NOTE: Had an idea abt how his new mutant dna was doing stuff to his body specifically his um… peen. I was going into the spider man movie thinking oh they’re def gonna have at least one shirtless scene. Who knew there would be like two! I feel spoiled
The lock clicked open under the weight of your shoulder, the door yielding with a creaky groan.
The new tenant who lived directly above your apartment was really cute. And bless his heart he was incredibly awkward. You kept running into each other during your daily routines, one thing lead to another and you both would occasionally text the other person to go out for a drink, have sex, get dinner, and whatnot. Most nights ended up with you two crashing into your apartment tangled up in your sheets.
Some casual stuff.
But for the past three weeks, the area between your apartment and Peter’s had been a dead zone. There had been none of his familiar knock at midnight, no half-apologetic texts, and no lingering looks in the elevator. When you did catch a glimpse of him—a shadow slipping through the stairwell at obnoxious hours like 4:00 AM, his shoulders would be hunched, collar pulled high—he moved like a ghost trying to outrun its own skin.
Then came the noise. Ten minutes ago, you heard clear crashing noises from your ceiling, which lead to his loft. Their was ruckus before his noises had shuddered with more deafening crashes, followed by the wet, sharp sound of shattering glass and a dull, agonizing thud.
"Peter?" You stepped into his apartment, slamming the door shut behind you.
"Peter, if you're throwing furniture again, I swear to God—"
The words died in your throat.
The loft was unrecognizable. The high ceilings were draped in thick, silvery cables of silk(?) that looked less like cobwebs and more like yards of fabric cables. Monitors flickered in the gloom, scrolling through endless streams of DNA sequencing and bio-metric telemetry. And is that a sewing machine printing out something.
It was weird to think that this room belonged to the guy you were hooking up with for the past couple of months. He never invited you to his place and you never bothered. How different could two apartments be? The answer is apperantly very.
And on the floor, curled in a heap amid shattered glass and torn floorboards, was Peter.
He was wearing a suit. Not his regular hoodie and jeans, but a form-fitting red-and-blue suit that hugged every corded muscle of his back. A torn, black spider emblem stretched across his chest, rising and falling with ragged, violent breaths.
He wasn't just Peter Parker, the awkward guy next door. He was fucking Spider-Man.
The realization hit you like a physical force, settling heavy in the back of your mind. Thinking back you recall all the unexplainable bruises, the late-night disappearances, the absurd physical stamina during the nights he actually did spend in your bed. It all clicked into place very clearly.
"Peter?" You rushed forward, dropping to your knees beside him.
His body was trembling violently, the skin of his neck flushed crimson, heat radiating off him in palpable waves. Fine, hair-like cilia seemed to shimmer along his forearms, flexing involuntarily against the floorboards.
"Get... out," he choked out, his voice a raw, gravelly rasp. He pushed himself back against the base of his workbench, his pupils dilated so wide his eyes pitch black, with no sclera in sight. "Get away from me. You can't... you shouldn't be here."
"What’s going on? What’s happening to you?" You reached for his shoulder, but he flinched away, clutching his head with a low, pained groan.
"Don't touch me!" he grated out, teeth clenched so hard his jaw creaked. "Everything’s too loud. Too bright. It's too dangerous, just go!"
"Alert. Peter you are experiencing severe cellular instability due to a mutation overrun."
A calm female voice resonated from the ambient computers at the centre of the room, making you jump.
"Who said that?" you demanded, looking around the web-choked loft.
"I am E.V., Peter’s neural interface," the voice replied smoothly. "His modified arachnid DNA is currently undergoing an unpredictable evolutionary shift, hyper-stimulating his nervous system and causing acute tactile-sensory overload. His baseline metabolic temperature is exceeding critical limits."
"How do I stop it?" you asked, leaning closer to Peter despite his warning growl.
"To regulate his neural overload, his body requires an immediate, high-dose release of natural endorphins and oxytocin to override the hyper-reactive pain receptors," E.V. explained. "Physical intimacy—specifically sexual intercourse—might trigger enough of a parasympathetic nervous system response, effectively resetting his tactile thresholds and stabilizing his core biological feedback loop."
You blinked, processing the AI's words, before a slow, incredulous realization set in. "You're saying he needs to...?"
"Correct. Intimate physical contact is the most efficient vector to force a metabolic stabilization."
"No," Peter gasped, his fingers digging gouges into the hardwood floor. "No, absolute-ly not. I'm not... I can't. I'll hurt you. I don't even… have control right now."
"Peter, shut up," you said, already reaching for the hem of your shirt. "It's not like we haven't done this before."
"This isn't 'before'!" he snapped, his eyes flashing with a desperate, wild intensity. He looked up at you, his chest heaving, his muscles visibly twitching under the suit. "Look at me! My body is doing stuff I don’t even understand. I can’t control my strength, it could be off the scales right now. What if I lose control? What if I... what if I hurt you?"
"Then you hurt me," you whispered, leaning down until you were breathing the hot air radiating from his face. "You think I'm scared of you?"
"You should be," he whispered, but the defiance bled out of him as you reached out, placing a palm flat against his bare, burning chest where the suit was torn open.
He shuddered violently at the contact, a guttural sound escaping his throat as his eyes fluttered shut. The sheer heat coming off him was intoxicating.
You guided his hands down to your waist. His grip was rigid, his strength restrained by nothing but sheer, agonized willpower, but as you peeled off your shirt and straddled his lap, the fight left him.
"E.V.," Peter panted, his hands trembling as he gripped your hips, "mute... mute sensors."
“Understood, Peter.” The ambient hum of the monitors dimmed, plunging the loft into soft, shadow-draped silence. With only the low night life of the streets being heard.
You worked down the front of his suit, pulling the heavy, textured fabric past his waist. As it fell away, your breath caught. The mutation hadn't just heightened his senses; the surge of blood flow and muscular expansion had transformed him. His dick looked unreal, it was stretched thick and rigid, pulsing with a terrifying, vein-lined heaviness that looked entirely impossible.
A slow smile touched your lips. "Well. That's new."
"I told you," Peter groaned, flushing deeper, his large hands sinking into the flesh of your thighs. "It's... it's too much. I can't guarantee I'll be gentle."
"I don’t remember asking you to be gentle," you whispered, gripping his shoulders and lifting yourself up over him.
You didn’t need any foreplay today, what for when you were already leaking like a goddamn faucet.
You lined yourself up, the intense heat radiating from him slicking your skin. When you pressed down, taking just the crown of his swollen length, Peter hissed, his back arching off the floor. The sheer size of him stretched you instantly, a full, delicious ache blooming through your core.
