[salem-s]

THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSAID — PETER PARKER ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS — Three times Peter Parker sees you in-person and almost re-introduces himself to you + the one time Frank Castle does it for him.

NOTES & WARNINGS — fem!reader x BND!peter, slight stalker!peter (what it’s totally normal?), mentions of sex but no real smut, down bad!peter, arachnid!peter if you squint. mature language. angst for a mile. some fluff if you want to try and find it. hurt/comfort. let’s pretend the museum of natural history has an arachnid exhibit. features both peter and reader POV. Not edited. 18+ MDNI.

WORD COUNT — 17.8k. Uhm. Welcome back? I’m sorry?

The first time Peter sees you was a complete accident.

Between the elongated fight with Scorpion the night before and the restless sleep he encountered right after, Peter feels utterly depleted. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Any other -ally in the book. His bones ache from the echoes of being slammed into cars, walls, solid pavement despite the accelerated healing from his arachnid DNA, and he’s definitely sure he pulled something in his back after landing wrong against a Ford Explorer bumper. There’s only so many automobiles he can take.

Sleep didn’t come (naturally, because when does it ever?) and before he could comprehend the exhaustion of the day ahead, the sun was rising and the background chatter of the city began to flow into conversation. Cars honking. Sirens. People laughing on their commute. Dogs barking. God, it was all too much. It is all too much.

Ever since his body mutated, ever since he saw a photo of you on Ned’s Instagram with your arms wound a little too tight around a guy far too handsome to be considered a friend, ever since he swiped too far into the post to see said-guy’s lips kissing your cheek in a separate photo, he’s been slipping into a skin that doesn’t feel like his own. It’s hollow and dark and far too lonely for someone who has been craving the simplicity of human touch for four years, craving you. Your touch. Your love. Only for it to be gifted to someone else. The photos haunt him, even in his dreams, so it’s safe to say he doesn’t get much shut eye.

Exhibit A was this morning. In a state of exhaustion, Peter webbed earplugs to his head and eventually found a few hours of peace.

Though his day is delayed more than usual, he finds himself easing into his normal routine: grab a coffee and fuel up, snag some fresh flowers, take the subway like a normal civilian to and from the cemetery. Forget swinging. Peter almost feels that it’s sacreligious to swing to the burial site, to bring the suit into May’s place of rest when it was the reason she was there in the first place. It feels wrong. Incredibly disrespectful. The first time he did it, he barely made it through the gates before panicking and nearly puking with guilt.

Sometimes he’ll take a longer route and subway surf on a couple different trains just to be around people, to sit next to someone and have the slightest warmth emulated from something that’s not his own body, to feel the closest he can to normal, to immerse himself in everyday life as he’s been robbed of. Couples huddle closely together and whisper in hushed tones. Friends chatter amongst themselves about anything and nothing, plans of the evening to the semantics of aerodynamics. People who travel alone and listen to music or read a book. Sometimes he’ll read off the page or try to listen to the song to expand his music taste. He’s got a playlist called ‘Lurking’.

But today that decision deems to bite him in the ass.

Because you’re here.

On the fucking 4-train.

Peter doesn’t see you at first, stepping onto the car numbly and gripping the pole closest to the doors with his eyes trained on the ground. He’s thinking about too much. May. Scorpion. You. The arms dealers in Lincoln Square. Rumors of a Russian in a rhinoceros suit. You. That fucking ache in his back. Then–

You.

Specifically, your laughter.

Peter stills, eyes widening as his head snaps up. There’s an immediate crick in his neck from the sheer whiplash but the pain slides to the back of his mind, thoughts solely fixated on you, you, you, who stands on the other side of the car with a friend, and his breath hitches. You’re adorned in your signature Yankees cap, navy and faded from the hundreds of times you used to wear it in high school, more beautiful than a phone screen could ever show. Grown yet still the same. Hair different but smile all the brighter. Older even though you still wear the cheap ring he made for you in welding class sophomore year, hand holding a brown paper bag with a not-so-subtle drink concealed inside.

After you take a sip and grimace animatedly, you pass it to your friend who follows suit. Peter suppresses an involuntary grin. He can tell it’s beer by the way you reacted. You’ve always hated it. Apparently, you still do.

