devastation in his eyes wasn't.
You almost laughed, but tears flooded your cheeks with surprising speed.
“So..." You struggled to steady your breathing. "Every time you said you loved me..."
You searched his face for the boy who used to grin through kisses, who bought flowers for no reason, who looked at you as though he'd stumbled onto something miraculous.
"...none of it was real?"
Peter's chest burned.
"It was easier to say it because you said it first."
You recoiled as though he'd struck you.
"So you pitied me."
Peter remained silent.
“This is nonsense. Is this some kind of a joke? If it is—”
"I think it's better this way."
"You call this caring about me?"
"I want you to have a life that isn't spent looking over your shoulder."
"I want one with you."
The room fell silent again.
You wiped your tears with your sleeve, only for more to follow. Peter clenched his jaw and stepped back, because he was afraid of what he might do if he stayed there, watching you cry, hurt in every way because of him.
“So that’s it?” You swallowed a sob. “You just don’t love me? Never did?”
Outside, traffic rolled through Queens as if nothing extraordinary had happened. Somewhere below, people laughed, car horns echoed between buildings, and the city carried on with its endless indifference.
Inside, Peter watched the future he wanted collapse beneath words he prayed you would someday believe.
To confess that loving you had become as involuntary as breathing. That every dream he'd ever allowed himself included your hand in his. That you had taught him happiness could exist even after radioactive spiders, masked criminals, and impossible responsibilities. That his heart had made its decision long before he understood what love actually was.
He buried every one of those truths beneath a single lie.
"That's right."
The words left his mouth. Something inside him broke.
“You should leave.” You turned away before he could see your face completely dissolve. "I don't want to see you anymore."
Peter stood there for one impossible second, committing every detail of you to memory.
Then he pulled the mask back over his face and climbed through the window.
He didn't stop swinging until the city blurred around him. Eventually he landed on the rooftop across from your building, tore the mask off with shaking hands, and finally surrendered to the grief he'd been holding together by sheer force of will.
Across the street, your bedroom light remained on.
A few moments later, you appeared at the window, one hand pressed protectively against your injured side. You searched the rooftops as though refusing to believe he had truly gone.
Peter almost stood. Almost called your name.
Instead, he stayed hidden behind the chimney, tears falling unchecked as he watched you close the window with trembling hands.
The soft click of the latch carried farther than it should have.
It sounded painfully final, as though the last remaining door between your lives had just been locked from the inside.
It was one of those rare New York nights that felt almost restrained.
The city never truly slept, but sometimes it lowered its voice. Music drifted out of bars with their doors propped open, taxis barked impatiently at intersections, and somewhere a group of college kids laughed loud enough to make the whole block feel younger. Peter had just left May's grave, fresh lilies resting beneath the headstone like they did every week. The walk back to his apartment had become muscle memory by now.
Then his senses flared. That familiar prickle climbed the back of his neck.
You.
His head turned before he consciously decided to look.
Through the front window of a neighborhood bar, he spotted you sitting alone at the counter, one elbow resting beside an untouched cocktail. Your hair fell loosely over your shoulders, slightly disheveled from repeatedly running your hands through it—a habit you slipped into whenever you were irritated or overthinking.
Peter stopped on the sidewalk. He should've kept walking.
Instead, he stood there a second too long, feeling like some creep staring through the glass. With a quiet sigh, he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and pushed the door open. Warm air, cheap beer, old rock playing through tired speakers, conversations overlapping into meaningless noise.
He picked a stool three seats away from yours and ordered a Diet Coke despite having absolutely no intention of drinking it.
"...Yeah, because apparently ghosting people is a personality now." You rolled your eyes, absentmindedly spinning your straw. "No, Andy, he straight-up never showed. Didn't text, didn't call... nothing."
Peter stared at the bubbles floating in his glass.
"I mean, my expectations weren't exactly sky-high, but... damn." A pause, then you laughed. "Yeah. No, you're right. He's kind of an asshole."
Peter wasn't proud of himself. Eavesdropping wasn't exactly one of Spider-Man's nobler qualities. Still...
Some guy had stood you up. A ridiculous amount of satisfaction crept into his chest before guilt immediately followed behind it. You deserved better than that. You always had.
"...And don't even get me started on Charlie." Peter tried focusing very hard on literally anything else. "The dude keeps sending me dick pics like that's somehow gonna convince me to get back together with him."
Peter violently inhaled his Diet Coke.
The carbonation hit the back of his throat, and he doubled over coughing hard enough that half the drink splashed across the bar.
"Oh my God..."
You pulled your phone away from your ear and instinctively turned toward the noise. Peter was still coughing when your eyes met.
Time had a cruel sense of humor. For a heartbeat, the rest of the bar disappeared.
He saw the tiny line that formed between your brows whenever you were confused. The way your eyes searched his face with the strange familiarity people sometimes feel toward complete strangers. A loose strand of hair had fallen across your cheek.
God. You looked exactly like home.
"Sorry," Peter managed between coughs, grabbing napkins. "I—"
Peter searched for something to say in his defense. That’s when his eyes fell on the TV, where a news segment was airing a story about Spider-Man helping to apprehend a gang that was planning to rob the bank. How convenient.
“...That guy," he muttered, pointing vaguely at the news report. "Caught me off guard."
Real smooth, Peter.
You blinked once before speaking back into your phone.
"Andy, I'll call you later."
You slipped the phone into your purse and turned fully toward him. Peter immediately regretted every life choice that had led him to this bar. Up close, he noticed the dress.
Red. His favorite color had always looked unfair on you. You were supposed to be out with someone else tonight. The realization landed with a dull ache in his chest.
“Um… You good?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.
Peter looked up. For a second, words abandoned him completely.
"I... uh..." His brain had officially clocked out. "Yeah," he said, reaching for the Coke simply to occupy his hands. "Yeah, I'm good."
"You sure?" There it was. That smile. So particularly yours that made his heart ache.
"Yeah." He managed one in return. "I'm okay."
Your attention drifted toward the television. You nodded toward the screen.
"So..." Peter followed your gaze. "...big Spider-Man fan?"
His stomach dropped.
"...What?"
"You heard me." There was the faintest trace of amusement in your voice. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost when he popped up."
Peter looked back at the TV. Back at himself. Then at you.
"I, uh..." He scratched the back of his neck. "I guess he's... alright."
"'Alright?'" You laughed. "That's such a non-answer."
"I don't know." He shrugged, fighting a smile. "Feels like the city's kinda split on him."
"Oh, please." You scoffed, taking a sip of your drink. "Half this city complains when he saves them because he left webs everywhere."
Peter let out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself.
"What about you?"
"Hm?"
"What do you think of Spider-Man?"
He lifted the Coke to his lips mostly to give his hands something to do. Being this close to you felt strangely familiar, like slipping into an old hoodie that still smelled like home. It had been months since the last time you'd exchanged more than an absent-minded morning while passing each other on the sidewalk. Somehow, five minutes on neighboring barstools felt infinitely more dangerous.
You rested your chin against your palm, studying him with quiet curiosity instead of answering right away.
Peter felt his pulse pick up. Then your expression shifted. Something clicked behind your eyes.
"...Hang on. Do I know you?"
The words landed with enough force to empty the air from his lungs.
"What?" He blinked, a little too quickly. "Uh... no."
"I swear I've seen you somewhere."
Peter forced out a nervous laugh.
"I think you've got the wrong guy."
Your brows stayed knitted together for another second before suddenly lifting.
"Oh, right." You pointed at him. "You're the flower guy." Peter froze. "I've seen you at that flower shop on 43rd."
The breath he'd been unconsciously holding finally escaped.
"Oh." A tiny, almost embarrassed smile tugged at his mouth. "Yeah. Guess I am." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I... buy flowers there a lot."
Every Sunday. The words stayed locked behind his teeth.
You looked down at your drink, tracing the condensation on the glass with your fingertip.
"Whoever you're buying them for..." You smiled to yourself. "She's lucky." Peter's smile faltered. "It's kind of sad that flowers feel like this huge romantic gesture now. They used to be normal."
He stared at the bubbles rising through his untouched Coke. They aren't for a girlfriend. They're for May. The truth hovered on the tip of his tongue. If he said it, you'd ask questions. If you asked questions, he'd answer them. If he answered them...
Everything he'd sacrificed would begin to unravel.
So he swallowed the truth with another sip.
"...Yeah."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. Just unfinished. You glanced toward the front windows, where the sky had darkened into deep navy.
"Well..." You slid off the barstool. "It was nice meeting you..." A tiny grin spread across your face. "...mysterious Spider-Man fan."
Peter couldn't help smiling.
"You too."
You left a couple bills beneath your empty glass before smoothing out your dress. As you walked past him, the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air for a moment longer than it should have.
His fingers tightened around the cold glass. He stayed where he was, watching the ice slowly melt.
Maybe this had been enough. Maybe sharing twenty minutes with you—listening to you laugh, pretending to be strangers—was more than he deserved.
He counted to three. Then the bar door opened again.
"Hey."
Your voice made him turn so fast he nearly knocked over the Coke. You were standing halfway outside, one hand still on the door.
"This is gonna sound kinda weird..." You laughed at yourself. "...but my night's already a train wreck, and I'm headed to a friend's place." You looked him over for a second before adding, "You also look like you could seriously use a drink."
Peter let out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
If only you knew…
"So..." You nodded toward the street. "You wanna come?"
His heart answered before his mind could.
Every instinct he'd spent months cultivating screamed at him to walk away. Let her leave. Let this become another almost-memory. Another story that ended before anyone got hurt.
Instead, he looked at you standing beneath the glow of the bar's neon sign, smiling at a stranger you somehow couldn't stop gravitating toward.
He'd spent months convincing himself that distance was mercy. For the first time, it felt indistinguishable from punishment.
A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"...Yeah." He stood, reaching for his jacket. "Yeah. I'd like that."
The walk to Andy's apartment stretched longer than it actually was, though Peter would've gladly doubled the distance if it meant hearing you talk a little more.
You filled the silence with easy conversation, and he let you.
You told him about college, about finally being close to graduating, about how impatient you were to stop living off internships and part-time jobs. Then, almost as an afterthought, you admitted you weren't sure you'd be good enough once the real world came calling.
Peter listened without interrupting. He already knew all of it. None of that mattered now. He listened as though every sentence was brand new, committing your words to memory for a second time. It felt unfair that he still knew you this well while you'd forgotten him entirely.
You circled back to the guy who'd stood you up earlier that night, laughing at the absurdity of it more than complaining.
"I swear," you said, shaking your head, "dating in this city is actually a public health hazard."
Peter laughed.
"That bad?"
"Oh, you have no idea."
"I mean..." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "You've got a decent story out of it."
"Yeah?"
"You met a random guy who almost died drinking Diet Coke."
You laughed loud enough that a couple walking past glanced over.
"...Okay," you admitted. "That's fair."
His chest warmed. God, he'd missed making you laugh.
"It's this building."
You pointed toward a five-story walk-up squeezed between a laundromat and a deli on the corner. Music leaked through open windows before either of you even reached the entrance.
The stairwell vibrated with bass from somewhere above. By the second floor, voices echoed down the hallway. By the third, someone was arguing over a beer pong game. When you reached the apartment, the front door was already propped open, and the place overflowed with people talking over one another, red cups in hand, music rattling the picture frames on the walls.
You slipped inside with practiced ease.
Peter followed, immediately feeling like he'd wandered into somebody else's life. Over the crowd, you spotted Andy pouring vodka into a red plastic cup.
"Andy!"
He looked up instantly.
"There she is!" He crossed the apartment, wrapping you in a hug dramatic enough to make you laugh. "I was starting to think you ditched us."
"Never!"
"Good thing you didn't." He pulled back, pointing around the apartment. "This party would've sucked without you."
Peter stayed a few steps behind, hands buried in his pockets while strangers brushed past his shoulders.
"Oh?" His eyebrows shot up. "And who's this?"
You blinked. "...Wow." You looked at Peter. "I never asked your name."
For half a second, Peter's brain completely emptied.
Definitely couldn't say Peter.
"...Parker," he answered.
It slipped out before he could stop himself.
You repeated it with an approving nod. "Parker." Like you'd finally solved a mystery.
Andy stuck out his hand.
"Nice to meet you, Parker."
Peter shook it.
"You too."
"Anybody who survives hanging out with her after she gets stood up deserves a drink."
"I heard that!" you called.
"I wanted you to!" Andy laughed before clapping Peter on the shoulder. "Make yourself at home."
Peter smiled politely.
"Thanks."
You looked around the apartment before pointing toward the far window.
"Oh, you should meet Justin." Peter followed your finger. A guy in a beanie was halfway through passing a joint to someone else. "He's obsessed with Spider-Man. Like... genuinely concerning levels of obsessed."
Peter winced. "Really?"
"Yeah." You laughed. "You two would probably get along."
"Uh..."
Before he could think of a response, Andy grabbed your wrist.
"C'mon, help me in the kitchen."
"What? Why?" You rolled your eyes dramatically.
As Andy dragged you away through the crowd, you glanced back over your shoulder.
"Don't disappear, okay?"
Peter smiled before he could stop himself.
"I'll do my best."
He watched until you vanished into the kitchen. Only then did he finally exhale.
He wandered toward the dining table, grabbed the nearest beer, took one sip...and immediately regretted it. It tasted horrible. Still, he kept drinking.
Across the apartment, he caught sight of Andy saying something that made you throw your head back laughing. Peter smiled instinctively. Then, against every ounce of common sense he possessed, he focused.
The music faded. Conversations blurred into meaningless static. Your voice rose above the rest with perfect clarity.
"So..." Andy nudged your shoulder. "Where the hell did this guy come from?"
You shrugged.
"The bar."
"The bar?"
"Mhm."
"And you just... adopted the guy?"
You laughed. "He seemed nice."
Andy stared at you for a beat before bursting into laughter.
"'Seemed nice?' Girl, are you blind?"
"What?"
"He’s hot."
Peter almost choked on the beer this time. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
You looked down, trying—and failing—to hide your smile.
"...Yeah." The single word slipped out quietly. "I mean..." You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "...he is."
Peter's ears burned. For one dangerously hopeful second, his imagination outran reality.
Then you sighed. "But I'm done."
Andy frowned. "What do you mean, you're done?"
"I mean done."
You reached for a bottle opener, avoiding his eyes.
"Tonight was enough."
"The jerk who ghosted you?"
"He was just the final straw." You shrugged with a laugh that sounded far less convincing than before. "I'm tapping out for a while."
"I'll believe that when I see it." Andy snorted.
"I mean it."
"You say that every six months."
"And every six months I regret ignoring myself."
Andy opened his mouth to argue again. Instead, his eyes drifted past you.
Toward Peter. A slow, unmistakably mischievous smile spread across his face.
"...We'll see."
Peter lasted another fifteen minutes before deciding he needed air.
It wasn't the music. Or the heat. Or the stale smell of cheap liquor clinging to the apartment.
It was watching people orbit around you.
Everywhere you went, someone called your name. Someone pulled you into another conversation, another joke, another story. A guy offered to refill your drink before you'd even realized it was empty. Another rested a hand on the small of your back while talking to you, lingering just a second longer than necessary. One of them made you laugh so hard you doubled over, and Peter hated himself for noticing how easy it seemed.
This was your life now. A life that had learned how to keep moving without him.
He slipped out onto the narrow fire escape balcony, letting the apartment door swing shut behind him. The noise dulled instantly, replaced by the distant murmur of traffic and the occasional siren weaving through Queens. Cool air filled his lungs.
He wrapped both hands around his beer. It was still nearly full.
He should leave. This whole night had been a mistake. Getting this close to you again was dangerous—not because you'd remember him, but because he might forget why he'd let you go in the first place.
The window slid open behind him. A laugh drifted into the night.
"There you are."
Peter turned. You climbed onto the balcony with surprising ease, one hand holding a cigarette between your fingers.
"Hey, Spider-Man fan." He blinked. "...Spider boy."
The nickname hit him like a defibrillator. For one horrifying second, every muscle in his body locked.
You laughed.
"Whoa." You tilted your head. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"I..." Peter cleared his throat. "Sorry."
"You okay?"
"Yeah." He answered a little too fast. "Just needed some air."
You nodded knowingly.
"Same."
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The city stretched endlessly beyond the railing, windows glowing like scattered constellations. Somewhere below, somebody shouted for a cab. A train rumbled in the distance. You leaned against the railing, taking a slow drag from the cigarette.
Peter glanced at it.
"Didn't peg you as a smoker."
You looked down at it as though you'd forgotten it was there.
A quiet laugh escaped you. "I'm not."
"No?"
"I bummed one off somebody inside."
You twirled it absentmindedly between your fingers.
"I figured maybe I'd become one of those mysterious people who smoke when they're going through something."
"And?"
You looked back at the cigarette.
"...Turns out I just cough a lot."
Peter laughed. Soft enough that it almost disappeared into the wind.
"There it is." You smiled.
"What?"
"I was starting to think you physically couldn't laugh."
His smile lingered. "I can."
"Good." You nodded once. "I was getting worried."
The silence that followed felt strangely comfortable. You took one more drag before grimacing.
"Yeah..." You flicked the cigarette over the edge of the fire escape. "I hate these."
Peter watched it disappear into the darkness.
"So why smoke one?"
You rested your forearms on the railing.
"I don't know." The words came out quieter than before. "I guess I thought maybe it'd... fill whatever this is."
"You alright?"
You let out a dry laugh. "Can I tell you something weird?"
"You can tell me anything." The answer slipped out automatically. Both of you noticed it. Peter looked away first. "...I mean..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Go ahead."
You studied him for a moment before looking back at the skyline.
"I always feel like something's missing. I know that sounds kind of insane."
"It doesn't."
"The funny part is..." You smiled without humor. "Everyone keeps telling me it does."
Peter shifted closer, barely enough for your shoulders to brush.
"I don't think you're crazy."
You looked at him.
"Thanks." The gratitude in your voice felt painfully genuine.
"It started after this accident a few years ago." Peter felt his heartbeat slow. "I don't remember much." You frowned, searching for words that refused to cooperate. "I remember waking up in the hospital. My dad. The recovery. But…” You pressed your palm lightly against your chest. "...it feels like somebody tore a chapter out of my life."
His throat tightened.
"I know something belongs there." Your voice cracked. "I just..." A tear escaped before you could stop it. "...I can't remember what."
Peter stared at you. Every instinct in him screamed to tell you.
Tell her.
Tell her everything.
Tell her about late-night takeout on your apartment floor. About studying together until sunrise. About the flowers. About the first time you said I love you. About the future you built out of conversations and promises. Tell her she's mourning a life that actually existed.
Instead… He watched you wipe away the tear with the heel of your hand before forcing out a self-conscious laugh.
"Sorry."
"No." Peter's voice came out rough. "Don't apologize."
"I probably sound ridiculous."
"You don't."
"I should've moved on by now."
He swallowed hard.
"...Maybe." His chest ached with every word. "...Maybe your heart remembers things your mind can't."
The sentence left both of you in silence. You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression softened.
"I like the way you think, Parker."
He wished you wouldn't say his last name. It only reminded him of the first one you no longer knew. Peter looked down at his untouched beer. If he stayed another minute, he was going to tell you everything.
"I should go."
Your face fell almost imperceptibly.
"Oh." You nodded. "Yeah... okay."
He set the beer on the railing.
"I had a really nice time."
"You too."
The smile you offered him carried that same inexplicable familiarity you'd been giving him all night, as if some forgotten part of you already trusted him.
Peter took one step toward the window, then stopped.
"...Hey." You turned. "I hope..." He hesitated, searching for words that didn't feel like another lie. "...I hope you find what you're looking for."
You smiled. It was the smile that reached your eyes.
"So do I."
Peter held that image for exactly one heartbeat before climbing back through the window.
He didn't say goodbye to anyone else. A few minutes later, Spider-Man was swinging between rooftops again, swallowed by the same city that had taken everything from him.
Behind him, you remained on the balcony long after the music started sounding distant, staring at the skyline with the inexplicable certainty that somewhere out there, someone was missing you as fiercely as you were missing them.
have you ever tried this one? | 0.4k - @sluvaffair
hurts, but i know how to hide it. kinda like it | 5.3k - @uhhhj13iguess (neighbors, spider-like descriptors, lowkey scary, dubcon bc he's not in a clear state of mind)
brand new spidey | 2.8k - @sluvaffair
inhibitor off | 0.4k - @makeyoumine69
sensory overload | 0.4k - @cherrywineisawaltz
mask on, fuck it, mask of | 8.4k - @dearwalker (sex pollen)
✩ general smut ✩
peter cumming in his pants when you sit on his face! | 0.5k - @nobodys-s0n
down bad! peter parker who fucks like he’s mindless! | 0.7k - @nobodys-s0n
headlock | 0.3k - @carmysdoll (biceps good lord)
cumming in his pants while making out | 0.5k - @drvnkinlov
STICKY….. peter finds some solace in his neighbour | 0.4k - @herodrip (touch starved!peter & overstimulation)
small vivid memories | 1.1k - @snowynns (filming sex)
peter fucking his college gf with the mask on! | 0.4k - @glossiercheek
every day of the week | 0.8k - @pittsick
buntanteen note: peter parker, how i've missed you…i wanted to dip back into the peter parker x reader tag after years and it did not disappoint. hilariously, this account started because i wanted to read spider-man fanfiction, so this is quite full circle.
anyways, i'm just a lil kpop account now, so please don’t expect any more mcu related stuff in the future. if you enjoyed these works, please give the authors some love!! <3
synopsis. things have always come back to bite peter—just ask that radioactive spider. but when he keeps running into you, he can't help but wonder if you'd like to stick around (pun unintended).
word count. 6.2k
tags. mature content, fem ER resident reader, fluff & comedy, he fell first & fell harder (literally almost broke his arm), yearning, emotional intimacy, somno but u have to squint really hard, cunnilingus, cowgirl, unprotected piv, creampie, they freak but poetically, mentions of injuries, philosophical dialogue about deserving happiness, mild bnd spoilers
It’s karma, sings a little voice that sounds like Aunt May. What goes around comes around.
That, and a run of devastating bad luck, because what are the chances that the girl he lowballed on Facebook Marketplace is cutting his suit with trauma shears?
You can’t be more than a few years older than he is, and if you’re here operating, that means you must be some kind of savant—probably one that could get away with melting his body Breaking-Bad-style.
He knows your face, but smiling and picture-perfect and contained to a circle of pixels on his phone instead of deeply concerned and larger-than-life. He really did beat himself sick with guilt for putting up such a low offer, especially for someone who seems so nice. And now you're probably going to save his life anyway.
Great going, Peter Parker.
“More units and a crash cart on standby!” you call, and his senses surge so violently that he can feel all the noise vibrating in his viscera.
His pounding skull is equal parts plastic and cotton. There's a whirlwind of blue smearing across white, pulses of sterile light, waves of sharp iodine and sweat and stale drip coffee invading from all corners.
Peter squeezes his eyes so forcefully that undiscovered colors bloom before him. He thinks he hears a stilted, airy squeak amid the erratic beeping and shouting and equipment rattling over linoleum.
Oh. That's his breathing. Death rattle.
“Don’t croak yet, pbjparker810,” he hears you mutter, followed by a gentle finger-press of warm latex on his eyelids.
Pure white sears his brain (blackness starts eating up his consciousness); your frown is set and firm (you’re mouthing nonsense about dilations and ablations, but he can’t hear it over the sudden high-pitched ringing); and one last oh, shit hisses from his frozen voice box (he doesn't recognize it until the sedatives blaze through his overworked body like wildfire).
He just hopes he dreams.
—
Machine beeping. Keyboard. Who's breathing?
Was it real?
Maybe they look really, really alike.