"S-Slow," Peter choked out, his large hands moving down to cup the bottom curves of your ass, his fingers digging firmly into your flesh to anchor you. His knuckles were raw, and his grip tight enough to bruise, holding you steady over his incredible girth. "Go down slow... please. God, you're so tight—I'm going to ruin you if you drop too fast."
You sank down a fraction of an inch further, gasping at the sheer, heavy fullness stretching you to your limit. He was massive, and so warm, filling you so completely that every pulse of his blood felt like a tremor against your inner walls.
"Look at me," you commanded softly.
Peter looked up, his darkened eyes wild, completely consumed by you.
"Breath," you whispered, slowly lowering yourself fully onto him, taking every single inch until your hips met his.
Peter let out a ragged, ungodly sound, his head falling back against the floorboards as his entire body convulsed. The sheer shock of the contact rippled through his nervous system. Above you, with a sharp thwip-thwip, thick, pearlescent strands of web-fluid shot reflexively from his wrist cuffs, slamming into the exposed ceiling beams. More kept coming out of his wrists, sealing the two of you into a dark, intimate cocoon of silk.
Ut was obvious he had no idea he was doing any of this. And driven by pure, primal instinct, Peter’s hands tightened on your rear, lifting you up slightly before driving you back down onto him with a sudden, devastating thrust.
You screamed out his name, the intensity of it shattering your composure. He was relentless, his mutated stamina translating into deep, heavy, possessive drives that lifted your feet completely off the floor. His teeth grazed the column of your throat, a low growl vibrating against your collarbone as he nipped at your skin, threatening to break it, holding himself back by a hair's breadth.
His hips slamming up into made lewd noises, mixing with the cacophony of moans and grunts you were both making.
"Peter—" you gasped, your hands clawing at his back, feeling the rippling muscles flex and strain beneath your touch.
Without breaking his rhythm, Peter reached up with one hand. A quiet thwip echoed in the enclosed space, and a thick, incredibly sticky line of fresh webbing wrapped around both of your wrists, pinning your hands securely above your head to the thick structural beam above you.
"Peter!" you panted, testing the restraint. It was unyielding, binding you completely to his rhythm.
"You're not going anywhere," he growled into your neck, his voice deeper, raspy, completely unhinged from the fever. He shifted his grip, his massive hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you down harder onto his massive length, meeting every descent with a brutal, upward vault.
You could feel his sharp teeth migrating down to your breasts, sucking and nipping at the fleshy skin. His sharp teeth grazing your nipple, making you arch your back, further offering your chest to him.
The heat in the enclosed cocoon was suffocating, amplified by the slick friction of your bodies. Every heavy thrust sent a wave of relief through his posture, the chaotic static in his head slowly melting into a raw sensation.
In his slightly delirious state he could make out the smell of your skin, the texture of your insides melting around his twitching dick. And fuck, the way you’d moan his name would undo him. He wanted to chase this high more, to feel you more.
He continued to move inside you with an animalistic intensity, taking control, his hips snapping forward with terrifying power. You writhed against the web restraints, completely at his mercy as he filled you, stretched you, and drove you toward the edge over and over.
"You like this?" he growled, biting down gently on your tits, his fingers digging deep into the flesh of your hips to keep you pinned. "You like what this does to me?"
"Yes—God, Peter, yes—"
He buried his face in the crevice of your tits, his chest heaving as his pace became manic, desperate. The fever broke, pouring off him in sweat as he chased the final, deafening crash of the overload fading away.
With a final, deep, possessive drive that buried him as far inside you as he could physically go, Peter locked his arms around you, pulling you violently against his chest as his entire body went rigid. A low, shuddering groan tore from his throat as he came inside you, the volume and heat of his release sending you over your own edge, shattering your senses into pure, breathless light.
Silence settled over the loft, heavy and thick.
The webbing bound above your head slowly lost its tension, slackening enough for your wrists to slip free. You collapsed forward against Peter's chest, both of you breathing in ragged, synchronized gasps.
Peter’s arms wrapped around you, no longer rigid or trembling with pain, but warm, and heavy. He stroked his thumb gently over your hip, his cheek resting against your hair.
"E.V.," Peter croaked, his voice returning to its normal, soft cadence. "Status?"
"Neural activity has stabilized, Peter. Baseline vitals restored."
Peter let out a quiet, breathless laugh, burying his face in your neck and pressing a soft kiss to your skin. "Guess I need to work on a inhibitor or something," he murmured, his hands lazily tracing the curves of your lower back. "How are you feeling?"
You shifted slightly, wincing with a quiet, satisfied smile as you felt the lingering, heavy ache deep between your thighs.
"I think," you whispered, leaning up to kiss his jaw, "you're going to have take me somewhere nice tomorrow."
⭐︎ warnings: pre-brand new day canon compliant, fluff, huge idiots in love, hurt/comfort, typical depictions of violence (fighting, blood, guns, injury), near death experience, angst, light banter, suggestive themes, abandonment issues, touch-starvation
⭐︎ word count: 9.6k
⭐︎ a/n: there are no major spoilers for bnd in this fic !! i've only mentioned/alluded to things that were already shown in the trailers, so you do not need to watch the movie to understand.
synopsis:
You have been Spiderman’s communicator—his eyes for crime and the voice on the other end of a staticky little radio that took him less than an hour to build. He doesn’t know your name, or what you look like. And you don’t know a single thing about him. Peter tells himself it’s better this way, that keeping you at arm’s length is the only way he can keep you safe. But that promise slowly frays the longer he speaks to you.
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“Alright, Spiderman. There’s a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect is—uh, hello? Is this thing on?”
Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say ‘Spiderman.’ While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.
“Yep, I hear you loud and clear,” Peter says from his end. “I’m already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look like—”
“Spiderman? Hellooo?” Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. “Ugh—is this radio even working? Are you still there?”
He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearer—and preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.
“I’m here!” Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.
“Ah! There you are!” you say, sounding like you’re smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. “Missed your voice for a second.”
Peter’s face flushes under his mask.
“Detecting a sudden increase in body heat—specifically around the facial region—and a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performed—”
“Shut up, Evie,” Peter mumbles, hoping you didn’t hear him from the other end of the line.
He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.
“Are you blushing, Spiderman?”
“What—no!” Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. “Just tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?”
You chuckle again. “Okay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsome—if it weren’t for the ski mask covering his face.”
Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.
“Now’s not the time to play around,” he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.
He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesn’t need your comms in here—he can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, and…
“Spiderman!” A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. “You’re dead, kid!”
“Oh, jeez,” Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.
“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” your voice statics through. “He’s heavily armed.”
“Yeah, good comms,” Peter scoffs sarcastically.
“Who the hell are you talking to?” the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. “Is that a bomb? Drop it!”
Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?
The man’s grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.
“Come on, man. Don’t shoot—there are innocent people in here!” he tries to interject.