“Stop making that face,” your friend snorts, unfazed by the taste, “unless you wanna spend fifty bucks to get wasted on two drinks.”

You grimace again, but take the bag from her and take another sip, this time longer. Once you swallow thickly and get it down, you exhale shakily. “I’ll get used to it one day, trust.”

“Just not today?”

“God, fuck no.”

Peter chuckles louder than he should, then masks it immediately by clearing his throat and looking away before you can look over. Shit, he should stop. He’s eavesdropping, invading a private moment between you and your friend, being a creep by using his senses to listen to you. But… he hasn’t heard your voice in-person in years. Your laugh. Your everything. All of it’s been over the phone, clinging onto whatever Ned’s posting whether it’s photos, videos, anything. If he thought that was bad enough, hearing it in the flesh is worse.

It’s so much fucking worse.

His heart aches with something he can’t quite name. Perhaps it’s a mix between everything he’s been holding in for these past four years, because it was much easier living vicariously through you on a screen so that he’s forced to stay away, to keep letting you live your life without the burden of him in it.

But now that you’re here – you’re right here – all of that crumbles with the sheer force of nostalgia. The pull of the tide that is you.

“Besides,” you continue to your friend, and Peter tunes in guiltily, “I’ll just get hammered at Stan’s when we win. Again.”

His mouth twitches as he recounts the time you managed to get him and Ned into that bar after one game junior year, hustling drinks by making Peter play cards against too-cocky men who didn’t think a shy, purse-lipped kid could beat them. Spoiler: he could due to his enhanced senses. He normally didn’t. But you asked nicely. So there wasn’t much defending he could do there.

Your friend rolls her eyes and snatches the drink from you, splashing a bit on her Mets shirt. “No shit. You’re playing us,” she deadpans before taking a sip.

Triumphant and forgetting the ill taste of the ale, you smile and hum to her teasingly and the sight of it does something weird to Peter’s chest. “That’s why I love the Subway Series, man. Smells like a sweep to me.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re from Jersey. You shut up.”

“Just because you grew up here and managed to go to a million games doesn’t diminish my loyalty.”

You roll your eyes but there’s no bite behind it, only a wide smile and pure love for the rage-baiting game. In the midst of your friend saying something else, Peter finds himself tuning her out and solely focusing on you, with the way your black chipped nails grip the can, how you adjust the cap on your head and he catches a sliver of the scar on your temple that you got all those years ago, how it reminds him of reality and that you’re not his, and he’s not yours.

And it hurts. It stings so fucking bad because here you are: slightly tipsy and on your way towards the Bronx like you and him have done together a million times before. The 4 train was practically your stomping grounds, flushed together in a busy cart with you in your Yankees gear and him in his Mets, brushing fingers as you held onto the same pole. He used to have to remind himself to manually breathe at the innocent contact, while you’d be trash talking his team with that same lopsided smile and teasing glare. Then you’d grab him when your stop came and he’d guide the two of you out through the crowd. Well, that was before you were bold. First it was his shoulder, then his bicep, and slowly – but surely – you started grabbing his hand instead. Once you went there, you never stopped. Nor did he tell you to.

Now what Peter would give to have you slip your hand into his one more time.

He watches on longingly, that involuntary smile slowly dropping from his face as his reality sets in. You only exist to him from afar.

A fleeting thought flickers in his mind to go up to you, maybe to trip and bump into you or move around the car just to stand a bit closer. People move around their subway carts sometimes, it’s not unheard of. Would you even notice if he weaved through the crowd to get to you? What would he even say? Nice shirt? He’s not even a fan. Seats are full and it’s getting busier with more Yankees fans the closer it gets to the stadium, and he knows if he doesn’t act now then he’ll lose his chance.

But faster than light, the stop arrives and you’re gripping your friend’s shoulder on instinct, and with a kettlebell setting in his chest, Peter watches you slip into the same routine that you and him used to share. Your friend pushes to the door with you hot on her tail, and once the car stops and the doors open, people are flooding off and onto the platform.

Peter watches you shamelessly through the moving heads and chatter and takes it all in before he loses it again.