Eight million New Yorkers. Genius doppelgänger. Or a smarter twin. Not impossible.
Who even accepts seventy bucks? 'S worth more than double.
A scoff laced with amusement and derision, but something tells him that it isn't aimed at anything in particular. "A little insulting, but that's good to know in the future."
Corner. Loud. Sarcastic?
Oh, no. Play dead.
Instinctively, Peter sinks into the stiff bed. More fragments pass through his head, things about how the pillow smells like chlorine bleach instead of the light citrus detergent he usually puts into the washing machine, the new LEGO set that Ned would love, the booming voice.
Does the man upstairs exist?
“Sorry,” you mutter, a grimace audible in your voice, “I’d chart in the hallway, but I don’t really wanna get pulled over by my attending.”
His eyelids are wooden. Everything's black, grey, and red-tinged, like the first glimpse of morning. He remembers that voice from before the big void of emptiness swallowed the past few...how long?
You keep typing. Do you really need to keep a chart for a guy who's planning to run off before he's formally discharged? "Couple hours. We're weaning you off the drugs."
A weak sound—awfully mangled, caught between a grunt and a whine—escapes him. Don’t tell anyone.
"You’re protected by HIPPA."
"Really numb." And dry. And stiff. Chalk must have replaced his teeth. His toes are so cold. There's a weird sensation of stitches in his back, but he can only feel the thread and not the pain.
"You’ll feel better when you wake up."
—
Peter doesn't think about it for at least two weeks.
Well—he should rephrase that.
Between sweeping up the webs plaguing his little loft and putting on the new wound dressing that someone (Frank) left ominously at his door in the middle of the night, he didn't have much time to think about anything other than getting back up. Even with a healing factor, he needs a little break, one he hasn't given himself in a long while.
But that's the thing about forgiving yourself. Someday it'll come along, even if it's years away and needs a near-cataclysm to get it kicking.
He's even tinkering on something to wipe out the asbestos so he doesn’t need to blow two hundred dollars on a pro, and his first few trials were successful. Small miracles.
The pot of chicken noodle soup simmers on the portable burner, both included in the mysterious and oddly thorough care package. Frank would rather turn into a Hobbit than admit that he dropped off a tactical duffel full of fifty types of gauze, canned food, burner fuel, electrolyte packets, and trauma shears.
Peter sips some of the broth. Salty.
Face twisting, his gaze flicks to his shelf of consumables—typically empty save for instant noodles and protein powder, but he's trying to do better with the box of organic cereal and a cluster of slowly ripening bananas.
The bag of sliced bread is empty—has been empty for weeks, he reminds himself. Sometimes the memory of golden-brown toast with spots of butter is too much to bear.
He ends up at the grocery store (a real one, not a bodega) two blocks away, weighing his options of white or whole wheat bread. Aunt May would choose the latter, pick up an avocado to go with it.
The blow of the memory hits tenfold when he thinks about sopping up Thai curry leftovers with fresh baguette bread. It’s a thought so simple, but the scent of anise and spice filling the old apartment still lingers after a dream.
“‘Scuse me.” Antiseptic, soap, a faint, pleasant earthiness under the despairing scent of a hospital wing.
“Sorry,” he breathes, quiet and surprised.
His attention drifts to the hand that reaches for a loaf of sourdough on the second-highest shelf, travels all the way down an arm clad in a long-sleeved under-scrub, and locks onto your neutral face as you check the expiration dates.
Holy shit.
“Sorry,” he says again, a little louder and more like a bid for your attention. “I want to say thank you.”
Your eyes slide over to his face. Recognition flickers with a minuscule flux of your pupils. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
It’s too quick, too flat and wrong.
“You, uh—I don’t know how else to say this, but,” Peter stammers, blinking like he needs eye drops, “you saved my life a few—” someone wheels a cart down the aisle, and he winces “—yeah, at some point.”
“Maybe that was a genius doppelgänger,” you say, offering a barebones smile as you pull a loaf from the shelf. Despite the dryness, your inflection isn’t devoid of warmth or humor. “Or my smarter twin.”
Peter's eyes squeeze shut on their own volition, stomach climbing into his throat to escape the mortification gnawing at his gut. There's a dull sting in the lining of his right cheek—canines and molars.
You've disappeared by the time he's done wrangling his demons.
—
You’re backlit blue by an overcast sunset when he sees you the next month.
We gotta stop running into each other like this. He doesn’t mean the nervous joke, and it doesn’t stick anyways, leaving him with an odd mingle of shame and embarrassment.
Really, it was a coincidence. Right person, right time, right crime.
Some guy had been barreling down the icy street with a stolen bike, and Peter had yanked him up and webbed him to the building faster than you could say ‘tracheotomy.’
(He’s very proud of knowing that word, alright?)
You had muttered a quiet, stunned thanks, eyes wide with adrenaline and a freeze-response, and of course Peter had to break that reverie like the loose cannon he is.
Now, you just regard him with a vaguely skeptical look and a tight angle of your mouth as the neon sign behind you flickers. Peter fidgets with the small tear at the wrist of his suit.
“Seriously, this is just a huge coincidence,” he says, nodding only to soothe himself. “And…I also wanted to say that I am so, so sorry for the smarter twin thing, and I feel super bad about lowballing your listing.”
It’s getting colder. He can see the edges of your breath whiten. “It was really worth a hundred and forty dollars?”
“No,” he blurts. Then, calmer and under-breath: “I mean, it was pretty good quality. I was also kinda strapped, and it was worth two hundred new.”
“Two hundred?” When you do this, you lean forward a little with your brow pinched with insistence.
It’s kind of…cute.
Heat flushes through him so quickly that he fears steaming through his suit. Beneath the sharp sting of ethanol sanitizer and anti-microbial soap, he can grasp the faint threads of your shampoo.
“That’s not even a lowball,” you grouse, face scrunching further. Ridiculously, he finds himself fixating on how your nose crinkles in slight distress. “You’re bowling in hell, Spider-Man.”
Guilt lands like a smash-hit to the heart. It might even hurt more than the Hulk slamming him through five layers of concrete. “I know, I know.”
“But I gotta ask,” he cuts before you can bruise his apology again, “why’d you even accept it?”
You shrug, body language easily shifting into something more comfortable, like you’re just putting on a coat and he's just a friend you've bumped into on the street. “Dunno. My ex was into that stuff and I’m petty.”
Ex. He shouldn’t like the way his arachnid instincts tell him to leap for joy, but…
A snicker slips out of Peter. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, then.”
“I mean…”
“I—I’ll make it up to you, I swear! The lowball and the surgery.”
You laugh. Like, actually smile with a flash of your teeth, and your shoulders tremble, and a sound of pure joy tumbles from your mouth. “Relax, I got a raise from the New Avengers fund.”
Right. Yelena.
Peter has a pretty strong idea of what she'd say the next time he dropped by the bathhouse: What, you let strange doctor see your face, but good friend Black Widow only gets belly button?
"Still..." He grinds the ball of his foot against the sidewalk, trying to offset the guilt that won't stop eating at him. Aunt-May-voice was right—karma slams into you like a brick traveling at Mach 5, especially when you technically owe your life and several thousand dollars in medical bills to one person.
Said person is just tucking your hands into your coat pockets that smell like one of those mild-scented lotions MJ liked, natural and just faintly earth-and-oats. Your phone rasps against soft cotton as you pull it out.
Dry fingertips tap quickly at the screen before you hold it out for him with the 'new contact' screen already available.
"I know, it's not exactly ethical," you start, head tipping a little to the left when he takes it. "But I think the best way to repay someone is for them to know that you're doing good."
Thumbs fly across the screen to punch his number in. "That's sweet."
You blurt, "This isn't a doctor-patient thing, by the way. I just...maybe we can get off on the right foot now—"
Suddenly, Peter's mask feels too restricting. He wants you to see how comical his smile looks, how bad it aches because he hasn't done that in a while. He wants the air, which is turning toward winter, to sting at his too-hot cheeks.
"—not on the lowball foot, or the trauma surgery foot," he finishes, desperately wishing that his breaths could cloud up like yours, that the wisps could twine together and touch on a molecular level.
A soft, bare edge of a smile lingers on your lips.
Another flush of heat (totally inappropriate for the weather and conversation) aims straight for his nape. His earpiece chimes with a notification from EV, accompanied by the unneeded graphic display of his arachnid hormones rising on his lenses.
Throwing a finger-gun that Mr. Stark would strangle him for (kid, you need to learn from a professional), he chokes out, "I should go."
"Yeah." You reach out and take the phone back yourself. Because karma isn't done running him to the ground, your bare fingers graze against the ultra-thin fabric of his gloves. If he really narrows his senses down, he could detect the miniscule pulse through your skin. "See you around—" you type something into the name box "—Cheap Pete."
His face burns so red that he might as well fuse the mask to himself.
—
ofc im fully licensed who do u think i am
havent finished residency tho (received 23:38)
cool cool
wait wats ur specialty (sent 23:38)
sry cant rly tupe im kina cleaning uo (received 23:47)
we could call?? (sent 23:47)
—
The first time, he finds out that you’re a year older than him, work day shifts in the ER, and you think Stephen Strange is a good hero but a terrible face for the healthcare workers of New York City.
"I'm not joking, Peter, people have actually asked if I can open portals." He really, painfully, hopelessly likes the way you use his name to emphasize what you're saying.
"I think the only portals you're opening are chest cavities."
"That's what I'm saying! If you want sparks coming out of my hands, I'll charge up the defibrillator."
Now, Peter isn't a repeat offender. But...the second time, you tell him that you hate the texture of your scrubs. Your guilty pleasure is watching reality TV with one of the RNs. You planned on some cushy radiology job before pivoting toward saving other people’s heroes.
"I stitched up a man's finger the other day. The laceration was Sub-Q, almost to the bone. His four-year old daughter gave me a hug for making her best friend feel better."
"So...your favorite hero's favorite hero."
His ears could be making things up, but he swore that the hum you made was just this side of bashful.
"If you’re New York’s favorite hero, and I helped save you, then am I your favorite?"
He had scoffed, as if the thought of anything else was ridiculous. "Obviously."
The third time, you talk about how you didn’t really have a lot of friends in college or med school on the account of being leagues younger than your peers.
“‘S why I think I was more open with talking to you—maybe Spidey is lonely too, ‘cause it gets thankless sometimes.”
The fourth time, you thanked him for recognizing you in the grocery store.
“That was really thoughtful, Peter.” His head gets all full with the sound of his name coming out of your mouth. “And sweet. But I kinda had a bad shift that day, so I probably made it awkward.”
(He denied that. Vehemently. The awkwardness was all on him. He would do it until his last breath.)
He tells you about himself, too. It just comes easily: the overarching story of his life, punctuated by raw grief and aimlessness, and long stretches of friendship and joy. You learn about MJ and Ned, about Aunt May and Mr. Stark, whispering into the receiver, "They sound like the kind of amazing people that make you just as special as they are."
You’re beautiful and sympathetic under that wry, jaded doctor persona. Bittersweet for a girlhood cut too short, half-tortured by the curse of genius, all-consumed by work and regrets.
The knowledge tucks itself into a place that’s painfully close to home.
As he also discovers, you being there when Frank stumbled into the hospital was a statistical anomaly.
“So, I was wrapping up my SICU elective block,” you ramble. Over the line, he hears water running and ceramics being set down against a metal grate. “The rota was fucked, okay? Like, the residents that rotated through emergency were off the clock, the fellows were stuck in surgery, and downstairs couldn't spare anyone either.
“The trauma attending grabs me and a few surgery PGY-5s, and drags us into an OR, and the nurses are already scrubbed up. We barely had time to get our gloves on before the EMTs lifted you onto the table, and…god—the Punisher was like, if you say anything to anyone ‘bout this kid, I will—”
Your impression dissolves into a bout of giggles that have been building since you launched into his story. The edges of Peter’s mouth have a mind of their own, turning up into a grin.
“That sounds exactly like Frank, by the way,” he says, reclining into his pillows. After hours of absorbing impact from concrete, softness begins to feel like a forgiveness he doesn’t deserve.
But he does. You deserve it, Peter, urges the Aunt May Voice.
Phone resting on his chest, he dials into the vibration of the speaker. Images of you laying on him tear through his mind, followed by a feather-light pressure tracing circles on his pec.
Almost like real fingers.
Peter frowns. Fantasies accompanied by touch hallucinations are not in his usual arachnid book.
Before he can think—
“Do you, maybe…I dunno, I’m going long here, do you wanna grab dinner sometime?”
His monitor beeps. The vague graphic of his arachnid hormones rising makes itself abundantly obvious.
That was so, so wrong. You had your fingers between the muscles of his back and you touched every single stitch in his skin. You have seen him at his most vulnerable, still offered to be there for him, and he’s fucked it all higher than he was on those sedatives.
But maybe there’s this…part of him. That ugly, snarling thing clawing behind his ribs that’s only begun to creep into the light, and by giving it grace, he has to grapple with the fact that he hasn’t felt this in years.
There’s fun. There’s easy. And then there’s free.
And selfishly, unbecomingly, he’s starting to regard you in a light that transcends the solitude he’d subjected himself to.
Your line goes still. No water, no ceramics. Just the soft sounds of your short inhale, long exhale calling to him, tugging at his viscera.
“…Yeah.” More of a question than an answer. “Yeah.” Decisive. Peter’s heart squeezes itself as if to soothe its own worries. “Swing by Chinatown after my shift next Tuesday?”
His sharp exhale is less laugh, more shock. “Is that a pun I sense?”
“Depends. Did you spider-sense that?”
“Mm, maybe.”
—
“Holy fuck—oh my god, Peter—”
“I’m so sorry,” he rushes, holding his palms up in surrender, spine snapping rigid. “I have stupidly light feet.”
Your palm drops from your chest, twisting in the blue fabric of your scrub pants as you rein in your thudding heart. He offers you a sheepish angle of his mouth, pressing his lips together and smiling straight in an upside-down-smile.
Hands jerk at his sides. Can't give into the nervous habit of running his fingers through his hair—he's got gel on. He ekes out, hoarse, "If it helps, I used to scare the shit out of my aunt with that."
"You should be a scare actor," you breathe, and the corners of your mouth gradually pull up until you're matching his small, pleased smile. His traitorous stomach lands a backflip. It takes everything in him to fight back a laugh. "Shut up."
"I'm not saying anything."
"You look like you just ate a pufferfish. Those are poisonous, by the way." You bump your shoulder into his and start off toward the nearest station. Lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "But if you are gonna do that, do it at Tisch. I know a guy in toxicology who'd have a field day."
He lets you lead, tracing the echoes of your steps helplessly. The last of the daylight gets soaked into the brick exterior of the hospital, washing you in faded golds and mellow blues. A gentle wind sifts between the buildings, ruffling your jackets and making him regret using gel in the first place.
There's comfort, however unspoken, in the fact that you have someone by your side, someone warm and understanding and good.
You debate yourself a lot, about morality, sapience, where the edges of known and unknown intersect in science. You describe the inside of a body, the trees of nerves and wires of veins. Most of all, you wonder how everything fits in the mortal coil.
I think, maybe, an underlying question of life’s purpose is ‘what is non-existence?’ It’s not like sleep, and we don’t remember what it’s like before birth or consciousness, but we return there anyway.
He listens intently, hangs onto every word.
But even though your consciousness ceases to exist, you still leave behind a body and memories, so that proves objective reality. The way awareness and existence and reality intersect…Wait, I’m not even making sense, sorry.
Cheeks prick with pink when he smiles. Don’t, I like hearing you muse.
His knee rubs against the side of yours in the subway. You don't move away—the only thing that changes is the slight uptick in your heartbeat, steadily thrumming as the cars rumble over the track, and the little wonderful glances you steal between him and the couple sharing earbuds across the center aisle.
He tunes the world out, filters through the oceans of noise until it’s just your eyelashes fluttering with every blink, the gentle rush of air when your diaphragm contracts and relaxes.
“Alright, then, I have a question about awareness for you.” Eyes crinkle into crescents and he can't look away. You lean into him and whisper, "Can you hear what they’re listening to?"
The tip of his nose almost catches your cheek when he tilts toward you, voice equally low. "Just Like Heaven."
“That’s poetic,” you murmur. You dip your head down, pocket of your cheek tensing under the pressure of your tongue. “What’s a question you've been asking yourself recently?”
“I don’t know.” Honest. “I’ll let you know when I finally pick one out of thousands.”
You’ve said before that you can’t do magic tricks, that sparks don’t fly out of your hands. But they do, in some alternate form of haywire electrical signals shooting through his system when your pinky nudges the side of his hand.
He has never been so afraid of breathing.
Suddenly, he’s back in first period literature at Midtown, puzzling over poetic structure. He never really got it, not in the way MJ did.
But now, Peter knows the significance of rhyme and meter, lyric and metaphor. It’s just that feeling—of leaping, of knowing.
Of lacing your fingers together. Of you squeezing his hand a little, getting a bearing of how well it fits.
Of sharing a secretive little smile in this train car, lost in the sea of New York, yet belonging all the same.
—
You kiss him on a Friday.
It’s an unremarkable day, the kind where people say thank god it’s Friday and not Jesus Christ, it’s finally Friday. Except for you, because you’re slotted into a night shift after calling out for sick.
Trudging through the snow, his and your hands joined and shoved into the pocket of your jacket because your fingers got cold and you needed to keep them warm for the shift (your words, not his). You keep rubbing your thumb slowly over his knuckle, and he's already slipped twice because of how distracting that is.
He insisted on walking with you after the sun set, sweeping the are-you-sures under the rug with I-gotta-patrol-tonight. You really did pull him in by the collar to check that he was wearing the suit under his hoodie and puffer vest.
“I knew it was gonna bite me in the ass,” you mutter, a little muffled by his scarf piled around your neck. You pull it down to reveal your mouth, and despite the shit-storm you’re walking into, you still threaten to smile. “Thanks for this, by the way.”
Peter stutters over his own breath like the smitten bastard he is. “‘S nothing.”
"I can't believe Matthews stole mine," you grumble, that faint grin already souring into a scowl. "And he was like, 'Sorry, I thought it was mine.' I'm convinced he just forgot his at home and grabbed the nearest one."
He knows this story all too well. Coat hanger in the break room, a scarf that you specifically bought because it didn't look like anyone else's, walking home after half an hour of scouring the ER and coming down with a cold the next morning. You've been telling it for the past three days.
It's definitely Matthews' fault that you're making up for your absence with a night shift, and during the peak of flu season, no less. Secretly, Peter hopes you rip him a new one during your next day on.
Snow crunches beneath your shoes as the hospital looms above you. The ambulance bay is brightly lit, casting soft, washed-out hues of red and glittering white onto the ground. You wave at a clump of people exiting the ER; they're probably some daytime residents you know.
"This is me," you say, breathless. Your words billow into the air, mingling with his exhales. Some part of him, more primal, visceral, gets so satisfied that you're intersecting like that. "Uh, before I—"
A chirp splits the air. A tall woman in blue scrubs dashes out of the doors to greet the EMTs wheeling in a stretcher. GSW to the left shoulder, BP 95 over 60, found unresponsive at site.
"Shit," you hiss, wincing at how lax and ashen the man is on the stretcher. You turn back to Peter and manage a quick press of your warm, slightly chapped lips on his jaw before you start pacing into the bay. Throwing one last glance over your shoulder, you offer an apologetic smile. "I'm needed in Trauma."
No concern whatsoever to how he's become rooted in the icy pavement, eyes glassy and dazed.
Wow...oh, wow. He could keel over right now and all the worries in his mind would be wiped out with the way your eyelashes had fluttered against his skin.
Patrol becomes a blur: web a mugger to the wall and replay the shy tug of your mouth, save a cat in a tree and think about how your thumb had gently traced the back of his hand.
He's so out of it that when a drunk civilian shouts, "Love you, Spidey!," Peter's spinneret suddenly cuts off his webbing and his side slams full-force into a brick wall.
—
streets say u dislocated ur elbow
and you went to tisch. srsly??? (received 07:22)
....good morning to u 2
btw i read the ama journal of ethics stuff
cant exactly waltz into belle v when ur there (sent 07:23)
LOL true. u slinged? (received 07:23)
unfortunstely
how was work (sent 07:24)
most exciting thing was u
btw u shld come over so i can sign the split
bring pjs too (received 07:25)
—
You being on top of him just...happened.
Your throat bobs, and it takes everything in Peter not to pitch his head down, lick the line of your neck. Slow exhale trembling, you blink at him, the moonlight forgiving and gentle on the curve of your cheek, the slope of your nose.
Eyes flutter, masseter feathers. A stray lash sits in the shallow cradle where your nasal and maxilla bone join.
(He'll never admit it out loud, but he's been getting really into anatomy. A small part has to do with the mutations, but it's mostly so he can preen when you're impressed that he knows what the hyoid bone does.)
"'M sorry," you whisper, rough and heavy with sleep. He's been so sure you didn't mean to, until you draw your hips back and the heat between your legs flutters against the dense muscle of his rectus femoris. "I don't wanna make you—if you don't wanna see me again, I won't get mad."
So different from what you said twelve hours ago, giving him a gift of a grin when he entered your tiny studio apartment, letting him set the takeout box of pancakes on your counter.
You looked freshly showered, the scent of your shampoo stronger than ever, and he had to headlock the baser, arachnid instinct to leap at you.
"Can't swing for a couple days," you remarked, prodding the splint with your mouth twisted in reluctant acceptance. Under your breath, as if admitting it any louder would strip your dignity, "Damn, they did pretty good."
"What was that?" He tugged at his ear lobe with his uninjured hand, teasing.
"Shut up and get changed." You shot him a look before cracking open the box. Something in you must have unspooled then, judging by how comical and exaggerated your frown became. "Woah. Be quick, or there won't be any left for you."
“Aye, aye.”
In the bathroom, he refrained from checking the brand of your shampoo. He did not eye your hamper. He just changed into his pajamas and maybe spared a cursory glance to the post-it note on the mirror.
SHOOT YOUR SHOT
“Breakfast and a movie?” he wondered, wandering back into your small kitchen and finding half a stack on a plate.
You already made yourself comfortable on the bed, the window shades pulled shut, a plate balanced on your knee. “I’m thinking Lord of the Rings.”
“Sweet.” He vaulted over the counter, settling beside you with contentment stirring in his chest. “Comfort movie marathon.”
And you almost made it through the whole trilogy. But a full stomach and a warm body do wonders for rest, and Peter barely had time to shut off the movie mid-Battle of Mordor before dozing off too.
Now, you’re wide-eyed as wakefulness dawns inside you.
Hips, once mindlessly rutting on his thigh, still as terror possesses you.
“‘M sorry.” You’re drawing away. You swallow, loud and guilty. "I don't wanna make you—if you don't wanna see me again, I won't get mad.
“I really didn’t mean to,” you whisper, untangling. “I was asleep, I wouldn’t do that. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay.”
“You’re my first best friend.” Swallow again, sit up and let the moon light your edges like a halo. “And I know it’s silly because I haven’t known you for years, but I promise that I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
It’s as if you’ve wrapped chains around his chest and you’re pulling at them with all your might. Peter can’t be away. Peter chases you and lands a soft kiss to your cheek and smiles.
The progression is a visceral need.
One moment you’re kissing him for real, heart crinkling with the relieved glimmer in your eyes, and the next, he’s mouthing the expanse of your bare stomach.
Learning the borders of you, the languages and songs, the hills of your skin rippling with movement. Knees sinking into the mattress, your heels digging so good into his back, drinking from the river of you, tuning out the world with the blood rushing through your thighs 'til you cum with a quiet whine.
Relax, he assures you, I want this too. I like you. You taste so good. I want you, always wanted you. I like this.