“Innocent dead people soon, if you don’t put that weapon away!” the man barks back.
“The police are on their way,” you explain, serious this time, through the radio. “Take care of that gun now, or he’ll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.”
“Okay,” Peter says. “Time me.”
“Starting now?”
“Starting now,” he confirms before switching off the radio’s microphone input.
The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shoot—but Peter moves faster.
Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesn’t even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.
From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. “You got it, Static?”
He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. “That was fifteen seconds. Good job,” you applaud. “And are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.”
Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.
Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fight—if you would even call it that—was just a quick pit stop.
“Well, that’s just what I’m gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,” he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. “Unless… you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.”
You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.
As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.
This isn’t the first time he’s teased you to get you to give up your name, and you’ve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.
“Very funny,” you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. “I could say the same thing to you.”
Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. “I don’t know—I think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.”
For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luck—when Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thing—you find yourself completely at a loss for words.
He doesn’t even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe it’s the suit, or maybe it’s that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.
But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.
Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.
“That’s a shame,” you tease. “I would’ve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.”
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said it—that sultry little rasp that even the static couldn’t mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.
“Dramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suit—specifically around the groin region—appears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousal—”
“Evie!” Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesn’t help his situation at all.
“Got you to blush twice today.” You taunt. “I think that’s a record, Spidey.”
“I wasn’t blushing,” Peter lies. “Anyway—enough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?”
You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. “Nothing,” you say. “But what’s the rush? You’re given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard you’ve been pushing yourself.”
Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. “Aw, you don’t have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.”
You blow a raspberry, and Peter’s smile widens.
“Yeah—well, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she can’t make as many good jokes as I can.”
Peter’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. “Are you getting jealous of my assistant now?”
A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.
“God—you’re so full of yourself, aren't you?” you huff. “I’m your partner—so it’s only natural for me to look out for you.”
“We’re partners?”
“Haven’t we been this entire time?”
Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.
Partners. He hasn’t had anyone he could call a partner since everything happened—since he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasn’t had a real, caring partner since… them. Ned and MJ.
And now, after all that time spent in solitude, he’s finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone he’s never even seen, whose name he doesn’t even know. All he knows about you is that you’re smart—smart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequency—and that you live in New York. He could’ve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe you’re even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.
“Spiderman? You still there?” you ask, snapping him out of his daze.
Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so… small. Like you don’t want to hang up, even if there aren’t any crimes to report.
“I’m here,” he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You smile at that. He can hear it. “Okay. Good.”
The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your end—judging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.
“How about we play a game?” you ask before the radio falls into silence again.
Peter raises a brow under his mask. “A game?”
“Yeah—every time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.”
He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. “Okay, sure. And since I just finished one—does that mean the game starts now?”
You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. “Sure. Want to go first?”
Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling you’re both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.
And by letting him go first, it feels like you’re giving him the chance to set the tone.
“Hm. Let me think.” He rubs his chin through his mask. “Okay—I’m ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.”
You snort. “The first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?”
“Hey—coffee can be fun!” Peter interjects. “Now tell me yours.”
A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. “Fine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.”
The white lenses of Peter’s goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. “Oh—so you’re pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?”
“What?” You giggle along. “I’m not! That’s my actual order—especially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.”
Peter imagines it: a girl—a pretty one, judging by your voice and personality—ordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.
“Sure. And I’d tell you to try a hot Americano—but based on the order you just gave me, I don’t think you’d like it very much,” he jokes.
You chuckle. “No, probably not.”
Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.
He clears his throat. “So, uh—”
“Can I ask you something?”
You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
“Okay,” you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever you’re about to ask. “I’ve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?”
Peter pauses, confused by the question. “No. It’s on twenty-four seven—just in case something happens, you know?”
You hum softly. “I get that. But I guess what I’m trying to ask is… don’t you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?”
Peter stays quiet for a moment.
In truth, there’s a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring through—just in case you might… need him.
There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isn’t during consistent parts of the day—meaning you’re either at work or in class. It’s usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, he’ll see your receiver light up and you’ll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.
Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.
Peter finally found someone he cares about—and he isn’t going to risk losing you.
“I… I guess I do,” Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. “I always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.”
You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasn’t enough to buy it.
“And I guess I also keep it on… just in case you ever want to talk.”
Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasn’t enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. You’re quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.
“In that case,” you speak softly, “I’ll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.”
His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.
Peter hasn’t felt this way since high school. He’s grinning ear to ear—a smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that there’s a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.
“Don’t say that,” he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. “You’re gonna get annoyed with me.”
“Who’s to say I’m not already?” you joke back.
And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.
He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that he’s actually surprised Evie hasn’t called him out on it yet.
He wants to make this last—to say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.
Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.
“Oh, God,” you mutter quietly.
Every hair on Peter’s arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. “What is it, Static?”
“There’s an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,” you explain. “NYPD comms just flagged it—there are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.”
Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. “How many hostages are we talking?”
“At least fifty. Commuters, staff—they were trapped during rush hour,” you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. “I’m tapping into the security feed right now. They’re holding guns, and… it looks like there’s a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.”
The wind roars through Peter’s mic as he accelerates through the air. “How much time is on the clock?”
“I’m trying to zoom in—eight minutes,” you say. “They’ve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.”
“Alright, no breaches,” Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. “You’re my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.”
“The skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,” you reply instantly. “It leads directly into the ventilations—high enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.”
“Got it,” Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.
Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.
“Okay, I’m in position,” Peter breathes through the radio. “Time me?”
He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.
“Be careful, Spiderman.”
He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.
Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him to—he wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.
He lands gently right in the center of the terminal—but his plans for discretion don’t last when a hostage looks up and yells, “We’re saved, everyone! It’s Spiderman!”
Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.
“Oh,” Peter smiles. “Making my job a lot easier. Thanks.”
Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.
The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the men—who are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.
Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.
When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.
“SWAT is moving in—mind the doors and tripwires!”
“Shit,” Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exits—but it’s already too late.
The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peter’s ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freeze—and a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.
It’s quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.
“Wait!” Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.
But it’s too late.
“Spiderman! Get out of there!” you cry out through the radio—right before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.
Pressure and heat slam right into Peter’s chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.
Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.
Evie’s voice sings in his ear like a taunt.
“Detecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathing—”
Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.
“Spiderman! Answer me!” Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.
He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. It’s broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.
“Please—are you there? Spiderman! Check in!”
“Time, Static,” he manages to croak out.
Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. “The ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longer—”
“What’s the time, Static?” he repeats with a wet cough.
You suck in a sharp breath. “Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!”
“Peter,” he croaks, coughing up more blood.
“W-what?” you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. “You’re breaking out.”
“Our little game—remember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,” he wheezes, fighting for air. “My name is Peter Parker.”
A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.