But something strange happens. And maybe it’s from pure instinct or survival skills to know when someone is staring, but you look up and find his eyes from across the train. It only lasts a second, perhaps less than, but for the first time in four years, your gaze burns into his.

It nearly knocks the wind out of him, gripping the pole so tight it might indent. When you offer a polite smile, something you offer strangers but still want to extend kindness, his breath hitches nonetheless.

Then you’re gone. You disappear into the crowd on the platform as you all hustle towards the exit, and before Peter can comprehend that his body needs to move and that his mind is screaming Follow her! Go! the subway doors are already shutting, and he’s getting further and further away from the person he’s been searching for in his dreams. All he can think is how long it really has been, how better you seem without him in your life, and how beautiful you looked.

─────── ─────── ───────

The second time is more intentional.

Peter’s ashamed to admit he started following you since that day on the subway.

Not in a crazy, stalkerish, perved kind of way! Not at all, but almost as a way to bring him some comfort for his own sake. He finds out that your coffee order is different, with less sweeteners and sugar and now simply milk and the coffee. He notices you flex your dominant hand a lot without realizing, probably still sore from when you broke it junior year attempting to skateboard, and he wonders if you’ve been using your prescribed palm to sooth the pinched nerves. He sees that you still have the LEGO Yoda keychain he got you as a gag gift one year after you watched Empire Strikes Back with him for the first time and was utterly appalled at how ugly Yoda was. Peter fondly remembers how he couldn’t stop laughing at your expression, and you couldn’t stop grimacing at how ‘busted’ he was.

He learns your routine. He discovers your studio apartment (What? He followed you home one night just to make sure you live in a nice area. That’s all.) and that you have a roommate, your best friend from college. He sees you have a cat that likes to sit in the window facing the sun. He knows where you work and how long you’re typically there for in a day, what you manage to cook for yourself for dinner and where you typically order to-go from, who you tend to hang out with in your spare time that doesn’t include MJ and Ned. You love to walk through Central Park, he’s learned, as it’s somewhat near your apartment. Often you walk with your headphones in on a power stride, other times you slow to admire the scenery, and occasionally you’ll lay on the grass and journal or read.

The note he wrote for you burns in his pocket, branding his skin with the words marked in ink on the pages. Peter’s hand lingers on it every time he gets close enough to approach you, but the message seems to get lost in translation because his mind blanks. What could he even say? Do? Would he present as the Peter you know or the Peter he is now? Would you even like the Peter he is now? He sure as hell doesn’t.

Today, he follows you into the Museum of Natural History. After coughing up the thirty bucks for a ticket, he pretends to be walking around aimlessly with his headphones in and a map in hand. But there’s no music playing. And he’s not really looking at the artifacts. He’s peering at you.

You enter the building on the phone with a friend, telling them you’re going to walk around for a bit before they get there. Peter takes it as his chance to study how you’ll move around the museum by yourself. Will you wait idly for your friend? Go to the gift shop? Brush up on some knowledge? Yet once you hang up the call, you start beeling through the rooms. Blindly, he follows.

And all you do is linger in the bug exhibit.

Peter stands a few paces behind, always cautious enough to never get too close, but never too far so he loses sight. Whenever you turn in his direction, he busies himself with whatever display is closest to him, pretending to read the excerpts as he feels the breeze of you walking by him. It takes everything in him not to visually react at the scent of your perfume wafting. You don’t notice him, thank god, and are either pretending not to or simply aren’t aware of your surroundings, specifically the guy that’s been hovering for the past twenty minutes.

(If he ever gets back in your life again, he’ll have to lecture you on stranger danger.)

After watching you stand in front of the arachnid exhibit for ten minutes, Peter swallows thickly and approaches quietly, heart pounding through his ribcage as he settles beside you from a safe distance, though it’s the closest he’s been to you in a long time, and perhaps will ever get. He doesn’t care about the arachnid facts plastered on the wall, nor the different spiders laid out in their dead manner so people can ogle and cringe at them up close without really encountering them. Instead, his eyes are on you as you also disregard the words on the wall, but rather staring intently at each species on display.