By this, he just doesn’t mean the sex. He means the closeness, the freedom. Intimacy means multiple things, but all of them lead back to you.
But you know that too.
You’re a pair of silver animals, turned to shadows by the late-winter moonlight yet still given the grace of being seen when you sink onto him.
You’re both sticky and hot and hungry. And at the same time, sweet and earnest and grinning through soft moans.
He doesn’t know who’s kissing who, only that you are the beginning, he is the end, and you’re continuous where he keeps rocking into you (or it might be the other way around).
You press your thumb to the edge of his splint when he cums, fills you, both with himself and hushed apologies. Shh, s’okay, I have birth control. Does it still hurt?
“It’s dull,” he mumbles, not wanting to break the quiet. “I heal faster.”
Your palm crawls to his heaving sternum. He wants to etch your warmth to the underside of his skin—he’d keep it safe there. “Does this hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
—
Peter only realizes that he's been asking himself the same question for the entire winter when you dump a pail of freezing water over his head. Which is a pretty ironic way for the universe to tell him something, but he isn't complaining.
"I really hope that isn't what I think it is," you remark, eyeing the reddish-brown grime dripping from his curls, down the drain of his bathtub.
You match the wrinkle of his nose at the sheer odor; and if you, someone who smells all kinds of things in the ER, has to make a face, then he knows it's downright rancid. Curse that goon who knocked him off the ledge in the sewers. At least he didn't trek sludge into his shoddy apartment, because you would've killed him for real.
He lets out a little half-laugh, which only serves to make him look guiltier than he is. "It's not, doc. Just, uh...fell into a river of wastewater, but I'd know if I had a head lac."
You do not look impressed. Exasperated, more like, but then again he isn't complaining. The way your eyelids lower and your brows pinch just so kind of gets him going. You say, "Just shampoo twice before you kiss me."
"Yeah, of course." Cranking the showerhead on, he sputters as a powerful spray of cold water hits him square in the face. Thank you, universe, for the message, and for making his landlord finally fix the pipes. "Bleuarghh—or a shower-pressure-induced concussion."
"Mm, already ruled out TBI," you deadpan, already pulling the curtain shut.
"Wait."
"What?"
He tilts his head, already giving away the sheepish, pleading grin and puppy-eyes he's about to weaponize. "Save water? After my first rinse, obviously."
You shoot him a pointed look, but you let go of the curtain and begin shucking your hoodie off. The weather's gotten warmer, and though it's been a snowy season, he hasn't heard a blip about another storm rolling in.
As he scrubs soap all over his body, stealing glimpses of you slowly undressing (the teasing does not escape him), he thinks that this is the first time in years that he can dream of spring.
Maybe you'd like the new crocus blooms he saw at the corner store. Maybe you'd let him take you out on a real date and bask in the sun together.
"I finally found a question for your question," he says, rinsing off with a particularly violent shudder as the stream suddenly turns hot. The water running into the drain is clear, and he just smells like the sharp peppermint soap he randomly grabbed from the store. Small miracles, but he still needs to get the nooks and crannies.
Your head tips to the side, and the curious glint in your eyes does nothing to soften the blow of you only being in your underwear. Peter's mouth is too wet, too dry. He clears his throat and focuses on the wall in front of him.
"I, uh, wanted to know if I'm allowed to be happy. If I deserve it." He inhales, burrowing beneath the tang of mint to reach the warm, earthy musk that your skin radiates after a day's work. You stand outside the tub, quietly gazing at him with the patience of a saint. "If I deserve you."
"And is that a question you can answer?" Skilled fingers linger just before the edge of the curtain. Eyes dart over his face, searching, ignoring your own nakedness to shield his.
The spider in him rears its head at how vulnerable this all is.
The human part wants to crack open his ribcage and ask you to live between his lungs.
He doesn't want to be either, but he chooses to sit somewhere between both.
"I don't know," he admits, because there's nothing else he can answer honestly with. "I think everyone's allowed to be happy. I don't know if I've earned it—even though I save a lot of people—and I'm not happy sometimes, so I can't have achieved it. And I don't want to earn you, because that's weird, but I want you in any way you'll let me have you."
"It's complicated, right?"
The edge of his lips lift up, just enough to make a barebones smile that's tender enough to be a bruise. "Yeah. But I'm changing, so that's changing with me."
He meets your eyes with his chest feeling wounded and raw, like someone's pulling out barbed wire that's been stuck in his intercostal spaces. It burns, but it's the good kind, like the wind slapping his face red while he swings. And you're just studying him, a little relieved and sweet and subtly proud.
"That's a good answer," you say, low and sincere. You trail your first two fingers beneath the shallow line of his collarbone. "And for the record, I want you too."
And his grin just breaks out, and he's hoisting you up and over the edge of the tub, and somewhere in him, the memory of Aunt May sighs wistfully and says, At least this karma's good.
—
notes: so locked in im recovering from surgery and still finished this yayy!! pls reblog to support a writer && lmk if u enjoyed <33
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit sexual content — MDNI , graphic descriptions , peter keeps his mask on, black cat!reader (not the animal), switch peter?, rough sex, oral sex (m receiving), overstimulation, edging, creampie, unprotected sex (don’t be silly), porn with plot, desperate peter parker, post nwh , smut, brand new day setting [no spoilers]
𝐰𝐜: 5.0k
𝐚/𝐧: i meant to post this yesterday (august 10th) for his birthday, but i left it in my drafts by accident so im posting it now!! not really proofread, sorry.
you've always had a thing for august.
something about the tail end of summer, the way the heat clings to new york city like a second skin, makes you feel particularly... indulgent. and this august 10th is special. you've had the date circled in your mental calendar for weeks now, ever since you overhead him mention it to that girl he's always pining after. pathetic, really, how he still carries a torch for her. but that's not your problem tonight.
tonight, you have plans.
the fire escape outside Peter Parker's apartment is familiar territory. you've perched here more times than you care to admit, sometimes just watching, sometimes waiting for the right moment to make your presence known. the metal is still warm from the day's heat, and the window—his window—is open just a crack. careless. or maybe he's hoping you'll show up. you like that thought.
you manipulate the window sticking, ensuring it slides open silently. one of the perks of your particular skill set. no squeaking hinges, no dramatic announcements. just you, slipping into his space like smoke, like sin, like something he should've locked out but never quite manages to.
the apartment is exactly as you remember it. modest. cluttered in that specific way that screams "man." there's spider-man tech scattered across the small dining table—web shooters in various states of disassembly, what looks like a modified grappling mechanism, and something you don't immediately recognize. the air smells like solder and ozone and underneath it all, him.
and there he is.
Peter Parker. Spider-Man. your favorite plaything.
he's standing at the table, hunched over whatever he's working on, and the sight of him makes something warm and eager unfurl in your chest. he's wearing almost nothing—just a thin grey t-shirt that's riding up slightly at his lower back, and black boxers that hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal. but the best part, the part that makes you bite your lip to keep from laughing, is the mask.
the red spider-man mask, fully on, while he's standing in his apartment in his underwear.
you lean against the wall, arms crossed, just watching him for a moment. his body is a study in controlled power. even at rest, there's something coiled about him, something ready. he's leaner than he used to be, more defined. his shoulders have broadened, and you can see the muscles in his back shift beneath the thin fabric of his shirt as he makes minute adjustments to whatever he's tinkering with.
his arms are what really get you, though. they're not bulky, not in that grotesque gym-rat way, but they're sculpted. functional. you can see the definition in his forearms as he manipulates some kind of small tool, the way his biceps flex when he reaches for something across the table. these are the arms that have caught you mid-fall, that have held you against walls and rooftops, that have gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks you treasured for days.
and his hands. god, his hands. long fingers, surprisingly elegant for someone who spends his nights punching criminals. there's a small scar across his left knuckles that you remember kissing once, and you can see the tension in them now as he works, precise and focused.
the boxers sit low on his hips, and you can see the cut of muscle that disappears beneath the waistband, that v-shape that makes your mouth water. his legs are just as impressive as the rest of him—runner's legs, lean and strong, with defined calves that speak to all those hours of web-slinging across the city.
he shifts his weight, and you catch a glimpse of his stomach as his shirt rides up further. flat, defined, with the kind of abs that come from actual physical activity rather than vanity. there's a small bruise on his right side, probably from some recent altercation. you make a mental note to avoid that spot. or press on it. you haven't decided yet.
"E.V., run a diagnostic on the inhibitor modification," he mutters, and you realize he's talking to some kind of AI or program. the tech on the table beeps in response.
so that's what he's doing. modifying his inhibitor. you're not entirely sure what that means, but you know it's spider-man business, which means it's probably important, which means interrupting him will be all the more satisfying.
you watch him work for another minute, admiring the way he's completely absorbed in the task. there's something almost innocent about it, the way he's so focused, so unaware of your presence. it won't last. you'll make sure of that.
"you know," you say, your voice cutting through the quiet like a knife, "most people don't wear their work uniform at home."
he jumps—actually jumps—and spins around so fast he knocks over a small container of screws. they scatter across the table with a metallic clatter, and you can't help the smile that spreads across your face. some spidey-sense.
"Black Cat," he says, and even through the mask, you can hear the mix of exasperation and something else in his voice. something warmer. "how did you—the window was—"
"locked? please." you push off the wall and take a few steps into the room, your movements deliberately slow, deliberately predatory. you're wearing your usual—the black suit that hugs every curve, the white fur trim, the domino mask that you know he loves. "you should know better by now, spider. locks are just suggestions to me."
he straightens up, and you're reminded of how tall he is. not towering, but tall enough that you have to look up slightly to meet his eyes. or where his eyes would be, behind the mask.
"it's my birthday," he says, like that explains something. "i'm allowed to wear whatever i want in my own apartment.
"august 10th," you confirm, moving closer. "i know. why do you think i'm here?"
you can see him tense, see the way his body language shifts from surprised to wary. he knows you well enough to know you don't make social calls.
"if you're here to steal something—"
"oh, i am," you interrupt, closing the distance between you until you're close enough to touch. you don't, not yet. you just stand there, looking up at him, letting him feel the weight of your presence. "but probably not what you're thinking."
"Black Cat—"
"hmmm?," you hum, reaching up to trail one finger down the center of his chest, feeling the warmth of him through the thin shirt. "i know your name, Peter. you told me yours, remember? that night on the rooftop, after i got you all worked up and desperate. you were so sweet about it, too. 'my name is Peter Parker,' like you were introducing yourself at a job interview."
you can see him swallow, see the way his throat works beneath the edge of the mask.
"that was... you manipulated that information out of me."
"i did," you agree, not even a little bit sorry. "and you loved every second of it. just like you're going to love what i have planned for tonight."
"i'm working," he says, but his voice lacks conviction. "i need to finish this modification before—"
"before what? before you go out and risk your life for a city? before you spend another birthday alone in this apartment, tinkering with tech and pretending you're not lonely?" you step even closer, until your body is almost pressed against his, until you can feel the heat radiating off him. "i have a better idea."
"which is?"
you smile, slow and dangerous. "i'm going to give you your birthday present."
"i don't need—"
"yes, you do." you finally touch him properly, both hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms. "and i didn't break into your apartment—again—just to be turned away. besides..." you lean in, your lips almost brushing the edge of his mask, your voice dropping to a purr. "we both know you're not going to say no."
there's a moment—a single, suspended moment—where he could step back. where he could be responsible, be the hero, be everything he's supposed to be.
he doesn't.
instead, his hands come up to your waist, gripping you through the suit, and you feel the victory of it sing through your veins.
"the mask stays on," he says, and there's something rough in his voice now, something that makes heat pool low in your belly.
"i wouldn't have it any other way," you murmur, you roll up his mask, just enough to reveal his mouth, and you brush his lips in a light touch.
his grip on your waist tightens, and you press yourself against him fully, feeling every inch of his barely-clothed body against yours. he's already half-hard, you can feel it, and the knowledge that you did that, that you walked in here and reduced him to this in a matter of minutes, makes you feel powerful in a way that has nothing to do with probability manipulation.
you pull back just enough to look at him, at the masked face that you've memorized in a dozen different contexts—angry, determined, worried, playful. but this is your favorite. this is when he's looking at you like you're something he wants and shouldn't have, something dangerous and irresistible.
"happy birthday, spider," you whisper against his mask. "now let me unwrap my present."
your hands slide down his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing, feeling the heat of him through the thin grey fabric. you find the hem of his shirt and start to pull it up, slowly, deliberately, watching the way his stomach muscles contract at the brush of your fingers against bare skin.
he doesn't stop you. if anything, he helps, raising his arms so you can pull the shirt over his head—carefully, so it doesn't disturb the mask. the fabric catches slightly on the edge of the mask before coming free, and then you're dropping it somewhere behind you, forgotten.
and fuck, he's beautiful.
you've seen him shirtless before, of course. you've patched him up after fights, you've caught glimpses during costume malfunctions, you've even managed to get him partially undressed on a few memorable occasions. but this is different. this is him, in his space, letting you look. letting you touch.
your hands map the terrain of his chest, feeling the defined pectorals, the slight dip between them, the way his skin is warm and smooth under your palms. there's a small scar just below his left collarbone—you don't remember that one. you lean in and press your lips to it, feeling him shudder.
"okay," he breathes, and his hands are on you now, sliding up your sides, finding the zipper of your suit. "this is—we shouldn't—"
“we absolutely should," you murmur against his skin, kissing your way across his chest, finding his right nipple and flicking your tongue over it. he makes a sound that's half gasp, half moan, and his fingers fumble with your zipper. "and we're going to. unless you're going to tell me you don't want this?"
"i do," he breathes, and his hands come up to your waist, hovering like he's not sure he's allowed to touch.
"good boy." you murmur against his skin. "it's your birthday. let me take my time."
you kiss your way across his chest, taking your time, learning the taste of him. salt and something clean, like soap and underneath it all, something essentially Peter. when you reach his right nipple, you circle it with your tongue, slow and deliberate, and feel his whole body tense.
"fuck," he gasps.
you smile against his skin and do it again, this time adding the slightest scrape of teeth. his hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging in.
"sensitive?" you ask, pulling back to look up at him.
"you—" he swallows hard. "you know i am."
"i know a lot of things," you say, and let your hands drift lower, tracing the lines of his abs. "i know you've been thinking about this. about me. haven't you?"
"shit—"
"haven't you?" you press, one finger dipping into his hipbone, watching the muscles jump under your touch.
"yes," he admits, voice rough. "fuck, yes. i've thought about it."
"tell me," you command softly, your hands sliding around to his back, nails dragging lightly down his spine. "tell me what you've thought about."
"i—" he breaks off with a groan as you press yourself against him, letting him feel every curve through your suit. "i've thought about touching you. tasting you. i've thought about what you'd sound like when you—when you cum."
“that’s so naughty of you, spider.”
he doesn't answer with words. instead, he finds your zipper and pulls it down in one smooth motion, the sound of it obscenely loud in the quiet apartment. the suit loosens around you, and you help him peel it off your shoulders, down your arms, letting it fall to your waist.
you're not wearing a bra. you never do with this suit. his sharp intake of breath is gratifying.
"fuck," he mutters, and then his hands are on your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that makes electricity shoot straight to your core. "you're—fuck, wow."
"eloquent as always, spider," you tease, but your voice is breathier than you'd like. he's good with his hands. you knew he would be. all that fine motor control, all that enhanced strength carefully modulated. he rolls your nipples between his fingers, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp, and you arch into his touch.
"bedroom," you manage. "unless you want to do this against your work table."
"bedroom," he agrees, and then he's walking you backward, his hands never leaving your body, his masked face dipping down to capture your mouth again through the fabric. you let him guide you, your own hands exploring the planes of his back, feeling the muscles shift under skin, feeling the barely contained power in him.
the bedroom is small, dominated by a queen-sized bed that's unmade, sheets tangled like he just rolled out of it. perfect.
you finish pushing your suit down over your hips, stepping out of it and kicking it aside. you're wearing black panties—lace, because you knew how this night would end—and nothing else. his eyes behind the mask track over every inch of you, and you let him look. you've never been shy about your body.
he steps closer then his hands are everywhere now—your breasts, your waist, sliding down to grip your ass. he squeezes hard, pulling you against him, and you can feel how hard he is, the thick line of his cock pressing against your stomach through his boxers.
"your turn," you say, nodding at his boxers.
he hesitates for just a second, and you can see the conflict in the set of his shoulders. this is real now. this is happening. once those boxers come off, there's no pretending this is just flirtation, just the game you've been playing for months.
“unless, you want me to.” he nods. you make the decision for him. you step forward, hook your fingers in the waistband of his boxers, and pull them down.
his cock springs free, already hard, already leaking at the tip, and your mouth waters. he's perfect. not pornstar huge—you know your petey doesn’t use pills—but thick and long enough to make you clench in anticipation, with a slight curve that you know is going to hit all the right spots. you wrap your hand around him, feeling the heat of him, the weight, and he groans.
"it’s cold."
"i’ll warm you up," you murmur, stroking him slowly, base to tip, feeling him pulse in your hand. "it's your birthday. let me give you your present."
you sink to your knees, and the sound he makes is almost pained.
from this angle, you can see all of him. the defined muscles of his thighs, the cut of his hips, the flat plane of his stomach rising and falling rapidly. and above it all, the mask, those white eye pieces staring down at you. it's obscene and perfect and exactly what you wanted.
"wanna know my plan?” you ask him, reaching up to palm him. he's hot and hard and thick, and when you squeeze, his hips jerk forward involuntarily. "the plan is to make you feel very, very good."
"you're—fuck—you're doing a good job so far."
“good.” you stroke him, slow and firm, watching the way his whole body responds. his breathing gets ragged, his hands tighten on you, and you can feel him getting harder, if that's even possible.
you lean in and lick a stripe up the underside of his cock, base to tip, tasting salt and skin and him. he jerks, his hand flying to your hair, tangling.
"fuck," he gasps. "fuck, wait, you don't have to—"
"i want to," you interrupt, and then you take him into your mouth.
he's thick enough that you have to work at it, relaxing your jaw, taking him deeper inch by inch. his hand tightens in your hair, not pushing, just holding on like he needs the anchor. you hollow your cheeks and suck, swirling your tongue around the head, tasting the precum that's leaking steadily now.
just the tip at first, sucking gently, your tongue working against the sensitive underside. he makes sounds you've never heard from him before, desperate and needy, and it makes you feel powerful. you take him deeper, inch by inch, relaxing your jaw, and his grip on your hair tightens.
"oh god," he moans, and his hips twitch forward involuntarily. "oh god, your mouth—"
you pull off with an obscene pop, looking up at him through your lashes. "you can fuck my mouth, you know. i can take it."
you see him swallow hard, see the way his whole body tenses. "i don't want to hurt you."
"that’s so thoughtful of you, honey. but you won’t hurt me.” you assure him, and then you take him deep again, relaxing your throat, taking him until your nose is pressed against the base of his cock and he's making sounds you've never heard from him before.
he starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, testing. you moan around him in encouragement, and that seems to break something in him. his grip on your hair tightens, and he starts to fuck your mouth in earnest, deep strokes that make your eyes water and your pussy clench around nothing.
"fuck, fuck, shit, your mouth feels so fucking good," he's babbling now, control slipping, and you love it. you love reducing him to this, love the way his thighs are trembling, love the way he's chasing his pleasure with single-minded focus.
you pull of with a wet pop! "no..," he gasps, hips chasing your mouth. "fuck, why did you—"
"not yet," you say, voice rough. your lips are swollen, your chin is wet, and you've never felt more satisfied. "we're just getting started, spider."
you stand, and he pulls you into a kiss immediately, desperate and messy, tasting himself on your tongue. he walks you backward, hands on your hips, and you let him guide you.
you sit on the edge of the bed, and he stands in front of you, cock still hard and glistening from your mouth. you reach out and stroke him again, slow and firm, watching the way his abs contract.
"lie down," you tell him.
"i thought—"
"lie down," you repeat. "it's your birthday. let me take care of you."
he does, stretching out on the bed, and the sight of him like this—naked except for the mask, cock hard against his stomach, muscles tense with anticipation—makes your mouth water.
you climb onto the bed, straddling his thighs, and just look at him for a moment. "you're so pretty, spider," you say, and you mean it.
"don’t say that."
"why not? it's true." you lean down and kiss his chest, right over his heart. "and i'm going to spend the rest of the night proving it to you."
you work your way down his body, kissing and licking and occasionally biting. his nipples, which make him gasp. the ridges of his abs, which make him tense. the cut of his hips, which make him moan. you avoid his cock, even though it's right there, hard and leaking and begging for attention.
"come on," he groans, hips lifting. "please."
"please what?"
"touch me. suck me. something. anything."
"i am touching you," you point out, kissing the inside of his thigh.
"you know what i mean."
you do. but you're not done teasing him yet. you kiss your way up his other thigh, getting close but not close enough, and he makes a frustrated sound.
"you're evil," he mutters.
"you love it," you counter, and finally, finally, you wrap your hand around his cock again.
he groans, hips bucking up into your grip. "yes. fuck, yes."
you stroke him slowly, base to tip, watching the way his whole body responds. he's so hard it must be painful, and there's precum leaking steadily from the tip. you lean down and lick it off, and he nearly comes off the bed.
"oh, fuck—"
"shh," you soothe, and take him into your mouth again.
this time you don't tease. you take him deep and set a steady rhythm, one hand working what doesn't fit in your mouth, the other cupping his balls. he's making constant noise now, a stream of curses and pleas and your name, and his hands are fisted in the sheets like he's trying not to grab your hair again.
"i'm close," he gasps. "fuck, yeah, i'm so close—"
you pull off.
"no!” he practically sobs. “please, please. i was so close.”
"i know," you say, stroking him slowly, keeping him on the edge. "but not yet. not like this."
"then how—"
you climb up his body and kiss him, deep and dirty, letting him taste himself on your tongue. "i want you inside me," you murmur against his mouth. "i want to feel you. all of you."
his hands come up to your hips, gripping hard. "yes. fuck, yes. please."
"patience," you tease, even though you're just as desperate as he is. you can feel how wet you are, how your panties are soaked through, how empty you feel.
you sit up, straddling his hips, and slowly—so slowly—you peel your panties off. his eyes behind the mask track every movement, and when you're finally naked, he makes a sound that's almost reverent.
"you're perfect," he breathes.
"flattery will get you everywhere," you say, and position yourself over him. you take his cock in your hand, guiding him to your entrance, and just hold there for a moment. teasing both of you now.
"stop fucking teasing me!” he groans, hands tightening on your hips. "please. i need—"
"ask me nicely. what do you need, Peter?" you ask, lowering yourself just enough that the tip of him is inside you. "tell me.”
"i need you," he gasps. "i need to be inside you. i need to feel you. please, please?”
you sink down onto him in one smooth motion, taking him all the way, and you both groan.
he's thick, stretching you, filling you so perfectly it's almost too much. you hold still for a moment, adjusting, savoring the feeling of him inside you finally, after months of wanting.
"oh fuck," he gasps, hands flexing on your hips. "oh fuck, you feel—i can't.”
"don't move," you command, even though you're dying to. "not yet. just feel it."
you clench around him deliberately, and he makes a strangled sound.
"you're trying to kill me," he accuses.
"maybe a little," you admit, and start to move.
slow at first, just rolling your hips, grinding down onto him. the angle is perfect, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, and you can feel every inch of him.
"shit," you breathe. "Peter, you feel so good."
his hands slide up from your hips to your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples. the added stimulation makes you gasp, makes you move faster, and soon you're riding him in earnest, chasing your pleasure.
"that's it," he encourages, his voice rough. "fuck, look at you. you're so beautiful like this.”
you brace your hands on his chest and really start to move, lifting up until just the tip of him is inside you, then sinking back down. over and over, building a rhythm that has you both gasping.