“Static? Are you still there?”
“I can’t hear you, Spiderman.”
The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.
On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.
“…we return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,” the reporter’s voice echoes through your quiet room. “It has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.”
You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you haven’t touched.
“In a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,” the reporter continues. “According to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffled—and deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.”
Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.
He woke up.
He survived.
You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that he’s been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to know—because you felt like that might’ve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.
A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesn’t mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. You’re not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.
You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.
Your receiver light blinks green—it has been on this entire time.
For the past seven days, you’ve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that you’ll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you won’t miss him if he calls.
A few more days pass, and you’re sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like you’ve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.
Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s 3:41 in the morning.
With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair back—but the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.
A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.
You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.
“Hello?” you say, your heart racing. “Hello? Is someone there?”
The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that you—and whoever is on the other line—are connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.
“—atic?”
That voice—so familiar, so gentle—rings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. You’ve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.
“Sta—t—ic,” Peter’s voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clear—clearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. “This is Spiderman. Are you there?”
Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. “You’re okay. You’re here. Thank God. I—I thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospital—I hoped you were okay. I’ve been waiting for your call all week. I—”
“Hey, hey,” Peter coos softly on the other end. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”
You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like he’s lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.
“Where have you been?” you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”
“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. “My suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.”
A shaky breath leaves his lips. “With the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding it—I even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.”
You let out a wet, teary laugh. “So that’s why you sound like that.”
You can picture him grinning on the other end. “A lot better, huh?”
That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.
“I missed hearing your voice.”
Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, you’re collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.
“I missed hearing you, too. You’d better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely can’t bear losing you forever,” you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.
Peter’s grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you don’t lose me.”
You smile into your pillow. “Good.”
A comfortable silence settles between you two—not the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.
“Were you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?” Peter asks softly.
You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. “You were cutting out too much.”
He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.
“It was about our game—the fun facts one,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s walking on eggshells.
You couldn’t catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himself—a piece he wanted you to have in case he didn’t make it.
You hold your breath, waiting to see if he’ll offer it up again.
“And since I completed a successful mission,” he continues, swallowing hard. “I thought I’d continue with that trade.”
You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confession—for him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.
Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.
“Do you… have a boyfriend?”
You blink.
The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to say—a big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his life—that was not on your bingo card.
“What?” you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.
Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.
“O-or girlfriend! Sorry—I shouldn’t have assumed! I mean, you don’t have to answer! It’s just—it’s a fun fact! A personal fact! That’s how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something… or—”
A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.
“Spiderman,” you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.
“Yeah?” he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.
“No,” you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. “No boyfriend. No girlfriend.”
A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.
“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesn’t catch it—but you hear it anyway. “I mean… cool. That’s cool.”
You snort. “Okay. You know how the game goes. Now it’s my turn to ask.”
“Do I have a girlfriend?” he prompts.
You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. “Or boyfriend. I don’t judge.”
A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. He’s quiet for a few seconds, making you think he’s just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.
“I—um… I used to have this girl,” he murmurs. “We were dating for a while—but it didn’t work out.”
The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man who’s been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldn’t even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know it’s not your place.
“What happened?” The words spill out before you can stop them.
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.
“Well, that’s something you’re gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,” he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and you’re more than happy to fall right back into it.
You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.
“Deal. But let’s not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,” you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “I just want to keep you all to myself tonight.”
You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.
But Peter laughs—a full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. It’s a laugh that never fails to make you smile.
“Usually, I’d oppose the idea of ignoring crime,” he says softly. “But for you? I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”
You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. “Good. Goodnight, Spiderman.”
“Goodnight, Static.”
And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each other’s breathing lull you to sleep.
It’s a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.
Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.
The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone inside—which is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.
He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.
Standing inside the coffee shop is a face that’s all too familiar—someone he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.
Ned.
Peter’s feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isn’t alone.
He’s standing next to a girl—a pretty girl, at that. And one he doesn’t recognize.
Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.
“And for the missus?” The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.
You glance up at the menu board, though you don’t really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.
“Can I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla—”
Peter’s heart stops.
“—one pump of regular hazelnut…”
That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.
“And two scoops of vanilla bean powder,” Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.
“…and two scoops of vanilla bean powder?” you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.
The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture he’d built in his head—except for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.
The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.
The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.
His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.
“Hey,” you smile politely—a soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. “Are you using this chair?”
This is it.
Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.
Hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. The guy you’ve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.
Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his ear—identical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.
Just in case either of you calls in.
Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeper—adding a slight rasp for good measure.
“No, go ahead.”
That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. “Cool, thanks.”
You slide the chair up to the table you’re sharing with Ned, and just like that—unaware that you’ve completely flipped his world upside down and inside out—you fall right back into conversation with him.
The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.
He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.
Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that night—when he was trapped under rubble and bleeding out—was just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that he’s here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he can’t risk letting you into his world.
Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter can’t afford to lose you.
Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like he’s already lost you anyway.
“So, tell me more about this party.”
“Well, it’s a housewarming party,” you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. “Two of my friends moved into an apartment recently—so we’re celebrating tonight.”
Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in with—if not him.
“That’s… cool,” he finally answers in an indifferent tone.
You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. “Yeah. And since I’ll be busy socializing tonight, I won’t have my receiver on all night. But I’ll try my best to check in with you.”
Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. “I’m a big boy. You don’t need to check up on me.” He glances at the window. “I’m more worried about you, though.”
You step aside for a pedestrian who’s rushing past. “What for?”
Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. “Well, you’re a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where you’re at.”
You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.
“Don’t worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because I’m a woman, then I’ll never get anything done in this city.”
You’re greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.
“Do you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?” You ask Peter.
The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.
Peter’s cackle draws you back in. “And you’re drinking?”
You can’t help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two cases—one in each hand—and shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. “Yes, because I’m an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. It’s Friday night.”
A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himself—a night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.
You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.
“Okay, I gotta head out. I’ll check in with you later tonight—”
The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.
“You know Spiderman?” the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.
A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.
“Static? Who is that? What’s happening?”
“You must be mistaken,” you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. “I—I don’t know Spiderman—”
“Bullshit!” the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.
You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peter’s voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.
“Tell me your location—where are you? I’m coming—!”
“103rd Street,” the man answers with a grin. “That’s where your little lady is at—on the floor, bleeding outta her lip.”
The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where you’re prone on the ground.
“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” Peter’s voice crackles through the wind and speaker. “What do you want from me?”
The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.
“That’s the thing with people like you who try to play hero,” the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. “You stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we aren’t the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to survive—and it’s people like you who keep stopping us.”
He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.
“We’re just trying to eat,” the man spits into the receiver. “So if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick payday—that’s not evil. That’s just survival. There’s a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.”
The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.