If you notice him, you don’t acknowledge him, instead frowning at the sight in front of you with a slight tilt of your head and furrow of your brows. Peter’s half inclined to ask if you’re alright, but the words die in his throat and dissippate when you take a long, deep sigh.

Then, to his surprise, you hum. “It sucks that they display them in such a bright room.”

Peter blinks stupidly. Are you… talking to him?

After a moment of silence, you glance at him through your peripheral shyly, clearing your throat as you purse your lips. Once you set your gaze back forward, Peter short circuits.

Shit, Peter thinks. Say something!

“Really?” he responds quickly. God, anything but that. “Is that… bad?”

Is he kidding? The first time you’re speaking to him in four years and that’s all he’s got?

But you don’t cower away. Instead, you take a small breath of relief, somewhat pleased that you weren’t talking to yourself, but an embarrassed chuckle escapes your lips as you shake your head, mainly at yourself.

“Sorry,” you apologize immediately with a soft smile, and Peter immediately bites his tongue to refrain from telling you to never say sorry for being knowledgeable, a nervous habit you seemingly haven’t broken. “Uh, spiders like dark spaces. They’re hardwired to stay hidden and be far away from people on instinct.”

Oh, he thinks. That sounds familiar.

“Oh.” He mirrors his thoughts as he searches for the right word. “That’s cool.”

You hum distantly, still looking at the display.

“It’s lonely,” you counter gently.

The dejected tone of your voice makes him frown, swallowing thickly as he turns to look at you. His throat gets tight, heart aching at the undertones of your simple observation. If only you knew how true that was, how it actually also applies to human-arachnid hybrids as well, and how desperately he’s trying to reverse that proven fact. Can you sense how much he’s aching? How much he yearns for you? Is he that transparent? And even if he isn’t, why would you say that fact to him? Something that’s so synonymous with the elements of his life?

Before he can open his mouth to respond, you shrug your shoulders.

“Also fucking sucks that the curators put them under a bright beam.” The despondency in your tone seems to be gone, replaced with something more nonchalant as you turn your head to meet his gaze. “Kinda defeats their purpose, hm?”

All he can do is blink stupidly and nod.

You stare at him for a moment, taking in his somewhat bewildered expression and pink tinted cheeks with your own curious inquiry. At this moment, he realizes he probably looks a mess: curls unruly and untamed with – no doubt – cuts littered in his hairline and a light bruise blossoming on his jaw, eyebags likely more prominent than ever. He’s favoring his left leg, can you tell? And he can’t really move his shoulder a certain way right now or else that ache in his blade will flare up again. God, he didn’t think to clean up a bit before blindly following you?

Despite it, you don’t avert your gaze.

Brown eyes stare back into yours, and there’s a flicker of confusion in your stare as you furrow your brow, just barely. Perhaps you recognize him from that one fleeting moment on the subway, or maybe you’ve been paying attention to your surroundings and are spooked from the creep who has been following you around nonstop. But you don’t step away or seem totally rejected by his presence, and instead linger in it, like something’s pulling you into staying in his orbit for a little while longer. Peter prays that there’s some sort of recognition there, anything, something.

What seems like a second stretches to eons, and his heart leaps when you open your mouth to say something inquisitive.

But a phone ringing pulls you both from the moment.

Peter takes a beat before realizing it’s his phone.

“Oh!” He pats his jean pockets clumsily and yanks out the alarm that alerts him of nearby crime. “Oh my god.” He fumbles to silence it, and grimances once he does. “Sorry. That was– Sorry.”

Although you smile gently and exhale a laugh through your nose, bowing your head in a respective departure gesture, and his heart sinks as he realizes you’re about to walk away.

“All good.”

Peter’s heart tugs uncomfortably, torn at the seams of carrying on with his day or spending what little time he has for his personal life with you.

“Were you saying something?” he asks quietly, almost meekly.

You open your mouth again, an “O” in slight surprise as your brows raise, as if the notion of your question is detrimentally important to him. How could he have even noticed? To him: how could he have not noticed?

Yet the phone buzzes incessantly in his hand and he genuinely wishes the world would swallow him whole.

Instead of indulging his question, you merely bite your lip to suppress a polite smile, and at the end of the day he remembers that he’s simply a stranger to you.