"touch yourself," he says suddenly. "i want to watch you touch yourself while you ride my cock."
the words send a jolt of heat through you, and you slide one hand down your body to your clit. the first touch makes you moan, makes you clench around him, and he groans.
"yes," he hisses. "just like that. fuck, christ, you're so hot."
you rub your clit in tight circles, matching the rhythm of your hips, and the pleasure starts to build. but you're not ready to come yet. not yet.
you slow down, changing the angle, and he makes a frustrated sound.
"why did you—"
"because," you say, lifting off him completely. he makes a sound of protest, but you just smile. "we're not done yet."
you lie down on the bed, on your back, and spread your legs. "your turn to do some work, spider."
he doesn't need to be told twice. he's on you in an instant, settling between your thighs, and then he's pushing inside you again, and you both groan at the sensation.
this angle is different, deeper, and when he starts to move, it's with purpose. long, deep strokes that make you see stars, that hit every sensitive spot inside you.
"yes," you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist. "just like that, Peter. don't stop."
he doesn't. he fucks you with steady, powerful strokes, and you can feel the strength in him, the control. his hands are on your hips, holding you in place, and the bed frame is starting to hit the wall with each thrust.
"you feel so good," he groans. "so tight, so wet. fuck, mmmph, i could do this all night."
"i know you can, spider," you challenge, and he responds by changing the angle, hitting that spot inside you that makes you cry out.
"there," you confirm, breathless. "right there, don't stop—"
he doesn't. he keeps that angle, that rhythm, and you can feel the orgasm building. but every time you get close, he seems to sense it, and he slows down just enough to keep you on the edge.
"Peter," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "i need—"
"i know what you need," he says, and one of his hands slides between your bodies to find your clit. "but not yet. i want to feel you desperate first."
he rubs your clit in slow circles, just enough to drive you crazy but not enough to push you over. you're writhing beneath him, chasing your orgasm, but he won't let you have it.
"please," you finally beg, and you don't even care that you're begging. "please, Peter, i need to come."
"not yet," he says, and pulls out completely.
you actually whimper at the loss, and he laughs, low and dark.
"roll over," he commands.
you do, getting on your hands and knees, and he's behind you immediately. his hands run over your ass, squeezing, and then he's pushing inside you again, this angle even deeper than before.
"fuck," you gasp, dropping to your elbows. "oh fuck, Peter—"
he starts to move, and this time there's no gentleness, no teasing. he fucks you hard and fast, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room.
"is this what you wanted?" he asks, voice rough. "is this what you came here for?"
"yes," you moan. "yes, fuck, yes!”
one of his hands slides around to your clit, and the added stimulation makes you cry out. you're so close, so fucking close, and this time he doesn't stop. he keeps that rhythm, that pressure, and you can feel the orgasm building at the base of your spine.
"come for me," he commands. "i want to feel you cream on my cock. let go."
and you do. the orgasm crashes over you like a wave, and you come with a scream, clenching around him so hard you're surprised it doesn't hurt. pleasure washes through you in waves, and he fucks you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and gasping.
"fuck," he groans, and his rhythm is faltering now. "fuck, shittt, i'm—"
"cum inside me," you gasp. "i want to feel it. want to feel you fill me up."
he thrusts twice more, deep and hard, and then he's coming with a groan, cock pulsing inside you. you can feel every twitch, every spurt, and it prolongs your own orgasm until you're both shaking.
he collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you, and you both just lie there for a moment, gasping for air. his cock is still inside you, softening slowly, and you can feel his come starting to leak out.
"okay," he pants. "okay, that was—"
"amazing?" you supply. "incredible? the best birthday sex you've ever had?"
he laughs, breathless. "best birthday present ever."
you lift your head to look at him, at the mask that's still firmly in partially place despite everything. on impulse, you lean down and kiss him, soft and almost sweet.
"happy birthday, spider," you murmur against his lips.
his arms come around you, holding you close, and for a moment you just lie there, connected and sated and warm.
"you know," he says eventually, "you're going to have to leave eventually. and when you do, i'm going to have to change these sheets."
"worth it though, right?"
"so worth it," he confirms, and you feel him twitch inside you again. “maybe in a minute.” he continues.
you laugh, delighted, and kiss him.
it's going to be a very happy birthday indeed.
authors note: this idea came to me as i stared at my ceiling, i think i love it and i hope you do too!! deleting if it flops 😳
summary: Peter Parker comes home from patrol exhausted, hungry, and unfortunately still incapable of shutting up—so naturally, you feed him Chinese takeout and let him flirt his way onto your couch.
Peter “Spider-man” Parker x reader
word count: no idea
a/n: i hate this, but pls still leave req’s as this is just the beginning on my journey to begin writing and publishing fics again!
Peter Parker had two modes after midnight.
Either he was swinging through Manhattan at approximately eighty miles an hour, chasing some idiot who’d decided robbing a convenience store was a reasonable career choice—
Or he was face-down on your couch, still wearing half of his Spider-Man suit, silently staring at a carton of lo mein like it had personally saved his life.
Tonight was the second one.
“You’re drooling on my couch.”
Peter lifted his head approximately two inches.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He blinked slowly at you.
Then, with the last remaining ounce of dignity in his body, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Wasn’t.”
You laughed and handed him a pair of chopsticks.
Peter accepted them gratefully.
“You’re the best.”
“I know.”
He immediately started eating.
You watched him for a second, amused.
His hair was a complete mess, his mask was shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, and there was a tiny scrape along his cheek that you’d already cleaned up.
He looked exhausted.
Not superhero exhausted.
Peter Parker exhausted.
The kind that made him sink into your couch like gravity had doubled.
“You know,” you said, settling beside him, “most people take their girlfriend out to dinner.”
Peter paused mid-noodle.
“I took you to dinner.”
“You swung me over three buildings and then we ate a hot dog on a rooftop.”
“That was romantic.”
“That was terrifying.”
“You were laughing.”
“I was screaming.”
“Same thing.”
You rolled your eyes.
Peter smiled around his chopsticks.
Then he nudged his knee against yours.
“You still liked it.”
You glanced at him.
“Maybe.”
Peter’s grin widened.
“Oh, so you admit you like going on dates with me?”
“Don’t get excited.”
“Too late.”
You stole one of his dumplings.
Peter gasped.
“Hey.”
“You weren’t eating it.”
“I was absolutely eating it.”
“You’ve been staring at it for ten minutes.”
“It’s called appreciating my food.”
“You’re dramatic.”
Peter leaned back against the couch.
“I’m Spider-Man. Drama is kind of the job description.”
You snorted.
He smiled.
Then, quieter, he said, “I like this better.”
You looked over.
“This?”
He gestured vaguely toward the apartment.
“You. Me. Chinese food. No one trying to punch me through a building.”
You smiled.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Peter’s shoulder settled against yours.
For a few minutes, neither of you said anything.
The city hummed outside your window. Sirens echoed somewhere downtown. Rain tapped softly against the glass.
Peter picked up another noodle.
Then looked at you.
“You know, I could eat this every night.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Chinese food?”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“Definitely the Chinese food.”
You stared at him.
Peter’s ears turned pink.
“I walked into that one.”
“You really did.”
He laughed, dropping his head against your shoulder.
˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ THOSE EYES, I STILL KNOW ━━━━ peter parker
pairings. peter parker x new avenger!reader
summary. after meeting spiderman, something inside you tells you that you’ve met the man beneath the mask in the past, and once you see those eyes again, everything you once thought was lost returns with the promise of a new beginning.
word count. 4.2k
warnings. BRAND NEW DAY SPOILERS!! english is not my first language. reader is female. reader was an avenger and now is part of the thunderbolts. reader is a tracker/hound. yelena cameo. father figure!bucky. slight angst. happy ending.
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Memory is the capacity all human beings have to store and retrieve previously learned information. Experiences, our knowledge, precious memories, and moments spent with loved ones are stored in our long-term memory, remaining in our minds for life.
But what happens when part of your memory cannot be recovered?
The consequences of Doctor Strange's spell were clear; everyone who knew Peter Parker would forget him forever, with no trace left of the warm-smiling boy with a heart of gold who would do anything for the people he loved most. It was a consequence that would save the world, but it wouldn't save the friendly neighborhood Spiderman from the pain that came with letting go of not only his identity as Peter Parker, but also an entire life built around aunt May, the Avengers, Happy, his friends, and the love of his life, you.
Letting you go was the hardest decision he'd ever had to make. And how could it not be? For years you'd been side by side, overcoming every adversity that came your way. It was in the fight against Captain America that you’d met, and from that moment on, your hearts had never stopped beating for each other.
Loving you was easy; loving you was feeling a breath of fresh air every day that gave him a purpose to get up for, an inexhaustible stroke of luck that made him invincible no matter how complicated his life became. In short, for Peter, you were his driving force and lifeline, someone who could understand and love the boy beneath the suit of the Spiderman suit and, at the same time, the local vigilante who regularly protected New York.
So, of course, for him, letting you go was like dying while still breathing in the putrid smell of a place he could no longer call home.
And even though in your mind there was no memory that Peter Parker ever belonged to your chaotic life, the body remembers.
Sooner or later, all memories suppressed by Stephen Strange's spell would cease, and perhaps your path and his would cross once again in an attempt to make up for the lost time…at least that’s what he still hoped for, even though four years had passed since the multiverse had opened and closed with the promise of leaving a ghost of Spiderman’s true identity in everyone’s lives.
Now, all he knew about you was through the news reports that showed you alongside the rest of your new team, the New Avengers. Despite all the years that had passed, he still wasn't strong enough to approach you and confess everything he had written on that crumpled piece of paper, stained with the faded traces of the tears he shed on his nights of utter solitude. For the time being, that paper was hidden in the coffee cup he once ordered just to be close to his friends one last time. It was the only evidence of who that boy was, at least, it was the only one he allowed himself to have.
For the moment, it was still just him against some criminal trying to disrupt the peace on the streets of New York, and thanks to the new settings he'd created on his phone, he could instantly know when the city was in danger and be ready to come to the rescue like the admired and respected Spiderman. Fortunately, there wasn't nearly as much crime as before, thanks to him and his work alongside the police and detective DeWolff.
But the peace the city was trying to get used to did not last that much longer.
Damage control was under attack again, for the fourth time in a month, and things were spiraling out of control. Peter couldn't stop feeling those strange sensations in his body, like it was bracing for something. His headaches were only getting worse, and no amount of aspirin would do the trick to make them go away.
And what happened in the last attack, when people like the old lady who had driven the tank and that guard who let the Scorpion go, seemed to be mind-controlled by someone else in the shadows, which only made the situation worse. It made him realize that he needed help from someone, someone who knew how to search for a person, who had more access to information he couldn't.
That person? Yelena Belova, the new Black Widow.
Peter knew she could help him, just like on previous occasions when he’d needed her services, or all those other times when he just needed to talk to someone and Yelena would ask stories involving her sister Natasha.
Seeing her meant hearing about you, which was a bonus, and something that sent his heart racing.
Just thinking about the possibility of knowing something beyond what the news, magazines, or interviews said about you and the new Avengers made him ecstatic, eager to learn about this new mind-controlling threat and, if the universe allowed it, knowing about you.
What Peter Parker didn’t expect when he arrived at the place where Yelena had summoned him to —which seemed to be a Russian spa rather than an actual office— was that, first, Black Widow was in a heated pool completely naked, asking him to take off his clothes, and second, she wasn’t alone.
Because next to Yelena, there was you, a little embarrassed by Yelena's lack of filter but at the same time ashamed of having to be naked in front of a total stranger, at least, that's what your mind was telling you.
This wasn't what Yelena promised you for a "girls' day out."
It seemed as if the world had stopped for an eternity for Peter, who looked at you with a gaze filled with all the emotions that flooded over him every time he thought of you or saw you, until the russian spy caught his attention.
“Helloo? Earth to Spiderboy,” called Black Widow after he didn’t answer her, and snapped off his daydream.
Filled with a flurry of nerves, he took off his suit, leaving only his mask on, and went into the water, trying to keep his body from tensing up and forgetting the real reason he was there now that you were here.
“I hope you don’t mind her being here. I tricked her into coming but i think she can help with your little problem,” Yelena said, pointing her thumb at you.
You waved to the masked hero with an awkward smile, not really knowing what was going on. Yelena hadn't mentioned anything about a meeting with Spiderman; you were supposed to go out so you wouldn't be stuck with Alexei and John competing over who was better than Captain America again.
While Spiderman and Lena were exchanging theories about what was happening with the Damage Control buildings and the attacks they were receiving, you just watched them, listening carefully to what they were saying and drawing your own conclusions.
“You said that the person who was controlling the workers and the old lady who was driving spoke directly at you, right?” you asked, trying to prove a theory you had.
“Uhm– Well– Yeah, it was like they were trying to see right through me,” Spiderman explained, feeling the heat rise to his ears and cheeks when he heard your voice.
He was lucky to have the mask on because hearing you, speaking directly to him after everything that had happened four years ago, was like falling in love with you all over again, just like when you spoke for the first time at the airport in Germany.
His heart was about to burst out of his chest and his stomach was churning, just like that time. He was lucky that the two women in front of him couldn't see his face.
The only difference between then and now was that both of you had grown up, your features making you look older, wiser and more mature. Your eyes carrying the burden of loss, sadness and new beginnings, a life he could no longer be a part of.
At that moment, the only thought running through his mind was simply being able to take off the stupid mask he was wearing and kiss you with that sweet gentleness that used to bring you so much comfort and security.
“Are you even listening to what Puppy here is saying?” Yelena interrupted his reverie yet again.
“S-sorry, what?/I told you to stop calling me that,” you and Spiderman said at the same time.
“She’s telling you something that could help you and you’re in another world, Spidey. It's rude,” Yelena pointed out, and you didn’t know where to hide.
It was true that the hero in front of you seemed not to have heard anything you'd said in the last minute, as if he'd been momentarily disconnected from himself. You couldn't help but feel something strange in your chest when you looked at him again, even without seeing his face, your heart started pounding faster than usual.
It must be the nerves, you thought as you tried to explain everything again.
“I was saying that maybe that person–”
“Leshy,” Yelena interrupted.
“Yes, Leshy,” you corrected, rolling your eyes before continuing, “He probably knows you, or at least know you have arachnid powers. Maybe he sees you as someone who's like him? Criminals often gravitate towards those they see similar to themselves…”
“Good one, Puppy,” Yelena praised.
“Thank you,” you smiled, ignoring the nickname for now.
"Wow, that's– that's a good theory, seriously. Thank you. You’ve alwa– I mean, I hadn't considered that," Spiderman said, impressed and hoping you hadn't caught his near slip-up.
You did, but you tried to not overthink it.
After a few more minutes, Yelena started rambling about small potatoes and big potatoes, apparently a topic she was far too passionate about to explain what you guys did compared to what Spiderman did in New York City.
“You should hurry and find out who that person is. I remember someone who was close to me had similar powers to those you mentioned, and believe me, things can get worse way too fast,” you warned before the masked man began to emerge from the pool, remembering when Wanda had mentally controlled you and the rest of the Avengers during the fight against Ultron years ago, a memory you were not to be very fond of.
“I’ll go to Damage Control and ask them myself,” the hero concluded, finally emerging from the water.
It was at that moment that you caught a familiar scent in the air coming from him, a very familiar one that didn't remind you of anyone in particular but at the same time made your heart beat a thousand miles an hour, heat rising to your cheeks without you being able to control it. When the hero was ready to leave, you spoke before it was too late.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Spiderman”
“T–thank you, it was the same for me,” he replied nervously before leaving the room.
Little did you know that seeing you again reopened a wound that hadn't yet healed, but it’d also given him even greater motivation to find the person behind all the attacks on Damage Control.
Meanwhile, Yelena looked at you with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous smile.
"What?"
“Do you have a crush on Spiderman?” she asked with the same smile.
“Of course not! It’s just that…I don’t know, talking to him felt like I’d already met him and his scent–”
“Ew! I don’t want to hear it anymore,” Yelena cut you off, submerging herself in the water while you were left thinking about the interaction you’d just had.
And if Spiderman was a complete stranger to you, why did you feel this pressure in your chest that told you otherwise? It was impossible that you knew who he really was; you remembered working with him, but he never took off his mask, just like now, when he hadn't either.
Weird, you thought, with the feeling in your chest giving you a headache that lasted even when you arrived at the old Avengers tower that now belonged to you and the rest of the losers that Valentina called the New Avengers.
Bob had prepared you some herbal tea for you to soothe the pain you were feeling, and Bucky tried to talk to you about what was happening, being the only one who had known you for a long time, but you declined his offer with a tired smile, promising to tell him everything soon.
When you were in your room, you decided to investigate what the arachnid had said, as well as search the internet for what you were feeling and also started reading the old files that were written about the friendly neighborhood spiderman.
A day had passed since your conversation with Spiderman in Yelena's office, and that feeling you had when you were talking to him and smelled his scent still lingered within you, except now something new was part of the equation.
Inevitably, during your research last night, you had fallen asleep. Apparently, you had searched enough for your brain to activate and started dreaming about someone you didn't remember meeting, but that was the thing about dreams, they could create a whole relationship with someone you saw passing by on the streets.
Even so, when you woke up in the morning, dried tears remained on your face, evidence of something much bigger than you could remember.
Your chest tightened when you thought of that someone, that boy from your dream who held you tightly in his arms and promised that everything would be okay, even though all you heard in his voice was agony alongside your desperate cries to stop what was happening.
Again, your heart wouldn't stop beating with a force you’d never felt before, as if you were missing someone you couldn't quite recall, longing for a warmth like the sun being close to you.
And despite never having seen his face in your dream, for some strange reason, all you could think about was how the only person who could possibly have the answer was the friendly Spiderman, which was totally ridiculous and and beyond insane. You didn't even know his identity, and you didn't remember him being close to you during the time when you both belonged to the Avengers.
Were you going crazy?
“Are you alright, kid? You’ve been staring at that plate of pancakes for almost an hour,” Bucky Barnes said, who was sitting next to you. He was the only one who got up so early in the morning and the only one who knew you well enough to know that you were acting differently.
You looked at him for a second before nodding, unsure how to explain what was happening to you, but you knew that if anyone could understand, he would be the one. You took a deep breath before telling him absolutely everything that had happened in the last 24 hours.
“I know it sounds far-fetched, I know…but there’s something about that guy that reminds me of someone, someone i loved very much but can’t remember who he was,” you explained, your voice trembling and afraid that everything you were saying sounded completely crazy.
“I understand,” Bucky replied, with a nostalgic smile that expressed much more than he let on, “Kid, you know my head has been a minefield for a long time, and when i couldn’t even remember Steve, something inside me told me i knew him anyway…”
"Yeah?"
“Of course i did, what I’m trying to say is that– it seems like your body, your heart, remembers something that was altered in your memory and is trying to break free,” he explained softly, and clarity began to dawn on you after his confession.
“I think…I think you’re right, Buck. Maybe it’s best to look for the answer, isn’t it?” you asked, even though you already knew what you would do it.
“I looked for one when i felt like that, you should too,” he encouraged you.
With a smile and a quick side hug, you said goodbye to Bucky, grateful for his words and quickly leaving the tower.
You opened the app that Spiderman fans used to track his location. It had been created by a guy named Ned Leeds, whom you somehow knew, but you couldn't quite put your finger on why you did. That same feeling from before resurfaced, a gnawing pressure, awakened by not knowing exactly what you were forgetting.
But while you were waiting to see the masked hero's location, a notification from an unknown contact lit up your screen.
Hi! Ms. Black Widow gave me your number :)
I hope you don't mind – S
Meeting at the top of the Empire State Building at night was private and beyond intimate; no one would be eavesdropping on your conversation with Spiderman. On the other hand, your nerves were on edge, your heart pounding in your chest again at the thought of being alone with New York's local hero, who hadn't said much more in his message than the meeting place and that it was urgent, which only made you more nervous.
When you reached the top, Spiderman was already there, holding something in his hands as he paced back and forth as if he were feeling the same way you were.
“Hey…You wanted to see me?” You asked timidly, your right hand holding your left forearm, trying to pretend that you weren’t on edge and your heart wasn’t about to jump out of your mouth.
Spiderman turned towards you at that moment, abruptly stopping whatever he’d been thinking before you arrived and approaching you. The air carried back that scent you had smelled in the Russian spa, the same one you had felt in your dream— a comforting, clean, soft musk aroma that reminded you of a hug from someone you’d loved in the past. He smelled like home, warm and safe.
“Hi…yeah, Uh– sorry, I didn’t want to say much over the phone, i was afraid you wouldn’t come or wouldn’t want help with what Yelena said about the small potatoes and–”
“Don’t worry,” you smiled at him, “I can help you with whatever you need.”
“Thank you,” he replied softly, his voice echoing in your head again.
You both sat on the floor near the building's optical towers, and it was when the arachnid started asking you if you could help him find a teenager who apparently seemed to be the threat that had been attacking Damage Control to look for this «V-max» thing. You felt a sense of déjà vu, a feeling that you had once helped him with a similar situation to the one he was going through right now, but again, that mental block in your mind prevented you from going beyond what your memories allowed.
It was when his hand raised an old, used paper cup towards you that a chill ran through your body, a violent reaction that took the air out of your lungs and made you quickly stand up from where you were.
Your skin prickled, and it wasn't from the cold of the city at night, it was from the electric sensation that ran through your body, as if a switch that had been off for a long time had been abruptly flipped.
The person next to you wasn't just a former colleague you'd crossed paths with in the past, he wasn't a stranger. You knew him, and quite well it seemed, but the reason you couldn't recall his name or face was unknown to you, though perhaps not to him.
“Excuse me, but…do we know each other?” you asked Spiderman in a whisper, who, while you were lost in your thoughts, had also gotten up, worried about your reaction to his gesture.
“What did you just say?” he asked, his voice strained and tense. You could smell the levels of cortisol his brain had begun producing after hearing what you’d said, confirming his theory that this person in front of you had something to do with what was happening to you since yesterday.
“It’s true, isn’t it? Were we– were we friends? Something more? Please, ever since i saw you yesterday, i’ve been feeling like a thread is pulling me towards you, and my heart keeps racing every time i think about your scent, your voice, your face, which is still a mystery to me,” you blurted out quickly, trying to recall everything that was happening to you so that he could understand. “I swear i won’t tell anyone, but please…let me see your face…” you begged.
At that moment, it was his turn to stop breathing, not knowing what to do. This was the scenario he had dreamed of for all these years, and though part of him said it wasn't a good idea to succumb to your pleas, the other, much larger part allowed your hands —those hands he missed so much— to grasp the edges of his mask and beginning to slowly lift it, gradually revealing his face until the mask fell delicately to the ground.
His eyes, which he had unconsciously closed, opened slowly, and your gasp was the first thing he heard before noticing your eyes filling with tears that streamed freely down your face.
Your chest tightened again with a new feeling; memories lost in a locked cage began to flood your head. Silences that spoke louder than a thousand words, conversations that lasted until dawn, shared laughter over jokes that only you and him knew the meaning of, soft whispers murmuring those three words that many were afraid to promise.
A name came to mind as the face of the person in front of you filled those spaces where you thought you had been alone. That name was Peter Parker.
Peter, the boy you’d met thanks to Tony in Germany.
Peter, the boy who, despite not having known you for very long, was already more of a friend than all of the people who had surrounded you for years.
Peter, the boy to whom your heart belonged to, the love of your life that you’d lost thanks to the stupid spell of the stupid Sorcerer Supreme.
Peter Parker, who stood before you with that look that even with a spell cast upon you, you could never forget. Those eyes, full of sweetness and melancholy, watched you as if you were about to disappear at any moment, his hand extended towards you, waiting for you to take it as proof that you were real, and that you weren't going anywhere.