If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But he’s not holding just any person. He’s holding you—the only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isn’t a single shred of restraint left in Peter’s mind—not when your life is on the line because of him.
“I don’t give a shit about your excuse,” Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. “If you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to God—”
“It’s too late, Spiderman.”
From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.
The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peter’s eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.
The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesn’t hit you.
Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his anger—so he settles with his fists.
One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the man’s face, tainting Peter’s suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.
“Spiderman, stop!”
You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.
Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isn’t done. He can’t rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.
He can’t rest until he knows, for certain, that you’re safe from danger.
He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for good—until your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.
“Stop! It’s over—it’s done,” you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. “The police are coming.”
Peter looks around, his chest heaving.
Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.
He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.
“Hold on,” he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.
You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. You’re too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding you—the very man you’ve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.
He doesn’t look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.
Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly you’re holding him.
He doesn’t say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.
Your eyes don’t leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man you’ve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isn’t his first time seeing you.
There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like this—under circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.
“I…” your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.
Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.
“Look at what he did to you,” his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like it’s all his fault.
You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. “If I’d known I was going to see you tonight, I probably would’ve worn more makeup.”
You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.
“I can’t believe you’re right here,” he breathes. “And I’m holding you.”
Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means he’ll have to say goodbye—and he doesn’t know when he’ll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.
For the first time in years, it feels like he’s found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves this—even if it's just for a few minutes.
“You know what I look like,” you smile painfully. “Yet, I still don’t know a single thing about you.”
Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. “I’m sorry.”
You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it up—giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants to—holding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.
As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. “I can’t.”
With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.
The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch—the first grace of warmth he’s felt in forever.
His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lips—bruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.
His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like he’s in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.
You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.
Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. “I wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
“I am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmth—”
“Shut up, Evie.”
You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.
“A successful mission,” you smile up at him. “You know what that means.”
He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that you’re hearing it up close for the first time.
“You’re right. You go first.” He prompts.
You tell him your name, but he doesn’t react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smiles—almost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though he’s known your name all along.
Peter repeats it softly. “It’s beautiful,” he says.
Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.
You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. “What’s yours—”
Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.
Peter’s senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.
Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.
“Oh my god, there you are!” Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. “We were wondering why you weren’t answering our calls—then someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Street—which is where you were going—and wait, is that Spiderman?”
Standing right behind him is MJ.
“You scared us!” she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.
“I’m okay, you guys shouldn’t have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,” you motion behind you, “this is—”
Peter doesn’t even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.
“God,” Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. “See! It’s like I told you, MJ! He’s like Peter Pan—if you really believe in him, he’ll show up!”
“Okay—you know, your fanboying really freaks me out,” MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay—”
A shudder passes through your body.
My name is Peter Parker.
“Peter,” you whisper with a sudden realization.
📝 first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
↳ Warnings/Themes: Brief mention of theme from the movie but no movie plot. Mature (🔞). Smut. Handjob. Oral (F!receiving). The mask stays ON! PwP. Reader is teasing at times lowkey mean. Spidey is sensitive. Cum eating (kinda).
↳ Pairing: Peter Parker x F!Reader
↳ Words: 2012
↳ Summary: Enhanced!Spidey has made a habit of visiting you. You don't know what he looks like, but you do know how he likes to be touched.
☁️: The way this movie reminded me of the PS4 game urgh I want to be sandwiched between the two Peters please. Anyways! Peter requests are open for fluff, smut, or a cute series! No angst pls, my boy's been through enough ❤︎
General Masterlist here. Peter Masterlist here.
Waiting for Spider-Man to arrive had become a habit. It settled beneath your skin long before the sun went down, winding through your veins until every passing minute seemed to pulse with quiet anticipation.
You'd tell yourself that this was casual, that there was no reason to glance at the window every time a sound came from the fire escape or a gust of wind brushed against the glass. He couldn't be there every night, he was married to New York, not to you. The sooner you accepted that, the less it would hurt when he stopped showing up.
But, every night, your body betrayed you. Your ears strained for a sound your mind tried to convince you wouldn't come. It was ridiculous, really, how thoroughly he'd woven himself into your evenings. Even as you tried to lose yourself in the newest shows or the pages of your book, there was a restless part of you that kept your body on the edge of expectation.
The knock at your window came 10 minutes into the movie that you'd been pretending to watch. Your core reacted before the rest of you did, a flutter between your thighs that spread warmth over your body.
You were already smiling by the time you crossed the room, your hand reaching for the window latch.
"Hey, Spidey," you purred, stepping aside to let him climb in. "You're late."
His head tilted slightly at the sound of your voice, the white lenses of his mask narrowing as though he could somehow see straight through the teasing tone you'd put on.
"You miss me?" He said, closing the window behind him.
You pursed your lips, pretending to consider the questions. A small shrug followed as if you hadn't already pictured him having you in 5 different positions. "A little."
"You know I can smell you, right?" Even though you couldn’t see his face under the mask, you were sure he was smirking.
You took a step back, as if that would help, and intentionally let your eyes roam down his frame. The sleek suit hugged every contour of his body, the fabric shifting over the sharp lines of his protruding muscles.
Seeing videos of him swinging across the city was a form of torture, really. You knew how those muscles felt under your hands, how warm his skin was, how he could lift you like you weighed nothing at all. And nobody but you knew.
"Well, if you can smell me, why are you still wearing so many clothes?"
"Whatever happened to 'hello, Spider-Man, how was your day?"" He chuckled, even as he moved to take his suit off.
You shrugged. "Figured we moved past the small talk a few visits ago."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah."
"So, where does that put us?"
You looked over at him. "I don't know, you tell me."
Wearing nothing but his boxers and his mask, Spider-Man closed the distance between you in a fluid motion. One second, he was by the window, and the next, he was looming right in front of you.
"That's a dangerous question to ask someone who makes terrible decisions for a living."
"Terrible decisions, huh?" You reached out, finger tracing the hard lines of the muscles in his chest, over his perky nipples, and down the ridges of his abs. The muscle beneath your touch flexed instantly, turning to stone as fire ran through his veins.
"And here I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one," you teased.
His breath hitched as your finger hooked just beneath the waistband of his boxers.
It was intoxicating knowing that the city's greatest protector could be this undone by just a single touch from you. He nearly stopped breathing as your fingers inched just slightly lower, your whole hand in his pants.
Even with only a semi, he was already so thick and heavy and warm in your palm. You ran your thumb over the slit, spreading the precum that had already pooled there. Spider-Man practically whimpered as you tightened your grip, and he bucked into your hand.
It only took your hand travelling the length of him twice and a tight flick of your wrist for him to become fully hard.
"Woooow, Spider-Man. Someone's eager tonight."