“Nothing important.” He frowns. Immediately. Anything you say is important to him. “You should probably get that, no?” you say.

His mouth opens to immediately retort then shuts it. It probably is important, if he’s being honest. But nothing could be more significant than being here, within arms reach of you, remembering the cadence of which you speak and dissecting all the things you’ve kept the same about your appearance and what seems to be the same. He notices more earrings and rings than before, outside of what he’s gotten you, but wonders where you acquired the rest, when you got them, and all he wants to do is ask you.

But his legs are moving before he can process it, taking a step away from you as he holds the phone up meekly and offers you a weak smile. Duty calls, he thinks bitterly. Even his body is attuned to it.

You smile warmly back at him, a stark comparison from his apologetic expression, sorry for all the things he wishes he could say. But instead he’s beelining for the exit, missing the way your eyes follow him until he’s out of sight.

─────── ─────── ───────

The third time is as Spider-Man.

The good news is that you’re not in immediate danger. Not physically, anyway. There’s no Scorpion attack or armed robbery in progress or anything synonymous to that. No cars getting hazardously tossed into buildings or no suspicious gases leaking into our atmosphere. No threat to the civilian population of New York City and no buildings crumbling, at least for the time being. But this is objectively worse, at least in his book.

Because it’s the middle of the night and you’re crying on a bench.

Peter doesn’t see you at first. He doesn’t see anyone at first. Granted, it’s nearly four in the morning and his eyes are tired behind the mask, glassy with exhaustion and sluggish with straining. His migraines have gotten somewhat better ever since he’s become more attuned with his newfound abilities, but they still drive him insane frequently.

With a throbbing temple and an ache that won’t settle, he swings to find a quiet space outside Central Park simply to take a few minutes, regulate his breathing, rub the pulse out until it simmers and then get back to it. He’s done it at least once a night. No harm, no foul. After nearly killing a cop through his arachnid-induced fit of rage, Peter’s a little more cautious as to how he lets a migraine pan out.

He lands on the outer wall, stumbling a bit as he clumsily drops to his knees and hissing from the harsh contact with the brick. Palms immediately press to each side of his head, the heel of them pressing into his temples as he’s done a million times before while he breathes in and out, in and out, feeling the aching pulse slowly dim once he catches his breath. More often than not, his mind flickers to you, and it’s almost pathetic that the instant thought of you eases his anxiety quicker than any other remedy.

Once it simmers and his ears aren’t ringing anymore, that’s when Peter hears sniffling.

Blinking rapidly, his eyes clear and he regains a bit of semblance as the migraine suppresses (for now), peering down towards the sound. And his heart just fucking breaks all over again.

You’re slumped on a cold metal bench, clearly coming back from a night out as you’re adorned in a short, pretty dress and heels that have seen better days. Glitter spans out from your eyelids and black mascara smudges a tad underneath your waterline, and you’re not sobbing, per say, and you’re not even really crying, but quietly suffering whatever battle you’re enduring inside that pretty head of yours.

His headache’s forgotten. He’s moving to you before he can register the consequences.

“Hey,” Peter murmurs gently, much softer than Spider-Man normally speaks to people. “Hey. What happened? What‘re you doing out so late?”

His hand hovers cautiously over your shoulder as he sits beside you, terrified of overstepping but not sure how to comfort you at a safe distance. God, the sight of you like this contorts his heart into a shape he never wants to discover, especially because he needs to play his cards right. All he wants to do is pull you close, push your hair away from your face, take your hands in his while you tell him what’s wrong like you’ve both done for the other a million times over. It’s muscle memory, practically intuitive, and it takes every bone in his body not to lean into it.

All that comes into fruition when you peer over at him, blinking through wet lashes as your lips part in confusion as your brows furrow in disbelief. For a moment, Peter doesn’t really understand why you’re so out of it, but then remembers he’s not Peter right now.

“Hi?” you whisper shakily, albeit a bit befuddled.

Peter (Spider-Man?) blinks stupidly, though you can’t tell. “Hi,” he says even softer. “You okay?”

He grimaces under the mask. Of course you’re not fucking okay. You’re crying and tispy on a bench in the middle of the night by yourself. People who are okay typically aren’t in this situation to begin with.