“Peter!” You exclaimed, hugging him with a force capable of knocking you both to the ground, and he immediately returned the embrace, tears welling in his eyes and a relieved laugh escaping his throat as he heard you say his name after so long n of not hearing it.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered against your ear after kissing the top of your head, and you smiled, unwilling to let go of him.
“I love you, I’ll love you forever, baby, I promise,” you whispered as your hands gently cupped his face and your lips met in a kiss that unleashed a torrent of emotions within you.
Your breaths mingled and Peter's hands wrapped around your waist to get as close to you as possible, a muffled moan escaping your mouth as your hands played with his hair, recalling the countless times you had been in the same position.
It was a kiss filled with love, longing, and the memory of something you thought you'd never had.
And the thing about memories is that, despite being repressed, they will always find a way out. Thoughts of the past may not reside in our memory, as if a wall were blocking their escape, but the truth is that memories don't only exist in the mind.
The body remembers an unavoidable truth, whether it's a scent, a melody, or the voice of the love of your life yearning for you even after so much time apart.
For Peter Parker, meeting you had been his salvation, and for you, remembering him was like learning to breathe again. And if you had overcome a spell that wasn't supposed to be broken, you could handle that little bugger that was threatening New York City again, and this time, you would fight as you always had before.
You would do it together, for the rest of your life.
author's note. my first peter parker shot! i saw Brand New Day on wednesday and needed to write something about the movie. I cried so much watching it and loved the interactions between Peter and Yelena. Did anyone else miss Happy's absence? Cuz i did ):
btw, i used google translate for this, i proofread it and i think it’s okay but im sorry if there's any mistake!
P.S. i hope someone noticed that when I wrote Peter from reader's pov, he was just spiderman, but when i wrote about Peter, he was just himself and nothing else T-T
summary: you've been observing your neighbor peter ever since he moved in 4 years ago. hes quiet. smart. painfully nice. oh and hes also spiderman- not that you were going to let on that you knew. not until the noises of a man in pain next door got too much for you to ignore.
warnings/tags: porn w some plot, brand new day era peter!, spoilers equivalent to watching the trailer, smut (oral f receiving, being tied webbed up, rough sex, very much dom! mean! peter, multiple orgasms, squirting, bruising, aftercare) neighbors to something
a/n: zendaya pls dont fight me for this
masterlist // join the taglist
series masterlist // part two
You were stretched out on the couch in a pair of old shorts and a hoodie that you couldn't remember where it'd came from. The TV murmured some mindless afternoon show you weren’t really watching. Outside, Queens hummed its usual Sunday quiet—distant traffic, a dog barking two streets over, the low thrum of the city that never fully slept.
Then the noise hit.
A sharp, wet crack followed by something heavy slamming into a wall hard enough to rattle the shared plaster between your apartments. Glass shattered. A low, guttural sound that didn’t belong to any human throat bled through the wall, half-growl, half-pain.
You were on your feet before the last echo died.
Four years of living next to Peter Parker had taught you the difference between him being clumsy and him being in trouble. You barely knew him after all this time living next to each other. You knew that you liked him. Knew that when you'd both come home late at night— meeting in the shared hallway— you always noticed the dark bags under his eyes and the slight tremor in his hand as he opened his apartment door.
You knew about the man behind the mask.
You didn’t bother knocking. The knob turned under your palm and the door swung open on a scene that made your stomach drop.
Webbing.
It coated everything. Thick, glistening strands stretched from ceiling to floor, across the kitchen counters, over the cracked television, wrapping the furniture like a cocoon spun by something frantic and enormous. The air was heavy with that sharp, organic scent of fresh silk and something darker underneath—sweat, adrenaline, the copper edge of blood.
Peter was on the far side of the living room, collapsed against the wall. His hands frantically covered his ears, hands trembling, chest rising and falling in an unnatural pattern. The familiar blue-and-red suit was shredded across his torso, torn open like something had clawed its way out from the inside. More webbing leaked from his wrists in uncontrolled pulses, sticking to the floor, the walls, his own skin. His fingers flexed and the strands thickened, twitching like living things.
“Peter—”
His head snapped toward you so fast it was almost inhuman.
The eyes that met yours weren’t fully his anymore.
The whites had darkened, pupils blown wide. When he spoke, his voice was rough, layered, like two people trying to use the same throat.
“Stay back.”
You didn’t.
You stepped carefully over a thick strand of webbing that still quivered on the floor. “What- What's happening to you?”
A humorless laugh scraped out of him. One hand mover to press against his temple, webbing still dripping from his wrist in lazy, involuntary strands. “Should've heard you come in. Everything is so fucking loud.”
His gaze flicked over you—hooded, assessing, too sharp. Something hungry and not entirely human lived behind those eyes now. You watched him fight it, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped.
“You knew,” he said quietly. Not a question. “About the suit. And you didn't say anything? How long?”
“Long enough.” You kept your voice steady even as another thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist and slapped wetly against the wall beside your head. “Saw you swinging back into your place one night when I couldn't sleep. I never said anything because you clearly needed the secret. But this? This is different.”
Peter pushed off the wall. The movement was too fluid, too many joints working in ways human joints shouldn’t. He stopped a few feet from you, chest rising and falling hard. The torn suit hung off him, exposing pale skin.
“I don't know what's happening,” he admitted, voice dropping. “Instincts. Hunger. Everything feels… louder. Stronger. I almost put my fist through the wall earlier because the neighbor’s music was too much. And the webbing—” He lifted his hand— more silk poured out, wrapping around his own forearm in tight, pulsing coils. “I can’t stop it. It’s like my body is rewriting the rules without asking me first.”
You took another step closer. The air between you felt charged, thick with the scent of him.
“Then let me help,” you said. “You’re not doing this alone. Not anymore.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed, the reflective sheen catching the light. For a second the man you knew was still there—the awkward, brilliant, exhausting friend who’d spent years pretending he was just a guy with bad luck and worse timing. Then something deeper stirred, and the look he gave you turned heavier, more intent.
“You barely know me. You shouldn’t be this close,” he warned, but he didn’t move away. “I don’t know what I’m becoming. And right now every instinct I’ve got is telling me to—”
He cut himself off, throat working.
Peter moved.
Not the familiar, slightly awkward steps you’d watched from afar for years. This was something else entirely—low, fluid, predatory. He circled you in a slow arc, bare feet silent on the web-slick floor, head tilted just a fraction too far. Those dark, reflective eyes never left your face. The torn suit clung to him in ruined strips, and every step made fresh silk drip from his wrists in lazy, glistening threads that stuck to the hardwood like living things.
“Get out.”
The words came out layered, rough, almost a snarl. He stopped a few feet away, shoulders rolling like he was fighting the urge to drop lower. “I’m serious. Walk out that door right now.”
You stayed exactly where you were.
“I’m not scared of you.”
A sharp, humorless sound left his throat. He stepped closer. The air between you thickened with the scent of him. His nostrils flared once, deliberate.
“Liar.”
Another step. He was inside your space now, close enough that you could see every vein, every scar, every time one of his muscles twitched. When he spoke again, the voice was quieter, meaner.
“I can feel it. Your heart’s hammering. Pulse jumping right there—” His eyes dropped to the side of your throat. “And that smell.” He inhaled again, slower this time, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. “You’re getting wet. Standing in the middle of my apartment like a defiant brat while I turn into a monster. You’re fucking dripping for it.”
Heat flooded your face. You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. The longer he circled, the worse it got—every predatory shift of his body, every dark glance, every warning he threw at you only made the ache between your legs sharper.
Peter’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t a smile.
“Look at you. So much time of being the careful, quiet neighbor and the second I start turning into something that wants to eat you, your body decides it’s the hottest thing it’s ever seen.” He leaned in just enough that his breath ghosted over your ear. “You’re not scared of me. You’re desperate for me. That’s so fucking pathetic. And so fucking hot.”
You swallowed. “I still want you. Not just this— the real you.”
The admission landed heavy between you.
For half a second the familiar Peter flickered back into his eyes—the one who you could hear through the walls tinkering away at two in the morning. Then the arachnid thing surged again and his expression went sharp, almost cruel.
“You want this?” He gestured at himself with a web-slick hand—the torn suit, the dark eyes, the silk still pulsing from his wrists in uncontrolled strands. “You want this version of me that looks at you and only sees prey? That wants to wrap you up and keep you?”
He took another step. You backed up on instinct and your shoulders hit the wall. He didn’t give you space. One hand planted beside your head. The other hovered near your hip, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab.
“I can smell how bad you want it,” he murmured, voice dropping into something filthy and low. “Your cunt’s practically begging. All that wetness just sitting there, waiting for something dangerous to notice. And I’m noticing, sweetheart. I’m noticing real fucking hard.”
His free hand finally settled at your waist, not quite gripping, just resting there with dangerous weight.
“I’m trying,” he said, and for a moment the struggle was clear in his face—jaw clenched, eyes flickering between human and something darker. “I’m trying so hard not to take what you’re offering. Because once I start, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. And you—” His gaze dragged down your body, lingering openly between your legs. “You’re standing here like you want me to fail.”
He leaned in until his mouth was almost against yours, breath hot, voice pure filth.
“So tell me again you’re not scared. Tell me while your thighs are pressing together and your pulse is screaming for me to pin you to this wall and find out just how wet you can get for the monster next door.”
The webbing under his hand pulsed once, tightening against the plaster.
Peter’s control was slipping by the second.
And he was still right there, waiting to see if you’d push him over the edge.
“I’m not scared of you.”
Peter’s eyes flashed. The words had barely left your mouth before thick, warm webbing shot from both his wrists. It hit the wall on either side of your head with a wet slap, then snapped tight around your wrists, pinning them high and wide. The silk was hot, almost feverish, and it contracted once—deliberate—pulling your arms taut until your shoulders burned.
He stepped in close, chest nearly brushing yours, and tipped your chin up with two sticky fingers.
“Say it again.”
“Nope.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “Still not scared.”
Something dark and delighted flickered across his face. Then his hands dropped to the waistband of your sweatpants. He didn’t bother with the drawstring. He just ripped. The fabric gave like paper under that unnatural strength, the sound loud and final in the quiet apartment. Cool air hit your bare thighs. Your underwear was left behind—plain, nothing special—except for the very obvious dark, soaked patch right in the center.
Peter went still.
Then he laughed. Low, mean, almost delighted.
“Jesus Christ.” He dragged two fingers slowly over the wet spot, pressing just hard enough to feel how the fabric clung. “Look at that. You’re soaked through. Standing here being a lying brat, telling me you’re not scared while your cunt is making a mess of itself.”
He rubbed again, slower, watching your face as the damp cotton dragged over your clit. “This isn’t the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man anymore, sweetheart. This is the version that will treat you like the prey you are. And you’re dripping for it like a desperate little bug.”
His voice cracked for half a second. The mean edge faltered. His eyes flashed back to those rich browns you always got yourself lost in.
“Fuck—I’m sorry. You should still leave. I mean it. I don’t… I don’t know how much longer I can—”
The arachnid thing surged back. His fingers pressed harder against the soaked fabric, tracing the outline of your folds through the thin cotton.
“But you won’t leave, will you? You’re standing here getting wetter every time I open my mouth. Look at you. Thighs already shaking and I haven’t even touched skin yet.”
You felt it happen—the sharp, helpless clench deep inside you, the fresh rush of wetness that soaked through the fabric under his fingers. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat.
Peter’s eyes went completely black.
“Oh,” he breathed. “You liked that?”
He dropped to his knees so fast it was almost a fall. Both hands hooked into the sides of your underwear. One sharp pull and the fabric tore straight down the middle, the ruined scraps falling to the floor. Cool air hit your bare, dripping cunt. For one heartbeat he just stared, chest heaving, silk still leaking from his wrists and sticking to your thighs.
Then the last thread of control snapped with an almost audible crack.
A low, animal sound ripped out of him. He shoved your thighs apart with both hands, gripped hard enough to bruise, and buried his face between your legs like a man starving. There was no careful exploration, no soft start. His tongue dragged flat and filthy from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, greedy stroke, and the sound he made against you was pure hunger.
“Fuck—taste that,” he growled into your folds, voice muffled and wrecked. “So fucking wet. Dripping down my chin already.” He licked again, deeper this time, tongue pushing inside you just to feel how easily you opened for him. “Gonna eat this pretty cunt until you forget how to speak. Until the only thing you can do is come on my tongue while I decide whether to keep you or ruin you.”
His mouth sealed over your clit and sucked hard, no mercy, while two sticky fingers pushed into you without warning and curled. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter as your body jerked.
Peter Parker was gone.
What was left between your thighs only wanted to devour.
He ate you like he’d been starving for days—tongue flat and relentless, dragging over every sensitive inch before pushing deep inside you just to fuck you with it. The wet heat of his mouth sealed over your cunt completely, and the sounds that filled the apartment were filthy and constant— the soft, slick noise of his tongue working you open, the wet suck each time he pulled back just enough to breathe, the low, broken groans that vibrated straight against your clit.
Two fingers joined almost immediately, thick enough that it made the stretch burn in the best way. He curled them hard against that spot that made your vision white out and sucked your clit between his lips at the same time, the combination brutal and perfect. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter every time your body jerked. He didn’t give you any time to breathe—just kept going, tongue fucking into you in deep, greedy strokes while his fingers worked faster, wetter, the slick sounds of it getting louder the more you dripped for him.
“That’s it,” he growled against your folds, voice rough and muffled. “Let me feel it. You’re so fucking close I can taste it.”
The pressure built in waves. First a sharp, coiling heat low in your belly, then a deeper ache that made your hips try to roll against his face even as he held you open. He chased every tiny shift, adjusting the angle of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers, until the only thing you could do was take it. Your cunt clenched around him. A broken sound tore out of your throat. The second the orgasm hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted, a hard, pulsing rush of wetness that hit his mouth and chin and dripped down his throat in messy streaks. He didn’t pull back. He just groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted and kept licking through it, messy and greedy, chasing every drop until your legs were shaking and you were whimpering from the overstimulation.
When the last tremor left you, Peter finally leaned back on his heels.
Your release was dripping off his chin, shining on his lips, streaking down his neck. He looked at the mess you’d made of him and laughed—low, mean, delighted.
“Oh, sweetheart.” He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and then licked that clean too. “You just fucking squirted on me. Look at that. One little push and you made a mess all over my face.” His eyes were almost pure black now, pupils blown wide with hunger and amusement. “I’ve heard you, you know. Through the wall. Late at night when you think no one’s listening. The soft little sounds you make when you’re getting yourself off alone in your apartment. Always wondered what it would take to make you get loud. Turns out all it took was me on my knees with my tongue in your cunt.”
He stood in one fluid motion. The remaining scraps of the suit came off with two sharp rips—fabric tearing like it was nothing. Then he was naked in front of you, cock hard and heavy between his legs, the head already shiny with precum. Every muscle in his body looked coiled and ready.
He didn’t give you time to catch your breath.
Why would he?
One sticky hand closed around your waist, the other around the back of your neck. He ripped you off the wall, your wrists aching at their release and spun you, marched you the few steps to the webbed kitchen counter, and bent you over it hard enough that your chest hit the cool surface with a soft grunt. Your cheek pressed to the webs, sticking you in place. Your ass was up, completely exposed, still dripping from the orgasm he’d forced out of you.
Peter stepped in behind you. The thick, hot length of his cock dragged through the mess between your thighs, slow and deliberate, smearing your own wetness up and down your folds.
“Look at this,” he murmured, voice pure filth. One hand spread you open so he could watch the way his cock slid through your slick. “So fucking wet. You came all over my face and your cunt’s still greedy for more. Is this what you wanted when you walked in here? To get bent over my counter like a little toy? Is this what you think about in bed?”
He leaned over your back, mouth near your ear, the head of his cock catching on your entrance with every slow roll of his hips.
“I can feel how bad you want it. You’re dripping down my cock. Such a messy, desperate little thing.” A soft, mean laugh brushed your skin. “I’m gonna fuck you until you squirt again. Until the only thing you can do is take it and thank me for not webbing you to the ceiling while I do it. And you’re gonna love every second of it, aren’t you?”
The blunt head of him pressed against you, not quite pushing in, just resting there—hot, heavy, promising.
Peter’s voice dropped even lower, rough with the last scraps of the man fighting the hunger.
“Tell me you still want this.”
“I want you.”
The words were barely out of your mouth before Peter drove into you in one hard, unbroken thrust.
The stretch was brutal—thick and sudden and so deep it punched the air from your lungs. Your cheek stuck against the webbed laminate as he bottomed out and stayed there for half a second, just breathing, just feeling the way your cunt clenched around him like it was trying to keep him.
Then he moved.
He fucked you hard and fast, hips snapping forward with a force that made the counter creak under you. Every thrust was deep, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet apartment. His hands locked around your hips hard enough that you already knew there would be bruises tomorrow—dark fingerprints where his fingers dug into soft flesh and held you exactly where he wanted you.
“Fuck—look at you,” he gritted out, voice rough and mean. “Taking it like you were made for this. I didn’t even think you could handle getting fucked this hard.” Another sharp snap of his hips drove a broken sound out of your throat. “But you’re dripping down my cock every time I bury it in you. So fucking greedy.”
You hadn’t known either. The pace was almost too much—too deep, too fast, the stretch burning in the best way with every drag of his cock. His blunt head kissing your cervix with every thrust. Your body still hadn’t fully come down from the last orgasm and already the pressure was coiling again, sharp and overwhelming. Peter didn’t slow. He just kept slamming into you, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair and pull your head back so he could watch your face.
“That’s it. Let me feel it. You’re gonna squirt on my cock this time, aren’t you?” His voice dropped into something filthy and delighted. “I can already feel you getting tighter. Do it. Make a mess of me again.”
The second orgasm hit harder than the first. Your cunt locked down around him as you squirted again, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and thighs and dripped onto the floor between your feet. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and fucked you through it, chasing every flutter and clench until your legs were shaking and you were gasping against the counter.
Strong hands hauled you up and carried you the few steps to the couch. He dropped onto the cushions and pulled you with him in the same motion, settling you over his lap so you straddled him. Your knees sank into the cushions on either side of his hips. Before you could even try to find your balance he planted both hands on your waist and started fucking up into you.
There was no pretense that you were in control.
Peter used you like a toy, lifting you just enough to drop you back down onto his cock while he thrust up to meet every fall. The angle was devastatingly deep. Every upward snap of his hips forced a wet, broken sound out of you. His grip never eased. Fresh bruises bloomed under his fingers as he held you exactly where he wanted and took what he needed.
“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded and dark with hunger. “Sitting on my cock like a perfect little fucktoy. Can’t even move unless I let you.” He thrust up harder, watching the way your body took every inch. “You’re so wet it’s running down my balls. Still gushing for me like you can’t help it. Such a messy, desperate thing.”
One hand left your hip to wrap lightly around your throat—while the other kept you steady for the relentless pace of his hips. The look in his eyes was pure predator.
Peter’s grip on your hips never eased. He kept fucking up into you in deep, relentless strokes, using your body exactly the way he wanted while his voice stayed low and filthy against your ear.
“That’s it—take it. Look at how easy you open up for me. Sitting on my cock like you were made to get used.” Another hard thrust forced a broken sound out of your throat. “You’re shaking again. I can feel it. That pretty cunt’s about to soak me one more time, isn’t it? Go on. Squirt on me again. Make a mess while I fuck you through it.”
The pressure built too fast, too sharp. Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips. Every upward snap of his cock dragged over that perfect spot until the only thing you could do was just take it. When it hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted around him for the third time, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and the skin of his stomach. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and kept thrusting through it, chasing every flutter and clench.
“Fuck—yes. Just like that. So fucking messy for me.”
His rhythm finally stuttered. The mean edge in his voice cracked into something rawer as his hips snapped up once, twice more, burying himself as deep as he could go. A low, guttural sound tore out of him when he came—hot, thick pulses spilling into you. He held you down through every spurt, grinding up into the mess he’d made of you until the last tremor left him.
Your strength gave out all at once.
You collapsed forward against his chest, forehead pressing to the damp skin of his shoulder, body still trembling with aftershocks. His cock twitched inside you one last time. For a long moment the only sound in the apartment was the two of you trying to breathe.
Then the change happened.
You felt it in the way his hands loosened. The bruising grip softened into something almost careful. When you managed to lift your head, his eyes were no longer that dark, reflective black. The familiar warm brown was fully back—wide, stunned, and filling fast with horror as the full weight of what he’d done settled over him.
Peter stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time.
His gaze dropped to the dark fingerprint shaped bruises already developing across your hips and thighs, to the torn scraps of clothing on the floor, to the mess of webbing and come and your own release still slick between your bodies. A shaky breath left him.
“Oh my god.”
His voice was his own again—quiet, wrecked, and already cracking with guilt.
“I—what did I just do to you?”
Peter’s hands were careful now.
He eased out of you slowly, like he was afraid even that small movement might hurt. A soft, broken sound left him at the loss of heat, but he didn’t linger on it. Instead he reached for the nearest blanket—one of the soft ones from the back of his couch—and wrapped it around both of you, tucking the edges in so your bare skin was shielded from the cool air. His arms slid under your thighs and back without asking. He lifted you like you weighed nothing.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your hair. “Just hold on to me.”
He carried you out of his apartment and the few steps across the hall to yours. The door was still unlocked from earlier. Inside, the quiet of your place felt almost surreal after everything. Peter walked straight to your bedroom and lowered you onto the bed with a gentleness that made your throat tight. He pulled the covers up over your still-trembling body, then brushed a strand of hair away from your face with the backs of his fingers.
“I’m going to take care of a few things next door,” he said softly. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
You nodded, too wrung out to speak. The door clicked shut behind him.
For a little while you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, body heavy and aching in places that hadn’t hurt an hour ago. The bruises on your hips already throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Between your legs you were sore and slick and still faintly pulsing with aftershocks. Your mind kept drifting—back to the way he’d looked at you when the black had first flooded his eyes, the mean, hungry things he’d said, the way he’d used your body like it belonged to him. And then the moment those eyes had cleared and pure horror had replaced the hunger.
You could hear him through the shared wall. The soft scrape of furniture being moved. Water running. The quiet, almost frantic sounds of someone trying to clean up evidence of something they couldn’t quite believe had happened.
When the door to your apartment opened again, Peter stepped inside carrying a small bag and wearing only a pair of soft gray sweatpants. His chest and shoulders were still bare, sweat dripped down and cooled along his muscles. He set the bag down and came straight to the bed, kneeling beside it so his face was level with yours.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “I’m going to run you a bath, okay? You’re… you’re covered in me. And I want to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere I can’t see.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He disappeared into your bathroom. The sound of water filling the tub was steady and soft. A few minutes later he returned, scooped you up again—blanket and all—and carried you into the steam-filled room.
The water was perfect, just on the edge of too warm. Peter eased you down into it first, then stepped out of his sweatpants and climbed in behind you. The tub wasn’t really big enough for two, but he made it work, stretching his legs on either side of yours and gently pulling you back until your spine rested against his chest. His arms came around your waist, loose and careful, like he was still afraid of holding too tight.
For a long moment he didn’t speak. He just reached for the washcloth, wet it, and began slowly cleaning the dried mess from your skin—your thighs, your stomach, the places where his hands had left marks. Every touch was deliberate. Tender.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper against the side of your neck.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I lost control. Completely. And I hurt you. I can see the bruises already and I… I hate that I did that.” His forehead pressed to your shoulder. “But I’m here now. I’ve got you. Just let me take care of you for a little while, okay?”
The water stayed warm around you both. Peter kept the washcloth moving in slow, careful strokes—down your arms, across your collarbones, along the tender insides of your thighs where the evidence of everything they’d done still lingered. He never rushed. Every pass of the cloth felt like an apology and a promise at the same time.