"You're one to talk," he gritted out. "You're fucking soaked, it's all I can smell."
He wasn't wrong, flushes of arousal coated your panties at every buck of his hips and soft whine that your hands pulled from him.
"True, but you're the one about to cum from the shortest handjob ever." Spider-Man hissed as you squeezed his already too sensitive head, knees bucking. "It's not even my best work."
A few visits ago, Spider-Man confessed that his recently enhanced senses left him unusually sensitive. You didn't know his name or his face but you did know that, and you used it to your advantage at every moment.
"Poor, Spidey," you cooed, pace increasing around his length, twisting and rolling your palm over the tip. In response, his dick twitched in your hand and you had to bite back the smile.
"Fuck..." Spider-Man breathed.
When your other hand slid into his boxers to play with his balls, he gasped your name. The sound send heat straight from your belly and down between your thighs, your clit throbbing to be touched.
Ignoring the throb, you pressed closer to him, standing on your tiptoes so your nose could brush against the line of his jaw, covered by his mask. "This is to say thank you, Spider-Man," you whispered.
Spider-Man's thighs quivered the moment he felt your tongue swipe over his erect nipple. "Oh, shit- I-."
The muscles in his abs clenched as he came into his boxers, leaving a thick and sticky mess on your hands. The grunts slipped freely from him as you gently stroked him through it.
The white lenses of his mask widened when you pulled your hand from his boxers and immediately began licking them clean. Sucking your fingers into your mouth, making a show of how your tongue swirled around them.
"Mhm, you want a taste?" You asked, raising your fingers to his mask.
"I want a taste of you," Spider-Man replied, his voice sounding unusually rough. "On the sofa, legs wide for me."
A part of you wants to be defiant, ask him "and if I don't?" just to see his reaction, see if you could push whatever buttons he was trying to hide. But another part, the stronger part, was burning with an ache so strong that you didn't know what to do with it. So, you listened.
You shimmied out of your sleep shorts with all the grace of a deer on ice. They were barely off of your ankles when you turned for the sofa, nearly tripping in your rush. Spider-Man's hands caught you to steady you, picking you up and dropping you onto the cushions.
The asshole had the audacity to laugh, a low, gravelly chuckle that made heat flush under your skin. He knelt between your spread legs, eyeing the way your obvious arousal had your pussy slick and ready. "Someone's eager tonight," he joked.
"Fuck you, Spider-Man."
Spider-Man pushed his mask up so it sat across the bridge of his nose, exposing the way his mouth was curved into a crooked grin.
"I thought you didn't take the mask off?"
That was the one unbroken rule between you. No matter how naked you both got, the mask stayed fully on, always.
"I always take it off to eat."
The problem was he said it so simply, as if he had no idea of the effects his words could have when you knew that wasn't true.
You shuddered a breath, anticipation prickling under your skin once again.
His hands cupped the bottom of your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the sofa. He leant in close, deliberately inhaling deeply as if he couldn't already smell you perfectly fine. "Fuck. Let's see if you taste as good as you smell."
Spider-Man pressed a warm kiss to your inner thigh, then trailed his kisses higher and higher until he got to the top of your inner thigh. He paused there for a minute, his warm breath fanning against your skin and leaving goosebumps.
"Spidey, you okay?" you asked.
With effortless ease, he manoeuvred you so that you were spread even wider for him, with one of your legs over his shoulder.
A shiver rippled down your spine as Spider-Man used two fingers to spread your folds open. With his other hand, he ran a finger from your twitching hole up to your clit, circling it before running it back down again.
"Hmm," he hummed in approval as your hole clenched around nothing. He pushed a finger in slightly, barely, letting it catch before pulling out. "I'm going to enjoy this."
The first touch of Spider-Man's tongue sliding across your folds had you gasping loudly. His tongue was rougher than you expected, but it felt so perfect against you.
"Fucking delicious," he moaned. He licked another fat stripe, did it again, and again, and again, lapping up the juices there before moving to focus on your clit.
Picking up a pillow, your nails dug into the soft cushion. Spider-Man sucked your clit into his mouth as he used a finger to circle your dripping hole.
The soft sigh that escaped you spurred him on, and he flattened his tongue on your clit, circling it with his tongue.
"Spidey~," you moaned, "t'so good."
At that, he pushed his face deeper into you, using his nose to rub at your clit as his tongue moved lower. His tongue wiggled inside of you, reaching as far as it could go to touch your insides.
"Oh, ooohh, shit, fuck, shit."
Spider-Man worked over your pussy as if it was his mission. His jaw must have been aching but he hummed and cooed around you, slurping loudly as he sucked up your juices.
"F-Fuck, who knew Spider-Man could eat like a pro."
Spider-Man looked up at you, a mixture of his spit and your arousal shining the only visible part of his face. The bottom part of his mask was slightly wet and your clit throbbed at the sight. Part of you had marked him.
"It's Peter."
He buried his face back between your legs before you had time to register it. "What?"
"Name's Peter," he hummed around your pussy, sending vibrations up your core. "Want you to use my name."
The sounds that came out of your mouth after that even surprised you. Spider-Man was in your home, between your legs, begging you to call him by his real name. The worlds between real life and the one concocted by your deeply satisfied brain were colliding.
"You're so good, Peter."
Your hips ground down on his face, thighs quivering around him as the familiar knot in your stomach started to form.
Peter moved his attention back to your clit as his hand slid under the hem of your shirt. He rolled and tugged and flicked at your nipple in time with his tongue's movements on your clit.
You could feel it building, the knot tightening in the pit of your stomach. "Peter~ I'm so close, Peter~~."
"Need you to cum on my face, pretty girl," he mumbled, words muffled by your thighs tight around him.
Your back arched off of the sofa, mouth falling open in a breathless moan as you came on his face, soft and mumbled 'Peter's falling from your lips.
His mouth stayed on you the entire time, licking up every drop that you could give him. He didn't stand until your body had stopped wracking with the aftershocks of your orgasm.
From your slumped position on the sofa, your eyes trailed down his body memorising the nose that had rubbed against you so relentlessly and the mouth that had sucked you into oblivion before moving down again.
Your eyes landed on his boxers, where another erection was straining against them.
"Soooo, round two?" He asked.
If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc. it means a lot x
I was inspired by a few posts I had seen over the years about people shifting with their eyes open/by blinking. So I decided to make a subliminal with this concept.
I made it using very extreme language. "Reality melting, breaking and bending right before my eyes." Or "I shift so fast it scares me." Guess what? It did scare me. So be careful what you wish for.
I edited a video along with it to kind of show myself the process of shifting with every blink because I can't visualise or see things in my head at all. I'm a beginner at editing so the first one ended up looking kind of bad. I decided to try again the next day.