When he finally set it aside, he reached for the shampoo instead. Gentle fingers worked it through your hair, massaging your scalp with a tenderness that made your eyes sting. He rinsed it just as carefully, cupping water in his palm so none of it ran into your face. Then his arms slid back around your waist and he simply held you, chest rising and falling against your spine.
“It’s been getting worse for weeks,” he said eventually, voice low against the side of your neck. “The webs I can’t control. The strength that comes out of nowhere. The way every sound and smell is suddenly too much. But the instincts… those are the scariest part. There’s this constant pull to claim things. To protect. To take. And it’s getting harder to tell where the spider ends and I begin.”
His thumb traced absent circles against your stomach under the water.
“I’ve liked you for a long time,” he admitted, quieter now. “Longer than I probably should’ve. Four years of living next door, not saying anything to you because frankly— I'm an idiot. And this… whatever’s happening to me… it made all of that louder. Like the part of me that already wanted you suddenly had permission to stop being careful about it.”
You turned your head just enough to catch the edge of his profile. Steam curled around both of you.
“I’ve liked you too,” you said softly. “For a while now.”
Peter went still behind you. Then a shaky breath left him, warm against your damp skin. One hand lifted to brush a wet strand of hair behind your ear, the touch lingering.
“Are you scared of me?” he asked. The question was barely more than a whisper. “After everything I just did… after what I might keep becoming… are you scared?”
You shifted carefully in the water until you could look at him properly. His eyes were so clear again—familiar brown, open and uncertain and so painfully human. You reached up and rested your palm against his cheek.
“No,” you said, and meant every word. “I’m not scared of you. I’m here. For all of it. Whatever this turns into, I’m not going anywhere. We'll figure this out together.”
Something in his expression cracked open—relief and wonder and leftover guilt all tangled together. He leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, before guiding you back against his chest. His arms settled around you again, secure without being tight.
The water lapped gently at your skin. The bathroom was quiet and warm and safe. Peter’s heartbeat was steady under your ear. You let your eyes drift closed, the last of the tension finally leaving your body as the heat and the solid presence of him pulled you under.
You started to doze off right there in the bath, wrapped in his arms, at peace.
summary: ever since the world forgot peter parker, he’s kept exactly one promise: protect the people he loves, even if they never know his name. unfortunately for him, natasha romanoff made sure tony stark’s daughter would always notice when she was being followed.
warnings: memory-loss consequences, mentions of stalking, emotional angst, natasha romanoff’s training, english being not my first language.
the bell above the café door chimed softly.
peter didn’t look up.
he had learned that if he looked at every customer who walked in, he’d only end up disappointed. every few hours he’d convince himself that maybe, just maybe, someone would remember him.
no one ever did.
instead, he kept reading the same page of the physics textbook he’d been pretending to study for the last fifteen minutes while, through the reflection in the window, he watched her.
she looked… okay.
happy enough.
a little tired.
she laughed at something on her phone before ordering coffee. good. that was all he needed. he could leave now.
except he didn’t. because he’d told himself that every day for the past month.
just another five minutes. just until she leaves safely. just…
then the chair across from him scraped against the wooden floor.
peter froze.
“…hi.”
he slowly lowered his book.
reader smiled politely, almost apologetically.
“hi.” his brain completely stopped working.
she wasn’t supposed to be here.
she wasn’t supposed to even notice him.
she folded her arms on the table. “you’ve been following me for weeks.”
peter’s heart nearly stopped. “…i’m sorry?”
“you heard me.”
“i- i think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“no.” she tilted her head. “it’s definitely you.”
peter forced an awkward laugh.
“i think i’d remember following someone.”
“you’ve changed hoodies six times.”
his smile faltered.
“you alternate between three backpacks. you’ve started buying coffee from places you clearly don’t like because they’re on my route. and yesterday you spent forty-three minutes pretending to compare cereal brands.”
peter blinked. “…how do you know it was forty-three?”
she gave him a look. “because i was timing you.”
silence.
then she sighed. “i let it go the first week.”
peter considered jumping through the nearest window.
“the second week I assumed you were gathering courage to ask me out.”
his ears turned scarlet. “what?”
“the third week I realized you weren’t actually trying to approach me.” she leaned back. “so now I’m curious.” another beat. “you don’t seem dangerous.”
“no.”
“you don’t seem creepy.”
“…thanks?”
“you actually look guilty… so.” she rested her chin on her hand. “why are you following me?”
peter stared at her.
every answer he wanted to give sat painfully behind the one he couldn’t.
because you’re my best friend.
because i promised your dad.
because i couldn’t save aunt may, but i can make sure nothing happens to you.
instead. “i think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
she smiled. “there it is.”
“what?”
“you’re lying.”
peter swallowed.
reader reached for her coffee when the waiter placed it down.
she took one sip before speaking again. “you know…” her voice softened. “i was trained by natasha romanoff.”
peter almost groaned.
“she spent years teaching me how to spot surveillance.” she pointed casually toward the window. “you always stay where you can see exits.”
peter blinked.
“you never let anyone stand behind you.”
another blink.
“when you think i might’ve noticed you, you start reading.”
his eyes drifted to the textbook still open in front of him.
“and,” she continued, “you scan everyone’s hands before you look at their faces.”
peter slowly closed the book.
“…old habits.”
“military?”
he smiled faintly. “no.”
“former shield?”
“…no.”
“hired by someone?”
his stomach tightened. “…no.”
she studied him for a long moment.
then something shifted in her expression.
not suspicion.
sadness.
“you know…” she murmured, “it’s strange.”
peter looked at her.
“i feel like…” she frowned. “…i should know you.”
his breath caught.
she looked embarrassed by her own words. “that’s weird, right?”
“…maybe.”
“i’ve had this feeling for months.” she laughed quietly. “i’ll see someone wearing a red hoodie and think, there you are, and then…” she shrugged. “it’s never who I’m looking for.”
peter had to grip the edge of the table to stop his hands from shaking.
“you have one of those faces.”
“my face?”
“it feels…” she searched for the word. “…familiar.”
neither of them spoke.
finally, reader smiled. “anyway.” she stood, grabbing her cup. “I don’t know why you’re following me.”
peter lowered his eyes.
“but i don’t think it’s because you want to hurt me.”
“…no.”
“i think…” she said quietly, “…you’re making sure i’m okay.”
his throat tightened.
“i don’t know why.”
neither do i anymore, he almost admitted.
she took a step away before pausing. “if you’re ever done hiding…”
peter looked up.
“…i’d like to know your name.” she smiled one last time as she turned towards the door.
she already had one hand on the café door when she heard him.
“wait.”
reader turned around.
peter was already regretting it.
his chair had scraped loudly against the floor, every eye in the café briefly drifting toward him before returning to their own conversations.
he swallowed.
she waited. “yeah?”
peter had rehearsed thousands of conversations with her.
none of them started like this.
“i…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “this is going to sound weird.”
a small smile tugged at her lips. “i’ve had a weird afternoon already.”
right.
she’d just confronted her own stalker.
“right.” he laughed nervously.
“i guess… i just wanted to say i’m sorry.”
“for following me?”
he nodded immediately. “yeah.”
“and?”
“and…” he looked down at the floor. “i wasn’t lying when i said i don’t want to hurt you.”
“i know.”
“i know that’s not enough of an explanation.”
“no.”
“but it’s the only one i can give.”
reader watched him for a long second. there was something painfully sincere about him. not charming. not smooth. just… honest.
like someone carrying a weight he wasn’t allowed to put down.
“so…” she asked softly. “does this mean you’re going to stop following me?”
peter hesitated. “…yes.” the word almost hurt. “if that’s what makes you feel safe.”
she noticed the way his shoulders slumped after he said it. like he’d just lost something.
her expression softened. “i didn’t say i felt unsafe.”
his eyes lifted to hers.
“i said i noticed.”
“oh.”
“you’ve had plenty of opportunities to do something.”
“i know.”
“you never did.”
“…no.”
“you actually scared away a guy who was following me last tuesday.”
peter blinked. “…you noticed that too?”
she laughed. “i notice everything.”
of course she did.
natasha would’ve been proud.
peter smiled despite himself. it was small. real.
reader noticed that too. “you smile like someone who doesn’t do it very often.”
his smile disappeared almost immediately. “…guess not.”
silence settled between them. comfortable this time.
then peter spoke before he could convince himself not to. “i know this is… probably inappropriate after everything.”
she raised an eyebrow.
“but…” he inhaled deeply. “would you maybe…” his voice almost cracked. “…want to be friends?”
the question hung between them.
reader stared. “friends?”
“i know.” he laughed awkwardly. “it sounds ridiculous.”
“you’ve been secretly following me for a month…”
“…yeah.”
“…and your solution is friendship?”
“when you put it like that….”
“it sounds insane.”
“it really does.” he buried his face in one hand. “i’m sorry. i should’ve just let you leave.”
she couldn’t help smiling. “no.”
he looked up.
“i’m glad you didn’t.”
peter blinked.
she stepped closer. “can i ask you something?”
“anything.”
“why me?”
he froze.
thee answer was so easy.
because you were my best friend.
because i fell in love with you when we were fifteen.
because every science project somehow became an excuse to spend another afternoon together.
because your dad used to pretend he didn’t know we kept sneaking into the lab.
because i still know exactly how you take your coffee.
instead.
“you seemed…” he searched for something that wasn’t a lie. “lonely.”
reader’s smile faded just a little. “…that’s a surprisingly accurate observation.”
peter’s heart sank. “i know what that’s like.”
she looked at him differently then.
not with suspicion. with recognition.
like she’d found another person carrying invisible things.
“i don’t usually make friends with strangers.”
“i figured.”
“but…” she reached into her tote bag and pulled out a small notebook. tearing off a page, she scribbled something before folding it once then she placed it in front of him. “my number.”
peter stared at it as if it might disappear.
“i have one condition.”
he looked up.
“no more following me.”
his stomach twisted. “…okay.”
“if you want to know whether i’m okay…” she smiled. “you ask.”
peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “…okay.”
“and if i catch you watching me from another rooftop.”
“i won’t.”
“peter.” the name left her mouth so naturally that they both froze.
silence.
reader frowned. “…why did i call you peter?”
his entire body went still. “i…”
she blinked rapidly. “i don’t even know your name.”
peter couldn’t breathe.
she shook her head, almost laughing at herself. “sorry. that’s… weird. it just slipped out.”
neither of them spoke.
finally, she smiled again, smaller this time. “so…” she tilted her head. “what’s your name?”
peter looked at the folded piece of paper with her phone number.
then back at the girl he’d loved since he was fifteen.
the girl who had just called him by the name the universe had stolen from him.
he smiled.
this time, it reached his eyes. “…peter. peter parker.”
she repeated it quietly, as though testing how it felt. “peter.” something in her chest stirred. a feeling with no memory attached.
only warmth.
only home.
“…it’s nice to meet you peter parker.”
peter nodded. “it really is.”
and for the first time since doctor strange’s spell, he wasn’t introducing himself to a stranger.
he was introducing himself to someone who, somehow, had almost remembered.
author’s note: i watched brand new day a few days ago, and i literally felt the need of writing something about peter parker. also i was thinking of making like a part 2 out of this, would you guys like that?
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 SUMMARY: flirting with your guests is a regular on your youtube show… but flirting with SPIDER-MAN hits different, especially ‘cause he flirts right back!
ⓘ CONTENT WARNINGS: flirting, teasing -> confident fem! reader ノ dialogue heavy ノ back-and-forth banter ノ heavyyyy fluff ノ couple of uses of y/n!
AUTHOR’S NOTE: wow, me not posting smut for once— fluff will appear on this page every once and a while. my guilty pleasure watch is “chicken shop date” and love the idea of spider-man flirting heavyyyy. god, i can’t wait for brand new day! btw, i don’t own chicken shop, that shit belongs to amelia diloldenberg, only using the idea!
NEW NOTIFICATION!
CHICKEN SHOP DATE with y/n l/n has uploaded a new video: SPIDER-MAN | CHICKEN SHOP DATE #214
(2 hours ago…)
it took about two years to finally get the man on your show… but finally, someone from spider-man’s personal life finally listened to you and got him on your youtube series.
peter? loved your show. he loves the guests and the style of the show and your laid back personality compared to the other shows on youtube. he always found late night shows too… forced, other people had weird questions, but yours? yours was perfect
the only issue? they asked for… him. so now, here he was, dressed in his spider-man suit, mask halfway pushed up to reveal his mouth and a part of his jawline, and a camera on him… steaming hot chicken and fries sitting in front of him.
and here you were; internally freaking out that you were really interviewing him, the fucking king of new york himself. spider-man. fucking spider-man. the wall crawler!
the restaurant atmosphere wasn’t tense or quiet but rather warm and nervous. maybe it’s cause you’re interviewing world famous superhero, possibly. but even spider-man across the table was nervous as he tasted the food.
but then, spider-man speaks the first words of the video. “you know… this is really good chicken.”
“thanks, we try to make the chicken at least some what edible… like me.” you reply to him, taking a bite of your own food; it’s pretty good, you will agree with him like that.
immediately, peter could feel his heart do a little flip thing that he’s felt before… but never to this extent. he doesn’t let it show though, he knows he can’t be too confident on this show— just be friendly, flirt back, and don’t overshare too much. “well it’s good cause i’m hungry. i didn’t eat before coming.”
you lean back in your chair, pointing to him. “so how do you work out? considering you’re a… human spider after all.”
he chuckles lightly, covering his mouth with the top of his hand before speaking, pointing to his own body. “the spider-like qualities don’t really… stick in terms of… appetite and stuff like that.”
“oh? it doesn’t.”
“no, luckily i’ve gotten good at maintaining sweat and all that jazz.”
[video cuts to an outside shot of the shop; nighttime with the moon bright and the lights of the chicken shop lit brightly; Y/N’S CHICKEN. ON 45TH STREET]
peter takes another bite of the chicken as he swirls the straw around in his chosen drink. “you know… we’ve probably met before.”
“oh yeah?” you challenge. “you think as spider-man we’ve met or as your secret alias thing?”
he shrugs as he scratches his left cheek with his fingers. “i mean, probably as both… sorry if i didn’t remember you if i did save you once; i save a lot of people.”
you put your chin on your hand as you completely ignore his defense. “you have been avoiding me”
“have i?” he asks, tilting his head.
you nodded. “yeah, been trying to get you on this show for two years up to this point… seems like my calls to your manager didn’t reach you.”
he nods his head even if he doesn’t agree with your sentiment. “i don’t have a manager darling, it’s just me… who the hell would you have called in the first place?”
“i tried the daily bugle but they hung up on me, i think i was talking to jameson himself."
“yeah… he doesn’t really… fancy me all too much.”
putting a chicken strip into your mouth, you chew on it before putting your knuckles to your mouth, swallowing it as you respond. “oh that’s so unfortunate.”
peter points his french-fry holding fingers at you in agreement. “that’s what i tell them because i don’t do anything wrong and yet they have an issue!”
“i mean, what did you do to them?” you question, a teasing tone to your words.
peter shrugs. “i don’t know.”
“did you like, fuck jameson’s wife? flirt with his daughter in front of him?” you ask, adding possible solutions to j.jonah jameson’s undying hatred for the wallcrawler.
“not that i know of.” he answers, sipping from his straw. “spider-man doesn’t usually do the hit it and quit it stuff so i know i didn’t do anything to him personally.”
you crack a smile at his words. “so spider-man doesn’t fuck a civillian he saves if they ask hard enough?”
he shakes his head. “nope… not trying to have a son or daughter running ‘round and it uh… reveals my secret identity because of dna and everything… plus, not trying to give my powers away.”
“selfish.”
“reasonable.”
[video cuts to a woman’s arm, your arm, putting the fries from the deep-fry basket onto the tray, ready to serve to the next customer]
you eat a couple of fries before steering the conversation somewhere else. “so we all know new york is the weirdest of weird places… what’s the weirdest thing you’ve interrupted while swinging?”
spider-man chuckles behind his glass. “uhhhh… basically, i accidentally landed… right in between a proposing couple on one of those garden rooftops.”
“was there like a serial killer on the roof? what happened?” you ask.
“uh… the ring rolled off the roof and the guy nearly fell trying to catch it.” he explains, rubbing the back of his head as he chews on a fry, taking the time to scratch the back of his neck as well. “they still got engaged.”
“did you go to the wedding?”
“no, wasn’t on the guest list.”
you click your tongue. “you know; i would invite you to my wedding.”
he smiles bold. “oh really? you think i could look good in a suit?”
“you’d be invited as the groom and not a guest.” your tone deadpan despite the smile on your lips.
peter nods in understanding— he tries to hide his blush at flirty words. “ohhhhh.”
[video cuts to a close up on the chicken’s shop menu… damn, in this economy, it’s surprising to see a 4 chicken tender and fry combo for seven dollars. the sound of the kitchen can be heard in the background.]
peter fixes his mask to make sure it doesn’t reveal too much before he speaks again. “i noticed that the colors of the show’s logo match my suit.”
you look up, smiling as you eat another piece of chicken. “oh yeah?” you cover your mouth to swallow before finishing your sentence. “you like it?”
“it’s an honor, sweetheart.”
[video cuts to the grill inside the kitchen, two pieces of texas toast sitting butter side down]
“is it true that all superheroes are fuckboys and fuckgirls?” you ask.
peter looks up at you, eyes of the mask widening before shortly going back to regular position, waving his hand is dismay. “nah, most of us are professional. i know the human torch and hawkeye and that knobhead from bludhaven, what’s his name?”
“nightwing?” you finish his question, remembering that black hair bird gymnast sitting across from you.
he snaps his finger. “yeah, that kid… bro, he gives us a bad rep ‘cause he’s always flirting with his fans… it’s like totally crazy the type of stuff he pulls with ‘em.”
“so you, spider-man, don’t flirt with your own fans?” you question him, raising a brow as you lean forward on the table.
the webslinger shakes his head. “nope. not trying to have my name trending for flirting.”
“well i’m a fan and you’re flirting with me right now…”
“if you wanna spin it like that.”
[video cuts to the soda station in the shop; all sodas are available except mountain dew. a sticky-note is placed at the bottom of the dispensary, reading very simply; out of order.]
“i’ve asked people out a lot.” you begin, swinging around the half-eaten chicken strip in your fingers. “and have gotten no’s back.”
peter interrupts with a smile, pointing to the ceiling of the restaurant. “in this way or like… in a real way?”
“no… no…” you begin, tilting his head at the accusation that this restaurant is not a real way. how dare he. “well, this is real, but…”
then, spider-man busts out into a fit of laughter— serious, unbridled laughter. you just made spider-man laugh and there’s something good about that. there’s something sweet about having that power over someone so much more powerful.
“stop laughing damn it!” you say, reaching over and smacking the back of his shoulder, which only makes him laugh. “this is a serious issue!”
“oh i know it is, y/n, that’s why i’m laughing!” he tries to explain in between laughs, finally leaning back in his chair.
you look at him dumbfounded, but a smile doesn’t stop from appearing on your lips. “you think you’re so fucking funny.”
“i think you’re funny, darling.”
[video cuts to a still shot of the outside deal; free desert with a purchase over $10, and in this restaurant? that’s pretty easy to get… so obviously, free cakes and free brownies were flying all over that damn restaurant]
“are you seeing anyone?” you ask him, stealing one of his fries.
he shakes his head as he does the same to you; stealing a much bigger fry than you stole. “not right now, it’s kinda hard to date with the whole… superhero stuff. why? you seeing if you have a chance?”
“maybe, why does that matter?” you press him, leaning back and crossing your arms.
he mirrors your action; key sign of someone liking you, mirroring your actions. “just asking. it’s hard to try to be on a date and suddenly an idiot is trying to rob a bank down fifth avenue.” he explains, motioning with his hand.
you nod along. “are you feeling any danger around us?”
he puts his fingers on his chin; surprisingly? his spidey-sense haven’t gone off… maybe this is a sign. “nope, for once, my little inside radar ain’t going off.”
and you almost read his mind perfect. “aye, it’s a sign we are made for each other.”
“can you handle heights?” he asks.
you shrug. “possibly, why you asking?” you question.
peter sticks his tongue to the inside of his cheek, visible to the screen as he scratches the back of his neck, a blush clear on his cheeks. “maybe after this, i can show you what a little web slinging with spidey is like.”
[video cuts to an empty version of the chicken shop; the red and white tables nice and pretty, the lights vibrant inside the restaurant, in the background has two workers behind the cash register.]
“so… as we wrap up our date… speak now or forever hold your truth, they say.” you offer him before sipping on your drink.
peter thinks for a minute before grinning bright. “eh, you have my number, this won’t be our last date.”
4,912 COMMENTS (sort by…)
add a comment…
user431 (2 hours ago)
i have never seen two ppl flirt so hard before and go absolutely no where | 34K likes
user01 (2 hours ago)
HE WAS BEATING HER AT HER OWN GAME AND I LOVED EVERY SECOND OF IT | 12K likes
╰ user43: she wasn’t trying to stop it either
╰ user04: when he asked her to go web-slinging 🫦
user69 (2 hours ago)
would pay exponential amounts of money to see an uncut version of this | 128K likes
user420 (2 hours ago)
the random nightwing stray???? 😭😭😭 | 44K likes
╰ user55: bro is FUMING
╰ user67: he’s impregnating one of his fans just to make spidey more mad at the fact that he’s giving them a bad rep
╰ user58: and i’m the baby mama!
╰ user06: sorry! the baby mama is actually me!
╰ user88: i need to see them interact!
╰ user77: i fear spidey is putting him through the wall
johnnystorm (2 hours ago)
this motherfucker has no game istg | 404K likes
╰ mattthelawyer: how does he have the bucket right in front of him and yet still not score???
╰ johnnystorm: dawg idk, this is baddd
╰ user100: how tf is matt the blind lawyer typing if he can’t see shit?
╰ user44: user100 never heard of asking siri to read the comment out loud
user667 (2 hours ago)
their sex tape would go crazy | 69K likes
user111 (2 hours ago)
watching this after being broken up with was NOT a good idea lmaooooo | 101K likes
ironfistyoass (2 hours ago)
and i thought i was bad at realizing flirting attempts | 91K likes
╰ user789: it’s not even that he’s bad at flirting, it’s just that neither of them will fucking admit shit 😭
peterbparker (2 hours ago)
loved this one y/n, great interview! | 1K likes
╰ user123: jolly aah mf
╰ user457: basic ass comment
╰ user843: ur that mf from the daily bugle, u know spider-man, get this motherfucker on game or tell him to pass the controller!
╰ peterbparker: you think I know spidey personally?
╰ user843: yes. get on it.
user674 (2 hours ago)
i love how he says he doesn’t want to be on trending for flirting with fans and yet he’s been #1 trending for 2 hours bc of this interview 😭😭 | 690K likes
user999 (2 hours ago)
imagine if they become the next rpf final boss like superman and lois lane | 55K likes
╰ user885: their sex tape didn’t leak, this couple’s will atp
╰ user798: still can’t believe they actually became a thing
╰ user321: loved how they went from denying their relationship every single time they were seen out together. the amount of times “i’m just interviewing him” was said is insaneee
╰ user541: everyone remembers that casino video leaking of batman, wonder woman, green lantern, and the flash putting bets of them ‘cause even they were shipping them!
╰ user999: everyone was there for the sky photos
╰ user561: when they got photographed fucking on the daily planet logo 😭😭😭
masterlist is here! click here for more!
ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!
summary: Peter Parker knows something inside him is changing, and it gets harder to fight it every night. Then there’s you, who happens to be the one it won’t leave alone.
note: i am so hungry, and i hope this will also make you all full of peter. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!
Walking home alone with too much alcohol in your system makes the city streets feel a little less lonely at night. You stumble slightly over the curb while you check your phone for the time. Spiderman is out there swinging between the buildings somewhere above you. You know he exists without ever trying to follow where he goes. Seeing him on the news occasionally is enough for you. You keep walking down the sidewalk until footsteps drop from the rooftops above you. Tonight feels like an ordinary walk home before someone bumps right into you. Peter is fighting bad headaches that won’t go away no matter what he tries to do about it. His arachnid genes are acting abnormally lately and pushing past his human side in ways he can’t control. He spends his nights searching for a cure because the animal instincts keep taking over his thoughts. Stress makes the biological changes worse tonight since his mind is already exhausted, and seeing MJ kissing another man at her housewarming party earlier today makes it worse.
Watching her with someone else triggered something feral inside him, and it doesn’t help that no one remembers who Peter Parker is anymore. His arachnid instincts take over as he drops over the street before he bumps right into your path. Organic web shoots directly from his wrists instead of mechanical shooters before it wraps around your waist. He grabs you with him to swing around until both of you are up on a rooftop. You don’t know Spiderman personally for him to do that so you think you are in danger as he lands on the roof. The spinning motion, together with the drinks in your stomach, creates a terrible feeling by the time you reach the top of the building. You immediately bend over to throw up all the alcohol in your stomach right onto the roof. He watches you puke before he lets out a loud laugh. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand while he just looks at you and shakes his head.
That first night didn’t end up so terrible because Spiderman brought you home safely after you threw up on the roof. He even apologized for grabbing you off the sidewalk before he left you outside your building. Running into him once feels like a simple coincidence when you think about it the next morning. He knows he doesn’t mean to keep doing it, but he saw you walking home alone weeks later and decided to give you another ride across the city. Happening twice is already something unusual, yet a third or fifth time tells both of you that this is no longer an accident. He can’t control the urges yet since he hasn’t managed to suppress his arachnid genes. Everything that happened on that first night opened his eyes to the idea of trying again. He isn’t actively searching for another girlfriend, though he feels open to the possibility now. He doesn’t understand why his arachnid side feels so protective over you whenever you are out late at night.
He isn’t stalking you by any means, yet his senses alert him whenever someone gets too close to you on the street. He has no idea why his biological instincts react so strongly whenever you walk home alone after a night out. The urge to check on you keeps happening without any clear explanation. Maybe he even programmed your details into E.V so his tech tracks you whenever the cameras catch you walking by yourself. E.V notifies his mask display whenever you leave a building late at night so he can make sure the streets are clear. He tells himself it’s just a safety measure to keep you out of trouble. You never actually saw each other face to face during any of those times E.V watched over you from above. He waited up on the roofs while you walked down the pavement. You only knew he was around when he decided to drop down to pick you up for another ride home. Those repeated trips across the city happened several more times over the past few weeks.
Neither of you talks about why he keeps showing up whenever you are out late. His arachnid side feels satisfied whenever he drops you off safely at your front door. He never fails to bring you home after you finish drinks with your friends. Tonight tests his patience because the alcohol in your system makes you act way too clingy. You wrap your arms around his shoulders instead of holding onto him normally while he takes you above the street. You press your face into his neck right over his collar. He tries to ignore the way you rub your nose against him as he moves between the buildings. “Don’t move around so much up here,” he grunts while he checks the distance to the next roof. You ignore his warning before you inhale the scent of his suit right against his throat. Your mouth opens against the material as you leave small pecks along his neck. He tenses up when your teeth bite down on him through the fabric.
His senses are already too sensitive tonight, so your mouth against his neck distracts him. His web misses the next building after your teeth catch him by surprise. “F-fuck- what are you doing?” he curses as he brings you closer against his chest. Both of you almost fall before he shoots another web to find support and avoid touching the ground. “You smell good,” you mumble against his throat while your teeth nip at him again. He manages to get both of you across the rest of the blocks without falling again. He lands on the floor of your balcony before he sets you down. You refuse to let go of his shoulders even after your feet touch the ground. His arachnid side reacts badly because your mouth keeps trailing over his neck. “Stop biting me,” he warns you as his hands hold your waist. He backs you toward the wall of your apartment while his breathing turns ragged behind his mask. “Mmm- no,” you say before you tug him closer by his shoulders.
He looks down at you with his chest heaving while he tries to control his urges. He raises one arm while he keeps you against the wall of the balcony. A line of web shoots from his wrist toward the knob of your balcony door. It sticks to the handle before he pulls his arm back to slide the door open. He wants you inside because standing out here makes everything too complicated. You ignore the open door while you keep your arms around his shoulders. Your hands leave his shoulders before you reach up toward his mask. You try to pull the red fabric up over his chin so you can look at his face. His right hand leaves your waist before his fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you from lifting it higher. He pushes your hand away from his face while he looks down at you. “Don’t do that,” he warns you as he shoves your wrist back down between your bodies. You try to reach for the mask again with your other hand, but he blocks you easily.
“I can’t let you see me,” he tells you while he keeps your hands away from his head. The alcohol in your system makes you stubborn, so you push your hands against his chest in frustration. You hate that he stops you every time you try to see who hides behind the mask. “That’s not fair,” you complain while you try to wiggle your wrists away from his fingers. He keeps you against the wall while your feet kick slightly against the floor. “You always pick me up and bring me home, but you won’t even show me your face,” you whine as you bump your forehead against his shoulder. He watches you throw a tantrum before he finally lets go of your wrists to guide you through the open balcony door into your living room. He swats your hands away whenever you try to touch his chest again. He walks you backward across the floor while he watches your face. “You’re too drunk tonight,” he tells you as he tries to keep some space between your bodies.
You ignore his warning before you wrap your hands around his arms. “I’m very aware of what I’m doing,” you complain while your fingers caress the fabric of his sleeves. He tries to shake you off, but you refuse to let go of him. You look up at him while he keeps walking you backward across the room. “Don’t you want a reward for keeping me safe?” you ask him while your hands move up to his shoulders. He shakes his head immediately before he tries to remove your hands from his suit. “You need to sleep,” he answers while he pushes you toward your bedroom hallway. You hate that he keeps rejecting you after everything he did for you tonight. You stop walking backward so you can look up at his face. He pulls the bottom of his mask up just enough above his chin to leave his lips exposed so he can catch his breath. You stare at his mouth while he tries to get you to move again.
You lean forward quickly to try to kiss his lips. He catches your shoulders with his hands before your mouth can touch him. He pushes you back away from him while he turns his head to the side. “No,” he warns you as he holds you at arm’s length. You stumble backward into your bedroom while you look at him in disbelief. “Why won’t you let me thank you?” you whine before you try to step toward him again. He acts quickly by shooting a thick line of web around both of your forearms to bind your wrists together behind your back so you stop grabbing him. You stumble back a step until the back of your knees hit the mattress, and you sit down. His hands reach for your ankles before he starts taking your shoes off your feet. He tosses your shoes aside while he tries to ignore the way you keep staring down at him. You spread your legs wider apart on the edge of the mattress to get his attention.
He tries to ignore what you are doing while he drops your second shoe onto the floor. You lift your right leg before you place your foot right on his shoulder. You use your leg to pull his shoulder closer toward the bed. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your knees. “Why are you acting like you don’t want me?” you whine while you pout down at his mask. He lets out a loud sigh before he leans forward between your knees. He drops his forehead right against your thigh with his shoulders tensed up. The mask is rolled up above his chin so his mouth is uncovered. His exposed lips touch the fabric of your pants while he rests his head on your leg. “You’re making it really hard for me to behave tonight,” he warns you as his chest rises against your knees. You feel his breath through your pants while he keeps his forehead on your thigh. He tries to control his arachnid side before he does something he can’t take back.
You feel the web that binds your arms together behind your back. The alcohol makes you bold, so you lean your chest closer toward his face. “I wouldn’t mind if you tied the rest of me up with your web,” you tease him while you nudge his shoulder with your foot. He lifts his head from your thigh to look up at your face. His jaw tightens after he hears what you want him to do. “Jesus- don’t give me ideas like that,” he mutters before his hands reach up to hold your hips. He pulls you closer to the edge of the mattress until your thighs surround his chest. He refuses to back away from you now that you invited him closer. “I can’t do much with my arms tied up anyway,” you tease him while you look down at his exposed mouth. He looks at your face before his hand reaches up to grab your ankle. He removes your foot from his shoulder and sets your heel down onto the floor between his knees. “Are you really going to leave me here like this?” you ask him before you nudge his side with your leg. He shakes his head as he kneels on the floor in front of you.
“This is some freaky shit you’re doing tonight,” you joke while you watch his jaw tighten. He keeps looking at you like he is trying to figure out how far you are going to push this. “Don’t make this harder than it already is,” he warns you while his jaw tightens behind his mask. He keeps his head down as he tries to ignore the way you lean toward him. “If you won’t untie me, then at least help me get my pants off,” you complain while you tilt your chin down at him. You don’t really care about changing your clothes tonight. You only want to make it look like you need help so you can see how far you can push his patience. He looks down at your lap before his thumbs touch the waistband of your pants. He knows you are trying to mess with him, but he refuses to back away from the bed. “Come on, do the belt first,” you chuckle while you wiggle your hips slightly on the mattress. He looks up at your face while he kneels on the floor between your knees.
You watch him hesitate before he reaches for the front of your waist. Both of his hands move to the belt around your pants so he can undo it for you. He removes the belt from your waist. He drags the strap free while you keep your attention on his exposed mouth. He drops the belt onto the floor before his hands return to the sides of your waist. “You took the belt off, but you aren’t going to unzip them?” you complain while you shake your head at him. You start pulling your wrists apart behind your back while he kneels in front of you. “What the fuck is that about?” you ask him while you try to push your hips forward on the mattress. You manage to tear through some of the web around your hands even though it doesn’t come off all the way. You keep pulling your wrists apart while you wait for him to answer you. He hears the web tearing behind your back while he kneels between your knees. He doesn’t try to stop your hands from moving because he is just letting you have your fun.
He ignores what you are doing behind your back while his thumbs move to the top of your pants. “Just stop moving for a second,” he tells you before his fingers pop the button open. He pulls the zipper down until your pants open wide at your waist. You spread your legs wider on the edge of the bed so he can take them off. You wait for him to lean closer, but he surprises you by moving away instead. He crawls backward on his knees two steps away from the edge of the mattress. He pushes your knees together with his hands before he grabs the waistband of your pants. He pulls the pants all the way down your legs in one motion until they slide off your ankles. You smirk down at him because he stripped them off you so easily. “You can look,” you tease him when you notice him turn his head to the side. Your smirk grows bigger as you watch him avoid looking at your red panties. “I’m trying really hard to be responsible here,” he mutters while he looks away from you.
He keeps his eyes away from your waist while he drops your pants onto the floor beside him. “You don’t always have to be the good guy,” you tease him while you wiggle your knees on the edge of the mattress. You pull your wrists apart harder behind your back while you wait for him to look at you. “They match your suit,” you point out as you lean your chest forward. He turns his head back toward you before his eyes drop down to your red panties. He doesn’t mean to stare, but your words make him look anyway. “I knew you wanted to see,” you laugh while you keep working your wrists apart behind your back. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your feet. “You’re not helping my case here,” he groans before he looks up at your face. You stretch the last strands of web behind you while you watch him hesitate. “Take them off,” you tell him as you tilt your chin down at him.
His jaw tightens while he tries to ignore what you want him to do. “It won’t hurt anyone if you do,” you add while your shoulders twist on the bed. His human side wants to back away so he doesn’t take advantage of you. His arachnid instincts fight harder against him because every second near you makes him want to stop holding back. He keeps his mouth shut while his hands hover over his knees. You force your wrists apart until the web snaps behind your back. You bring your arms forward so your hands sit in your lap. The web still covers your fingers and wrists, but your arms are finally free. You grin down at him while you show off what you did. He scoffs at your face because you look so proud of yourself. “You know I let you do that, right?” he asks you while his mouth almost forms a smirk. You ignore his excuse before you rest your hands against your thighs. “I’m stronger than you thought,” you boast while you look down at his exposed lips.
He shakes his head while he reaches forward to touch your knees. You lift your hands to grab his mask again, but he tilts his head back away from your reach. “Keep trying that, and I’m going to tie you to the bed,” he warns you while his hands move up from your knees to your waist. He looks up at your face before his thumbs hook over the waistband of your red panties. “Yeah? With your web?” you smirk down at him as you open your knees wider against his sides. You ignore what his hands are doing at your hips before you grab the bottom of your shirt. You pull the top over your head in one motion and toss it across the bedroom floor. Taking off your shirt leaves you sitting on the mattress in only your underwear and your bra while he kneels between your feet. “Jesus- I told you to stop making this worse,” he mutters while his jaw clenches below the rolled fabric of his mask. You reach your hands behind your back to undo the clasps of your bra so you can take it off too.
He raises his right hand before a line of web shoots from his wrist right onto the center of your bra. He yanks his arm backward so the web snaps the clasps open behind you and pulls the bra away from your chest. He catches the bra with his right hand and throws it into the corner of the room. “I told you not to be stubborn,” he warns you while he drops his right arm back to your waist. You cross your arms over your chest to cover yourself because you didn’t expect him to strip you like that. Your face heats up while you look down at his exposed mouth in surprise. You look up at his eyes through the mask and think they look like they are turning black. You blame the dark room and the bad lighting for making his eyes look so strange. He knows it isn’t the lighting because his arachnid genes are fighting harder to push past his human side. His animal instincts want to take over now that you are sitting unprotected in front of him.
Both of his hands return to your hips before his thumbs hook into the waistband of your red panties. You push his hands away from your waist before you crawl backward toward the middle of the mattress. He gets up from the floor while he watches you get to your feet on the bed. You hook your thumbs into the sides of your panties to push them down your legs. You kick the red fabric off your ankles before you throw it right at his chest. “I can take them off myself,” you tease him while you stand naked in front of him. He catches the underwear with one hand before he lets it drop onto the floor. He tries to avoid looking right between your legs, but his arachnid side takes over. He raises his wrist before a line of web hits your stomach. He yanks his arm backward to pull you off the mattress and into the middle of the bedroom. The web lifts you up so your feet leave the floor. “What the fuck- are you serious right now?” you laugh while you kick your legs in the air.
He ignores you before he lifts his other wrist to send another web around your right forearm. He attaches the other end to the ceiling so your right arm stretches above your head. He casts more web across your waist before he connects the ends to the walls to keep you in place. The web holds you high enough so your hips align with his waist. You yank your free left arm around to see what he will do about it. He releases another line of web around your left wrist before you can swing at him again. He pulls your left arm upward before he attaches the end to the ceiling on the opposite side of the room. Both of your arms spread wide open above your head while the web wraps down to your elbows so you can’t pull your hands down. “Are you going to fuck me like this, spidey?” you tease him while you try to wiggle your hips against the web. He watches you test the hold before he shakes his head at your consistency in trying to get into his pants.
“You wanted me to tie you up,” he grunts before he sends more web across your chest and hips. He attaches the ends to the walls around you until you have nowhere else to go. Your legs dangle in the air while your feet hover above the floor. He aims his wrist at your right leg to put web around your thigh before he lifts your knee up to the side to connect the end to the wall. “Like what you see?” you tease him while you look down at where his eyes drop. He ignores your joke before he raises his left wrist to release more web around your left calf and ankle. He pulls your other knee upward and attaches that web to the opposite wall so your legs spread wide apart. The web bends your knees back until your feet hang high off the bedroom floor. Your entire body hangs in the center of the bedroom right at his hip level with your knees bent back. The web covers your forearms before it wraps around your waist to hold your body up in the air.
Your bent legs hang open so your chest and your cunt are exposed to his eyes. He steps right between your spread knees while he looks down at your waist. You can’t move your limbs away while he stands right in front of you with his mask rolled up above his mouth. “You’re not so talkative now,” he mutters while he looks at your face. You try to wiggle your hips against the web, but it holds you tight in the air. His suited hands reach toward your thigh where the web wraps around your leg. His hands trail slowly over the web while you watch his mouth open slightly. “What’s wrong, spidey? Are you going to leave me here like this?” You laugh as you push your hips forward. His hand leaves your thigh before his palm slaps hard against your exposed cunt. “Ah-! F-fuck-” you gasp while your thighs flex against the web. He watches you react to the slap while his head tilts to the side. “I told you to stop testing me,” he warns you before his hand rests against your inner thigh.
He lifts his left hand between your legs before he presses his covered palm right between your legs. He rubs his palm over you while you try to push your hips forward to meet his hand. The web around your waist holds you in place so you can’t grind against his palm. “Is this what you want?” he asks you while his fingers trace over your wetness. You nod at him while you pout down at his exposed mouth. “You can’t tie me up like this and not give me anything,” you complain as your knees pull against the web. He hums at your answer before he rubs his palm harder against your cunt. “Nnngh-” you gasp while you try to close your legs, but the web keeps your knees apart. He watches your mouth open while he keeps working his hand between your thighs. You try to move your hips again, but the web holds your waist in the air. “You’re really asking me to do this?” he asks you while his teeth clench below the red fabric.
He slows his hand down between your thighs while he waits for your answer. “That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do all night,” you answer while you look down at his face. He stops rubbing your cunt before he pulls his hand away from between your legs. He takes a step back from your feet before he turns around so his back faces your body. He reaches for the shoulders of his suit and starts pulling the fabric down his chest. You watch him peel the top half of the suit off his back while he stands in the middle of the room. “What about the mask?” you ask him as he pushes the suit past his waist. He keeps his back turned toward you while he steps out of the bottom half of the suit. “The mask isn’t coming off,” he tells you while he drops the suit onto the floor. He wears only his boxers and the red mask over his head before he turns around to face your spread knees. He brings his right hand back between your legs without the suit in his way anymore.
He brushes his middle finger down your folds while his thumb presses against your clit. You bite your lower lip and try to wiggle your knees, but the web around your hips stops you from moving closer. He raises his left wrist and shoots another band of web around your right thigh to stop you from moving around. “Ah-! Why did you do that?” you whine as the web wraps tight around your leg. He ignores your complaint before he slips two fingers inside your cunt. “You look adorable tied up in my web like this,” he tells you while he watches your mouth open. You try to push your hips forward to take more of his fingers, but the web holds you back. “Yeah? Adorable enough to actually fuck?” you tease him while you look down at his face. His lips curve up into a smile below his mask before he pushes his fingers deeper inside you. “Nngh-! F-fuck-” you gasp as his fingers move inside your wetness. He watches your chest rise and fall while he keeps his hand between your thighs.
“You’re so desperate tonight, you can’t even wait five seconds,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside your entrance. He pushes his hand deeper between your legs while you look down at his mask. “You’re still holding back on me,” you complain while you try to move your knees against the web. He steps closer between your spread legs and brings his face right next to your neck. His exposed lips press against your throat before he speaks against you. “I’m only doing this for your own good,” he whispers while his fingers work inside your cunt. It’s been years since the last time he touched someone like this or actually had sex with anyone. That’s the main reason he’s been holding back as much as he can all night. His arachnid side wants to swallow his human genes so his animal instincts can take control over his actions. He knows he’s on the edge of breaking if he keeps touching you like this.
He pushes his fingers deeper between your thighs while he listens to your breathing change. You squeeze your cunt tight around his fingers while you look at the top of his head. “So do you want me just to moan spidey all night since I don’t know your real name?” you taunt him as you try to move your hips. He pushes his thumb hard against your clit before he drags his tongue across your neck. “Haaah-! m-mfffh-” you gasp as his mouth leaves your throat before he lifts his head to look at you. He licks his own bottom lip while he thinks about whether he should tell you or keep quiet. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers inside your cunt while he stares at your face through the mask. You look up at his covered face where only his mouth shows below the red fabric. “Don’t you want to hear me moan your actual name?” you ask him before you squeeze your cunt around his fingers again.
You can’t push your hips forward to get his hand deeper because the web holds you in place. He sighs through his nose while his jaw moves under the mask. “Peter- you can call me Peter,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside you. There are thousands of guys named Peter in New York, so you wouldn’t know who he really is anyway. He knows that if he ever takes the mask off to show you his face, then he will just have to keep you by his side so you never tell anyone. You hum when you hear his name while he keeps moving his fingers between your thighs. Your clit starts to throb against his thumb, so you close your eyes and let your mouth fall open. “Mmn- ahhnn-” you breathe out while your head tilts back against the air. He lifts his left hand away from your side and brings it up to your chest. His palm cups your exposed breast while his fingers roll your nipple between them.
He squeezes your breast while his other hand works inside your wetness. “You really know what you’re doing with those hands, Peter,” you tell him while you open your eyes to look down at his mask. He scoffs under his breath because he knows you’re just trying to talk him into fucking you now. Hearing his name from your mouth sends a rush straight down to his cock, so his arachnid side reacts before he can stop it. An embarrassing but small amount of web shoots out from his wrists. “Looks like someone else can’t hold back anymore,” you tease him while you laugh at the white string on his wrist. He pinches your nipple hard before he drops his hand away from your chest. “Ah-! sh-shit-” you gasp while he reaches his hand down to the front of his boxers. He grabs his cock right through the fabric while he stares up at your mouth. “See? I told you that you were just as desperate as me,” you laugh while more slick coats his fingers inside your cunt.
He sighs through his nose before he slips his hand under the waistband of his boxers. He strokes his cock inside his shorts while he watches you try to close your legs. “Stop playing around and take those off,” you complain while you watch his hand move under the fabric. You try to wiggle your hips forward to reach him, but the web keeps you in place. “You want it so bad? Come over here and get it,” he teases you while he keeps his fingers working inside your wetness. You glare up at his masked face because your arms are stretched above your head. “Oh, that’s right... You can’t move because you’re tied up,” he mocks you while he curls his fingers inside your cunt. He watches you try to pull your knees together against the web. “Nngh-! p-please-” you whine out while your hips try to push against his hand. He never stops pumping his fingers between your thighs while his other hand strokes his hard cock inside his shorts.
You shake your head at him because he won’t do anything besides finger you. It frustrates you that you can’t even wiggle your knees away from his touch. “Poor baby... Are you getting impatient?” he laughs while he looks at your pout. He pushes his fingers deeper between your wet folds while he watches your mouth open. “I hate you so much,” you mutter while your cunt squeezes around his fingers. He smiles below his rolled-up mask before he slows down his hand between your legs. “Mhm, you’ve been good enough for me tonight,” he tells you before he pulls his hand out of your cunt. He lifts his wet hand up to his mouth to lick your slick off his fingers. He watches your cunt clench around emptiness while he uses both hands to push his boxers down his hips. He kicks the shorts off his feet away from him across the bedroom floor. You watch him stand naked in front of you with only the red mask covering the top of his head. “Never fucked someone like this before, Peter?” you taunt him while you look down at his cock.
You arch your back against the web while he steps closer to your spread thighs. “Never had someone tied up like a toy without their legs around you?” you ask him while your knees pull against the web. His exposed lips curve into a smirk because he knows you always have to be a smart-ass. He steps closer to your spread legs before he slips his right hand through the web to hold your leg. He uses his free left hand to guide his hard cock right between your thighs. He rubs the head of his cock up and down against your wet folds without pushing inside you yet. “Hah- wait- P-Peter-” you gasp out while he slides his length over your clit. He looks down at your face while you try to push your hips forward against the web. “Shh- quiet down for me,” he whispers before he starts to push his cock slowly between your lips. His left hand guides him inside until his length is deep enough to fill your cunt before he drops his hand and stops pushing forward.