I ended up re-hashing the subliminal as well and adding more affirmations. Then, as I was editing the newer version of the video, I took a break and shifted. I wasn't even wearing headphones while editing so the fact that it still worked is kind of crazy to me.
I actually didn't think it would work so fast and so... crazily? I was talking to my mom while eating dinner and I blinked and I was in a whole different place, I panicked SO HARD and came back the next blink. I was back in front of my mom and she saw my mouth wide open in shock and asked what was wrong.
I think I shifted to my Frieren Reality. I haven't even tried to shift there before. I saw a column in front of me and the sun shining behind it. I was in my Palace since I am an Empress in that DR.
It felt and looked more real than this reality. Probably because I have perfect vision there which I don't have here, even my glasses (which I always neglect to wear) don't make my vision as clear as it was there.
I used to think that it would be so cool to shift extremely fast but boy was I scared when it actually happened. It's actually so jarring. I'm still shaking and my heart is beating so fast even an hour afterwards.
I actually can't gatekeep this so I am gonna link it here for anyone who wants to use it. Please don't mind my choppy editing. Also I added my s/o and some of my realities in the video because I thought that I would be the only one watching it so I am kind of embarrassed to be adding it here but the subliminal is too good to hide.
Y’all after using this subliminal. I indeed DID shift so fast it scared me. It was to this CR though.
It was the night of August 1st. I was very sleepy, but not to the point where I’m losing the sleeping battle. It 100% wasn’t a dream because why tf did reality glitch randomly like that??? I was on my phone , and I blinked seeing something different. Simultaneously, I dropped my phone & before I knew it I was back here . It was like the equivalent of your body falling and jolting type thing. In that version though, I standing with my door open discussing something with my mother. @eeshshifts u da bomb!!!
CONGRATULATIONS!! Im so happy for you!!! I can never get used to the feeling of shifting that fast no matter how many times I do it so I get how you feel haha.
There are many affirmations about reality glitching right before your eyes so thats probably why you experienced it like that.
Im so grateful for your kind words 💓 thank your for using my subliminal. I loved to read your success story!!!
no action needs to be taken. You do not have to work out to lose weight. You do not have to change your skin care routine to get clear skin. You do not have to get dating apps or go out and "mingle" to get a boyfriend. You do not have to work for money. You do not have to lift a single finger for anything in your life if you don't want to. I have manifested everything I've wanted without taking any physical action because I don't like putting in work (only mental work around here)
- affirm persist affirm persist affirm persist. That is all you have to do. Even if your thoughts sound "robotic" it doesn't matter. An assumption though false if persisted in must harden into fact.
- you can change anyone completely. You can manifest brand new biological parents. You can manifest new biological siblings. Brand new if you want them too be.
Never feel guilty for it either because it's a waste of time. If it will make you happier and your life better than do it.
— your desires will show up extremely fast. Don't listen to logical people who say bs like "it takes six months to change your life" or "you have to work hard for what you want" or "you can't have it all". Those are all complete lies.
You can have it all. All you have to do is affirm and persist.
Time is not real however it doesn't take more than a couple days for your desires to show up. I said what I said.
i think people get confused with manifestation when it comes to the rhetoric used .
when people say "decide" they don't mean you have to actually think and decide what you want . it's more of a "realize".
i wish people used "realize" more often than decide.
manifesting is just becoming aware of who you already are and what you already have . there's no process or "deciding" anything . i keep putting quotations around that word because i personally just don't align with it .
no constant affirming, acknowledging & reacting to the 3d, no methods, no living in the end — just choosing my truth.
my biggest turning point when it comes to manifesting was knowing non-dualism and then understanding that i'm not a person trying to manifest something. there's no me here and my manifestation there. there's no A and B.
i am my manifestation, matter of fact, i am everything. i am the experience. i'm not the human, i am the experience experiencing itself.
after understanding that, labels started to lose meaning. things like "bad" or "good" are meanings created by humans to help us explain how we feel and make us have a criteria to make decisions. those meanings make sense to me because i am, indeed experiencing human life, but i'm not bound to that, i'm beyond that.
as i said, i'm the experience. so, without labels, i started to realize that everything we experience is simply neutral. we are the ones to assign meaning to it, but, at its core, everything is neutral.
i'll give you an example. let's say you crash your car, you're not hurt or anything, but your car doesn't work and you need to take it to a mechanic, the mechanic tells you it's gonna cost a lot of money to fix your car. you'd certainly think "hell, this situation sucks. i have to spend a lot of money and i won't have my car for a few days." you claim this situation is bad. the mechanic on the other hand, thinks "ha! this dumbass crashes their car and now i'll get a lot of money!" he claims this situation is good.
same situation. two completely different interpretations. everything we experience simply is. not bad, not good. it just is. you can decide its meaning.
okay, got that. so how do i manifest with this?
we've learned that everything is neutral, we are the ones who can assign any meaning to anything. "true" and "false" are meanings created by humans, not set in stone laws. see what i'm getting at?
when manifesting, i simply assign meaning to my experience. i decide what is "true" and "false". i look at my initial circumstances, say for example: lack of money, bad skin, no job — and deem it false. deem it simply my imagination. not real. then i say to myself "the truth is actually that i have money, or clear skin, or my dream job." and done. saying it only once is enough. then i move on, and go on with my life knowing what is truth and what isn't.
at moments like these i like to remind myself that i'm not the human. i'm not a human trying to manifest something and i'm not stuck to identifying with something forever. i am the experience, i am the observer of the experience, therefore i can simply identify with a different truth.
that's how i ignore the 3d. or, rather, how i don't. i never force myself to ignore something, specially when it comes to circumstances that are hard to ignore. personally, it just causes me anxiety to force myself to ignore something because of the idea that "if i don't ignore it, i won't get my manifestation". whenever unfavorable circumstances arise, i acknowledge them, and gently remind myself "hmm... no. this is false, the truth is that i already have my desire." and move on. again, i decide what is truth and what isn't, i decide the meaning of everything because i am everything.
finally, i wanna highlight that, for me, 'knowing something is the truth' is not constantly affirming, doing 10 different methods at once, listening to thousands of subliminals until i convince myself. i also don't have to constantly be happy and gleeful about having my manifestation. i simply have to know it is the truth and naturally sustain that truth. like: when you got your dream phone, you were very happy for the first few days, but a year later with that phone, you're out of that "honeymoon phase", you just know you have it and... yeah. that's all there is to it. i simply have to know my manifestation as a natural and instinctive truth. doesn't matter what circumstances i see because i can simply deem them imaginary/false and still know my truth, sustain that truth for as long as i want.
et voila! there you have it, how i manifest! i simply live my life knowing what it is and what isn't truth and... yeah. everything just unfolds without me having to do much. everything is malleable, play with reality, you're the experience. bye bye 🪷
Seriously. STOP doomscrolling. Stop looking for 5000 different success stories. Just. APPLY.