He brings his hand up to your face while you tilt your head to rub your cheek against his palm. “Mmf-” you whine while you lean into his hand. He watches you through the white lenses of his mask while you close your eyes to bite your bottom lip. He looks at the way your face reacts to him opening you up, and he likes seeing you tied up for him. He pushes his hips forward again to slide the rest of his cock inside you. You breathe through your open mouth once he pushes all the way inside your cunt. You open your eyes to look at his covered face because you want to see what he looks like right now. Your eyebrows knit together while tears start to gather in the corners of your eyes. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan while you feel him push your cunt wide open. He squeezes your thigh before he leans forward to rest his forehead against your neck. He starts thrusting his hips back and forth while the web holds your body up.
“You take me so well,” he grunts against your throat while he picks up his pace. He brings his hips back so only the tip of his cock is inside you before he slams himself forward to bury himself deep again. You try to move your knees, but the web forces your legs wide open. “P-peter… please, let me see you-” you beg him while he thrusts fast and hard inside your cunt. He ignores what you asked before his teeth bite down onto the side of your neck. “I told you no- jesus-” he mutters against your throat while his hand squeezes your thigh tighter. He moves his other hand from your cheek to the back of your head so he can tangle his fingers in your hair. He forces your head back while he keeps pumping his cock in and out of your cunt. You cry out against his shoulder while his hips slap against your thighs with every thrust. His lips trail up from your throat to your jaw before he presses his mouth against yours. You close your eyes while he kisses you hard enough to force your teeth apart with his tongue.
He bites down on your bottom lip before he sucks it into his mouth and lets it go to spit right onto your lips. “Mmmph- you’re so-” you moan after he does that, and his tongue licks your lips. He pulls his face back to look at you before his right hand reaches down to snap the web around your right thigh. He pulls your freed leg up against his side so your knee rests beside his hip. The new position lets him push his cock deeper inside your cunt while he holds you close against his body. He watches your face through his white lenses while he keeps moving his hips forward. His left hand rests tangled in your hair behind your head to keep you in place. Your cunt clenches tight around his cock, and his fingers pull back on your hair hard enough to make your scalp burn. His shaft throbs inside your wetness while he watches your mouth fall open. “Do you want your other leg wrapped around me too?” he asks you while his hips slam into your thighs.
You nod at him while you try to move your left knee against the web. He keeps holding your right thigh with his right hand while he raises his left wrist to shoot two fresh bands of web over your arms. It gives your arms more support in the air before his left hand snaps the web around your left calf. He guides your left leg over his waist so both of your thighs wrap around his hips. He grabs both of your hips with his hands while you float in the middle of the room. “You know how good you look right now?” he asks you before he thrusts deeper inside your cunt. His fingers dig so hard into your hip that it hurts your flesh like he wants to devour you. “Nngh-! o-ow- Peter that hurts-” you complain while your hips rock against his cock. He looks down at your face while he slows down for a second. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he tells you while his thumbs push harder into your waist. He leans in closer to your ear to bite it, but it’s just an excuse to be closer to you.
“You’re going to take it like a good girl,” he whispers before he lifts your legs off his waist and puts your ankles up onto his shoulders. He looks down between your bodies to watch his cock slide in and out of your wet cunt. His enhanced hearing picks up every single noise in the bedroom while he speeds up his thrusts. He listens to the wet squelching of your cunt and the loud slap of his hips against your thighs. Your ragged breaths are loud in his ears while he pushes his cock all the way to his pelvis. He holds your ankles on his shoulders while his hips work faster inside your wetness. His fingers caress up and down your calves while he thrusts deep inside you. You get closer to the edge every time he pushes all the way in. You don’t tell him you’re about to cum, but he feels the way you pulse around him. The wetness drips down his shaft while you squeeze him tight. You need to hold onto him while the pleasure builds, so you tug hard against the web around your arms.
“I need you- p-please let me hold you,” you whine while your toes curl against his shoulders. He turns his head to the side to bite down hard onto your calf. He pulls his cock back until only the tip is left inside you before he slams all the way deep again. He fucks you so hard that the web around your body starts to break. The broken pieces weigh you down, but the rest of the web holds you up in the air. He moves his hands away from your legs to tear right through the bands around your waist. His arms wrap tight around your body while he brings you against his chest. “I need you right here with me,” he grunts before he buries his face into your neck. He thrusts deep enough to reach that spot inside your cunt, and it makes you cum instantly. “Nngh-! o-oh god-” you moan while your wetness coats his cock. He feels you cumming around him and his arachnid instincts take over his head. His enhanced strength makes it effortless for him to walk forward and break right through the remaining webs to carry you.
You wrap your arms around his neck before he walks both of you toward the bed without ever pulling his cock out of you. He gets onto the bed so he can lay you down on the mattress and hover over you. Shredded web clings to your arms and your thighs. “You came around me so fast,” he mutters while he looks down at your face. You nod at him before he slowly starts to thrust inside your cunt again. Your hands leave his shoulders to grab the bottom edge of his mask. You push the fabric all the way up over his head to see his face finally. It scares you because his eyes are pitch black instead of human. You open your mouth to react, but he grabs both of your wrists with his hands. He pins your arms down hard onto the mattress beside your head. “Come on- you wanted to see me so bad,” he smirks while he stares down at you. You try to pull your hands out from under his palms, but he keeps smirking at you.
“You’re not even human- you’re a d-demon,” you gasp while you stare up into his black eyes. He ignores what you called him before he thrusts his cock deep into your cunt. “Ahhhnn- f-fuck-” you moan out loud even though you just tried to insult him. He watches your mouth fall open while he keeps his body pressed over you. “Shh- it’s just me,” he mocks you with fake sympathy while he holds your arms down on the bed. He raises his wrists to shoot web right over your forearms to bind them to the bed so your arms are spread wide open again. “You have such playful hands,” he tells you before he lets go of your wrists. He gets up onto his knees between your spread legs before his left hand grabs your waist and his right hand reaches up to grope your breast. “Are you scared of me now?” he asks you while his fingers squeeze your nipple. You shake your head quickly on the pillow, but he smirks down at you from his knees. “You really should be,” he tells you while his right hand squeezes your breast. He pushes his cock deep into your cunt, and his fingers play with your nipple.
His left hand slides down your side to reach between your legs. You try to twist your bound wrists against the mattress before his right hand leaves your chest. He raises his right wrist to shoot an extra layer of web right over your hands. “Stop fighting me, or I’ll shut your mouth for you,” he warns you while his left hand finds your wet clit. He pinches your clit hard enough to make you whine. “Ah-! nn- please-” you beg him while you shake your head on the pillow. You don’t want to piss him off because he keeps staring at you with those black eyes. You spread your thighs wider for him in response, and he takes a deep breath. “That’s a good girl,” he tells you while a smirk forms on his face. He slams his hips forward with more force, and his left thumb rubs back and forth over your clit. He doesn’t care that you just had an orgasm minutes ago because he keeps rubbing exactly where you are most sensitive.
“Mmf- hahh- it’s too much-” you cry out while your cunt clenches around his cock. His right hand goes right back up to your chest to grab your other breast. He squeezes the soft flesh while his hips slap against your thighs. “You look so fucking perfect like this,” he grunts while his thumb flicks over your tight nipple. You want to touch his body badly, but the webs keep your hands pinned to the bed. “Nngh- let me hold you- p-please, Peter,” you beg him while you twist against the web. He looks down at your wrists, and he keeps thrusting into your wetness. “If you want to touch me, then just break free,” he challenges you while he keeps his hands on your body. You stop struggling because you know exactly what he will do if you manage to escape. “Nn- you’d just tie me down again,” you complain while your hips rock up to meet his thrusts. He chuckles above you before he leans all the way down over your body.
He pushes his mouth right against yours for a quick kiss, and he trails his lips down your neck. He moves over to the breast that he neglected earlier to drag his tongue right across the tip. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan out loud while his wet tongue licks your nipple. He moves his face back a few inches to look at you again. “You can try to break free all you want because I don’t bite,” he whispers before he drops his head back down. He wraps his mouth all the way around your nipple, and he bites down hard on the sensitive peak. “F-fuck- ahhhnn-!” you scream out while your back arches off the mattress. The bite makes your cunt squeeze tight around his cock. You thrust your hips up against him while he sucks on your breast. He grunts out loud before he shoves his hips forward to push you deeper into the mattress. He thrusts his cock as deep as he can go while he keeps his teeth pressed into your nipple. His mouth works over your bud while his left hand rubs your wet clit.
His right hand squeezes your other breast before his cock slams deep into your cunt. Having all his attention on your sensitive body pushes you over the edge again. You tear your wrists right through the webs to free your hands from the mattress. You throw your arms around his shoulders so you can tangle your fingers into his hair. You drag your nails down his back while your hips thrust up to welcome every deep pound inside your cunt. “Fuck- yes- mmn- right there,” you moan out loud while you arch your back off the bed. He sucks hard on your breast to take whatever he can get from you. He slams his hips forward faster to match your needy movements. The thought of breeding you takes over his head. He wants to pump all of his cum as deep as he can reach inside your cunt. He feels his balls tighten because he gets closer to cumming with every hit. “I’m going to fill you up so much,” he grunts against your chest before he bites your nipple one more time.
He lifts his mouth from your breast to leave wet kisses up your neck until he reaches your shoulder. He sinks his teeth right into the curve of your shoulder before he pulls away to look at your face. He watches your eyes roll back while his left hand pinches your clit and his right hand pinches your nipple. He rubs his thumb faster over your wetness while he shoves his cock all the way to the base. “You feel so fucking good around me, don’t you?” he praises you before he leans all the way down. He pushes his mouth against yours to force his tongue past your lips. You open your mouth for him so he can taste you while his hips slap against your thighs. “Mmmph- ahhh-” you whine right against his mouth while you kiss him back. The urge to cum gets too close for him to think straight. He doesn’t even notice that his fingers slow down on your clit or how his thrusts become sloppy.
He can feel his cock throb deep inside your wetness. He knows he won’t last another minute before he cums inside you. He bites down hard on your bottom lip until he tastes blood on his tongue. He keeps his teeth there the exact moment his cum starts shooting deep inside your cunt. “Mmf- f-fuck-” he groans against your lips while he empties himself inside you. He leans his forehead against yours while his hips keep moving. He feels how close you are to another orgasm, so he slows his movements down to be gentler. You push his face away to tug on his hair until he opens his eyes. You look up at his face to see that his eyes are normal again. He realizes he is finally back to normal. He moves his hand away from your clit to rest his palm on the mattress beside your neck. He continues to roll his hips between your legs before he leans his forehead against yours again. “I- I’m sorry,” he whispers over your mouth.
You close your eyes to caress his back while you listen to his heavy breaths. “Why are you sorry?” you ask him while your hips move with his thrusts. He takes a moment to catch his breath before he answers you. “I was too rough earlier, and I wasn’t myself,” he mumbles right against your lips. Hearing that makes you bite your bottom lip before you grind your hips up against his cock. You breathe hard against his mouth to share his air before you lean up to kiss him. “I can handle you just fine,” you tell him between soft pants. He moves his face away from yours after he hears that. He wonders if someone can actually take that side of him without getting hurt. His left hand squeezes your chest gently while his cock pushes deeper inside your cunt. He closes his eyes as he feels the wetness coating his shaft. He wants to give you a second orgasm, so his hand balls up into a fist to twist the bedsheets beside your head.
He takes his time to slide all the way out before he pushes back in. “Haaah- oh god- yes,” you whine out loud while your cunt squeezes his cock. You cum hard around him, and he throbs inside you the exact second he feels it. He drops all his weight onto your chest to hide his face in your neck. “That was my first time letting that part of me out,” he whispers against your collarbone. You trace your nails over his shoulders to comfort him. “Let’s hope it was worth it,” you tease him while you wrap your arms around his back. He shivers against you, and his cock twitches deep inside you. He drags his teeth over your collarbone before a ragged exhale leaves his mouth. His body melts completely against your chest, and he refuses to pull out. You let your fingers wander down his sweaty spine while he nuzzles your neck. “More than worth it,” he mumbles back.
tags: 18+ smut. heightened everything, he’s extra rough and desperate, just shows up, unprotected sex, rough sex, free use, hyperspermia, soooo much cum, cum eating, filthy filthy filthy
a/n: first time writing for peter, I couldn’t help it after watching brand new day… head empty only horny thots. no spoilers really just his senses going crazy
With the way Peter’s senses have tremendously heightened lately he found himself getting overwhelmed far too easily.
He hears even more things than before and he feels things so intensely when someone touches him.
It was all getting too much for him so he quickly calmed himself down and swung over to your place, beyond desperate for a distraction before his brain exploded.
You jumped when you heard the knock at your fire escape but you quickly walked over, opening it when you saw his familiar face.
You couldn’t even open your mouth to speak when Peter quickly went in, mask in hand, and smashed his lips onto yours.
You gasped as his hands pulled you towards him, keeping you as close as possible to his body. You didn’t have time to think so you kissed back making him moan and reach down to lift you.
Your legs wrapped around his waist as he made his way straight to your bedroom, as if he knew your place like the back of his hand.
His tongue slipped into your mouth expertly and fast, your hands reached up to his hair to tug on his curls. He groaned into your mouth and within seconds your back was met with your mattress.
You had never seen him this eager before, with his hands tearing through every item of clothing, and his teeth nipping at your skin.
There was no time to ask why the hurry as he got in between your legs and started eating your pussy like there was no tomorrow.
You moaned, letting your hands go down to run through his curls. Instead of taking his time and teasing you like he loved doing, he was the complete opposite.
His head was moving up and down as his mouth worked overtime, sucking and licking every crevice of your pussy.
Somehow with just those few seconds of excitement it was enough for you body to get wet for him.
Wouldn’t be the first nor last time that happened.
“Fuck Peter-“ you moan, instantly making him moan against you.
It sent a shiver down your spine and before you could blink, he was off and climbing on top of you. You sat up a bit as he moved towards you and you instinctively opened your mouth.
He didn’t hesitate and instantly thrusted his hard cock all the way then held your head to keep you there. His hairs tickled your nose and you felt your eyes well up with tears already before he let you go and his cock slipped out.
You took a deep breath only for him to thrust himself down your throat again. Right when you were about to move your head, he pulled out once again then got off the bed.
His strong arms then pulled you to the edge of the bed before lifting your legs up high. They were spread as he slapped his cock on your dripping cunt, the noises being more obscene than usual.
He looked down where your bodies were about to meet, damn near salivating before he locked up and locked eyes with you.
You could have sworn his eyes looked completely black but right when you were going to take a closer look, he slammed inside you.
You whimpered as he bottomed out, putting your legs on his shoulders before he started to move. His thrusts were instantly hard and fast, which caught you by surprise.
But you weren’t opposed to it.
Not when every inch of him was bullying its way inside you like never before.
He was grunting and groaning with every thrust as if you weren’t even there.
As if you were just a hole he needed to fuck and fill.
You always told him this was something you’d be up for but now that he was actually doing it, you felt so needy.
His eyes were rolled back as he held your legs up, the sounds of skin slapping filling the room. You moaned along with him as he continued his brutal pace, using your poor pussy like a toy.
You felt so dirty.
But couldn’t help getting wetter.
If this was how he was going to be then it was definitely something you could get used to.
And his dirty words were only making you worse with every passing second.
“Fits me so perfectly.”
“Take it like that, baby.”
“I love this fucking pussy.”
You whimpered out and he moaned your name, squeezing your skin — you decided to hold your legs for him so he pushed them down and he moved down as well.
You cried out when he thrusted his hips into yours, giving you no mercy whatsoever as he pounded his cock into you.
With the slight change his cock now reached deeper inside you and his thrusts didn’t slow down, no they were even worse.
It felt so good and you didn’t have words to say, his cock leaving you dumb and whiny.
You really did try to think of something smart to say but nothing came up besides broken sobs and pleas for more.
He listened and leaned down a little more, his head above yours as you locked eyes while he pounded into you. His curls were falling and some were already stuck to his forehead because of the sweat.
You let go of your legs and grab onto his arms which were by your side. You squeezed his arms as he kept his relentless pace, making you both moan at the same time.
Your eyes were fluttering but his were right on you, watching your every reaction and moaning louder.
Suddenly he slowed down, almost pulling all the way out before slamming right back in.
You whimpered and gave him a pout while he repeated the action again.
He had a devious grin on his face as he did it again, grunting your name under his breath.
Your nails dug into his skin making him groan and it was like activating a switch because he stopped. He pulled back and brought your legs down before just spreading them wide and hovering over you.
Your hands went up to the back of his neck, playing with his hair when he went back to his rough thrusts.
“God- you’re so tight.” He groans, making you whimper, “J-Just for y-you Peter.”
“Good girl.” He moans, bringing a hand to cup your jaw.
You bite your lip and his eyes go down to it, before leaning down and kissing you. You kissed back and he slipped his tongue inside, clearly impatient.
Your tongue glided against his messily and he gave the same beefy back. He moaned in your mouth which earned himself a needy whimper from you.
You were so focused on the kiss you almost forgot how he was fucking your brains out.
His hips were pressed flush against yours, with every deep push he felt himself getting closer and closer to his release.
And he could feel that you were the same.
You were clenching against him more, your walls entrapping his cock and almost throbbing in need.
He pulled back and pressed his forehead against yours, “tell me what you want.”
He rammed into you hard, making you cry out then whine, unable to think.
He was pleased with himself and whispered, “c’mon you can do it.”
You stubbornly shook your head making him groan, “fine.”
Right when you thought he was going to pull out his movements were somehow even faster than before.
“I’ll just take what I needed from you-“ he grunts instantly making you whimper.
He chuckles then murmurs, “Mm dirty girl.. fuck I needed you so bad baby.”
“Peter!”
“Tell me you want me to make this needy pussy come.” He whispers, his dark eyes on yours.
Your vision was so hazy but they were so clearly different but you couldn’t focus on that when you felt your orgasm being right there.
“Please make us cum. Please, please!” You plead, followed by a loud cry.
He groaned and with a final deep thrust he spilled his load and you felt yourself explode on his cock. Your body shook as you came with him and your lips collided with his as he tried to drown out both your cries and moans.
You lazily kissed him back as your legs shook and your poor pussy was clenching against him. But he wasn’t pulling out.
And he was still cumming.
You suddenly felt very full and tried to push him off but he didn’t budge and slid his tongue inside your mouth to distract you.
You whimpered, shivering as he just kept pumping more and more cum inside you. Never in your life have you ever felt so full and he just wasn’t stopping.
But it was like he couldn’t, not that he didn’t want to.
He pulled away from you, eyes tired as he pulled out and came on your clit. Two seconds later it finally stopped and his load was spilling out all at once, dripping down to your asshole and straight onto your bed cover.
You looked down and watched in shock as he did the same but he had a look in his eye that had you guessing what he wanted to do.
In a blink of an eye he dropped to his knees and he was slurping up his cum. He was eating it out of you, with no care if you were sensitive or not, just swallowing drop after drop.
When it finally felt like it all came out he slipped two fingers in and started fingering you slow.
Then the rest of the cum came out slowly but surely and he licked it all off you.
When he finished, he climbed up, and you joined him, quickly getting comfortable in his arms as he calmed his breathing and wiped his mouth.
You decided to rest with him instead of bombarding him with questions that you weren’t so sure you wanted answers to.
CONTENT : obsessive!peter, making out, fluff with cute romance
SUMMARY : peters hormones spike and all he can do is think of you..
A/N :: to all the people that found me on tt, ily
Peter had always hung around you, whether it was in social spaces or at your apartment alone working on a project. You appreciated it deeply, usually thanking him with the brightest smile that could light up a room.
You’d never seen Peter as more than a close friend, someone who was always there for you no matter what. Sure, Ned would jab at you, smiling as he pointed at Peter staring before Peter immediately looked away, but it always went over your head.
Peter, nonetheless, was clumsy at hiding his affection for you yet grateful to whichever god made you oblivious to his growing fondness for you.
“If we take the subway down to South Ferry, there should be a cute café we can get matcha at!” You exclaim, nudging at Peter repeatedly as he instantly looks up at you with a pout, his hand still writing on the paper he’s been so focused on.
He smiles at you in return, now tapping his finger on the wooden table, the soft thuds drowning in the noise of people talking, yelling, and whispering. “Isn’t this the third time you’ve gotten matcha today?” He emphasises, holding your shoulder while putting on a fake worried expression.
You scoff at his attempt to act out his ‘worry’ for your health, mostly by the fact that it’s his wallet that’s funding your matcha craze, and it’s him following along watching you drink it with a smirk each time.
Yet Peter had a little spidey secret of his. You had a suspicion he was Spider-Man, but you never really called him out on it in worry that your little web friend would shy away. And that same secret was costing him a lot.
Recently, he had experienced a spike in his hormones. He figured out it was due to his arachnid DNA and a traumatic experience which may have caused it. And it would’ve been fine in any case. He was learning how to handle the webs shooting out of him and the loud pangs.
However, he was struggling not to obsess over you.
The spike in his hormones had led to him being needy, really needy. Almost so needy to the point he could not live without having you near him at all times, even if it meant keeping an eye on you when he shouldn’t be.
At first, it was the clinginess, always holding onto you wherever he could, your shoulder, your waist, or your arm. Then came the pangs of wanting to see you late at night, and it was the worst when he was fighting Scorpion yet all he could do was think about how pretty you looked in the blue top he picked out for you.
His teeth would clench in anger seeing you interact with other guys who only wanted one thing from you; he would later scare them using his Spider-Man suit into staying away.
Anything to keep you safe, right?
Your poor friend would hold in the urge to kiss the screen every time you sent a picture, the raspberry-flavoured lip gloss perfectly shining your lips like you had just made out with someone. He could only wish that it was him.
One night it became unbearable; he needed to see you.
Which led to you sitting in your chair staring at Spider-Man climb through your fire escape window, bewildered. The cinematic jaw drop you did was so priceless; Peter almost burst out into a laugh.
“Oh my god did I do something wrong—I swear I didn’t mean to smack the little kid. I was only trying to get my phone back!” You yell immediately, standing up and backing away.
Peter chuckles softly, gently taking off the mask while watching your shock turn into confusion, then excitement. “This isn’t something I should do, but I can’t—I need you.” He bubbles out, almost whispering towards the end of his sentence, his voice slightly cracking.
He walks towards you, placing his hands at your sides as he searches for acceptance, a sign that you don’t hate him for keeping this secret away from you for so long. Surprisingly, he is met with your ecstatic eyes.
You grin, laughing like a maniac as you try to piece everything together. It was awfully weird how happy you were about finding out your best friend is the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man.
“Spider-Man…needs me?” You trail off, looking into his honey-dipped eyes, the frantic look making you giggle even more. “Peter, you need to learn how to stop overthinking things,” you reassure him with a wink.
Peter’s racing heart paces down, yet it isn’t enough. He needs to feel every inch of you, wants to have you to himself. And the only way he can is by expressing how much he cares.
His lips crash onto yours, pushing deeper chaotically. His tongue searches for yours in a rush as he roughens the kiss, hands cupping your plush cheek while rubbing the beauty spots.
Your eyes widen, taken aback by the sudden bravery and urge; however, you melt into the kiss shortly afterwards, arms resting at his waist as you let him guide you, your tongue colliding with his in a steady rhythm.
After what seems an eternity, you finally let go. Struggling to find the words to explain the adrenaline you just felt, the mask abandoned on the floor and the faint smell of blood on his suit all begin to register in your head.
“I want to be around you all the time. I want to be yours and—” You quickly shut him up with your finger on his lips, leaving you both in silence for a moment.
You let out a deep sigh, “If I’d known you felt this way, I could’ve reciprocated. I like you too, Peter, like like.” You mutter, hands sliding up to his cheek, placing a small peck on his lips.
He smiles in response, the weeks of obsessing over you finally simmering down. It was a start. He would still end up ‘keeping an eye’, but knowing this was the first step to having you was enough.