MANIFESTATION is so easy. Literally, as long as you have a functioning brain and the ability to talk to yourself or utilize your imagination; manifesting is EASY. Why? Because it's literally just THINKING.
You are not climbing the highest fucking mountain.
You are not petitioning a letter to the gods, the universe, or whatever it is you may believe in. You are only CHANGING. YOUR. THOUGHTS. Almost every single thought you have is literally an affirmation in some shape or form.
"I keep buying all these skincare products and nothing works." That's an affirmation. "My car fucking sucks, I swear it breaks down every week." That's an affirmation. "This stupid dog keeps pissing in the house. I go through this shit everyday." YUP! That's an affirmation too.
Why do people usually enter the void state by focusing on their breathing? Why does it help?
Why do we do breathe exercises to enter the void state or any SATS state?
That's a really good question.
Normally, our heart rate and stress responses are regulated by the autonomic nervous system. meaning we don't have to think about them. Breathing is unique because its both automatic and voluntary. Slow, deep, rhythmic breathing (especially with long exhales) stimulates our nerves and this makes our heart rate drop and let go the muscle tension.
Also it has everything to do with the brain waves, unregulated breathing keeps our brain in high beta waves (alert and anxious). Deep breathing on the other hand puts our brainwaves into alpha and theta (relaxed to deep trance), which is the exact brain state required for deep altered mind states.
Usually when we meditate our mind’s tendency is to wander into thoughts, worries, or bodily sensations. (Like tingling or itching). Breathing makes you focus on it to stop thinking about random sensations or thoughts. Also it prevents you from falling asleep while putting your body into a relaxed and sleepy state (thus MABA)
Pure consciousness (also called the "I AM" state or Samadhi) is the experience of awareness existing without identification with the body, personality, or thoughts (or ego) As breathing becomes deeper, sensory input from the physical world fades away. ♡
the whimsiness of shifting (a.k.a a guide on how to bring the fun back into ur shifting journey)
shifting is whimsy. shifting is one minute consuming a piece of media the next, searching all over the internet for script templates for (insert media); shifting is scripting the little things about ur dr s/o that has u giggling and kicking ur feet thinking about it; shifting is joining shifting discord servers and gcs and just exchanging dr info with people who wholeheartedly share the same love for shifting as you do; shifting is buying things (e.g. perfumes) that reminds you of things from ur dr and helps u connect even more on another level;
shifting is staying up till the morning chickens start cuckooing their natural alarms reading fanfics about your dr s/o and scripting more scenarios to ur dr script; shifting is feeling upset & unmotivated one day and knowing that there are thousands of people who have probably felt the same emotions as u are currently and posted shifting storytimes as a sign that you too can shift; shifting is the gateway to living multiple different lives, all with different stories, people to meet, etc;
shifting is what u make it; shifting is personalised; shifting is you doing what YOU want to do rather than other people telling u what to do; shifting is giving u choices where u felt lack of freedom was permanently painted onto your life; shifting is to be able to love freely; shifting is waking up in ur dr one day and realising that all ur tears, frustrations, hopes and dreams all lead to this very moment and it is indeed real
Whether you like it or not, you're ALWAYS manifesting!
Warning: Tough love ahead
This is non-negotiable! Some of you think that loa is something you can turn on/off whenever you want, but that's NOT how it works. It's nothing new, you've been using it for as long as you could think! Your subconscious is listening to EVERYTHING you tell it! Good or bad, it doesn't matter, the thoughts you are choosing to repeat manifest into your reality!
You keep complaining about being broke? Congratulations, that's your reality! You keep telling yourself you're in good shape? Congratulations, that's your reality! You keep telling yourself that you never get your desires? CONGRATULATIONS. THAT. IS. YOUR. REALITY. I don't want to sound like a victim blamer, that's the very last thing I want to do, but you NEED to take accountability for the thoughts you choose to dwell on!
Loa is never going away, so if you ask me, it's straight up FOOLISH to know all this yet continue to complain about your circumstances as if YOU can't get yourself out of them! There is no secret to any of this! I don't wanna see anything like "Oh, but it's soooo hard!" or "But nothing ever works for me!" There are plenty of success stories here on tumblr alone of people with horrible lives successfully using the law to claim the life they deserve!
There's absolutely no excuse for you refusing to accept just how easy the law is. If you still can't get it, then I don't know what else to say. When are you going to wake up and realize that the only thing that can hold you back is YOU??? There is NOTHING in this world that can make you NOT manifest! YOU decide if you want to take this seriously or not, because your reality will always mirror your dominant state regardless!
no action needs to be taken. You do not have to work out to lose weight. You do not have to change your skin care routine to get clear skin. You do not have to get dating apps or go out and "mingle" to get a boyfriend. You do not have to work for money. You do not have to lift a single finger for anything in your life if you don't want to. I have manifested everything I've wanted without taking any physical action because I don't like putting in work (only mental work around here)
- affirm persist affirm persist affirm persist. That is all you have to do. Even if your thoughts sound "robotic" it doesn't matter. An assumption though false if persisted in must harden into fact.
- you can change anyone completely. You can manifest brand new biological parents. You can manifest new biological siblings. Brand new if you want them too be.
Never feel guilty for it either because it's a waste of time. If it will make you happier and your life better than do it.
— your desires will show up extremely fast. Don't listen to logical people who say bs like "it takes six months to change your life" or "you have to work hard for what you want" or "you can't have it all". Those are all complete lies.
You can have it all. All you have to do is affirm and persist.
Time is not real however it doesn't take more than a couple days for your desires to show up. I said what I said.
after going through ANOTHER epiphany yesterday, i picked myself back up & went back to affirming in my imagination & staying consistent asf & then i thought to myself, “why do i view my old state as my default state & if i dont affirm/persist, ill inevitably ‘revert back to my old state’
It rlly got me thinking. DAMN, the reason why some of us keep going back to old states is because we view it as our ‘default state’ & the state we will inevitably fall back into.
so now im telling u this, u are not DOOMED to be a servant to ur old story, nuh uh! thats not how things run round ere’, The old story was NEVER ur destiny & never will be. the old story is now DEAD to u, forgotten in an endless abyss, no longer serves u, u have no connection to it WHATSOVER.
Its gone, you cannot ‘revert’ back to that old state of lack because its completely wiped out from exsistence, all u know is ur new state which is automatically ur default state no matter what. The state where u actually have what u want instead of trying to chase it like its an unattainable goal. Its yours, everything is urs & u constantly acknowledge that fact. Its natural that you only know ur new state as ur default & u never have to worry about “falling back into that old state” because its DEAD & GONE!