Yet you disregard the semantics, still stunned as you draw out, “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I don’t really know.”

“That’s alright.” Beat. Then, “Talk to me.”

You blink a few times, fluttering your lashes as if to alternatively pinch yourself. Once you realize that, no, you’re not dreaming, your brows pinch once more like you’re snapping out of a daze, pulling away from whatever sob story moment you were going through and recognizing your situation at hand. Spider-Man is sitting right next to you, leaning a bit close, and sounding so awfully concerned that it seems like it might kill him if you’re not okay.

“I– I was just– I’m not even–” You stumble over your words, trying to cohesively piece together the string of nonsense that occupied your brain just moments before. “Sorry. I’m fine, really.”

“You call crying on a bench at four in the morning fine?” he quips without hesitating.

You manage to exhale sharply, lips twitching. “Objectively speaking, no. Not at all. But you… Don’t you have more important things to do?”

His answer is immediate. “No.”

That stuns you. “Oh.” You blink. “Okay.” Then, “Really?”

Peter breaks a quick smile at your curiosity. “Really. Now, what’s goin’ on?”

God, does he reek of desperation? It feels like he does. All he wants is to know everything, to know the intricacies of your life and the hardships you endure, all for selfish reasons because all he does is fucking miss you. Even when you’re right in front of him.

And with some miraculous divine intervention, you indulge his request. “I don’t even know. My friends and I were at a club on Grove Street, and I’m having a blast for one moment and then the next I just… I don’t know. I got an awful sense of dread, like, existential dread hitting me right in the middle of the dancefloor,” you ramble quietly.

Peter nods in somewhat understanding. “Great timing, hm?”

You shudder then shrug. “I know, right? It was weird. Mind you, I was in a huge crowd so that didn’t help, but I realized the only way out of this, literally and figuratively, was through. So I just left. Landed here. I don’t know.” Picking incessantly at your nails, you sigh through your nose, still struggling to put words together on the exact feeling.

All he wants to do is cover your hand with his to get you to stop irritating your nail beds, and physically has to interlink his fingers to refrain from reaching out.

Peter clears his throat. “Did… Did something happen to warrant this?”

“Like, no.”

“Like, no?” he parrots inquisitively.

You shrug. “Broke up with my boyfriend last week.”

Oof. Alright. Okay. He can deal with that. He can–

“But I don’t even think that was my issue,” you continue aimlessly, missing the way he stiffens, “I think it was more that I didn’t care anymore. We’re better as friends, honestly, so I’m not really sure why that would cause an adjacent panic attack in the middle of the club.”

He swallows thickly. “Maybe it wasn’t that?” Please don’t be that. Please. Please. Please. Pl–

You shake your head, and you either ignore the way his shoulders release tension or don’t notice. “I don’t think it was. I’ve been in a fucking fog. Regardless of my relationship. It just feels like everything is still moving around me but I’m standing still. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” he says, perhaps a bit too quick. “It does.”

“I get these migraines,” you add irritably. “But not normal ones, more like… my brain is trying to scream at me, but it’s in a language I don’t understand.” You meet his eye (lens?) for a beat, searching for any indication to stop spilling your entire life story, but he makes no move to cut you off, and that’s when you shake your head again, more at yourself, scoffing under your breath in disbelief. “Sorry. Wow. Oh my god. Saying it out loud makes me realize it’s really not that deep.”

Instantly, Peter shakes his head in tune with you for the opposite reason.

“No!” Then reels when you tilt your head at him in confusion, fixing his demeanor quickly. “I mean, you don’t need to apologize. Just because it’s not visible doesn’t mean it’s not there, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you parrot him quietly, almost skeptical of yourself. “Well, you probably deal with more shit in one hour than I will in a lifetime. This is actually so dramatic. I’m fine. Was just having a moment.” You brush it off, waving him off with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you begin to stand up.

Nearly yelling again in panic, Peter mirrors your actions, rising to his feet as he stands closer to you than he has in years, swallowing a lump in his throat as he gathers the courage to pose his question, and with every single bone in his body he prays that your answer is exactly what he’s hoping it’ll be.

“It’s late,” he broaches gently. “Can I swing you home?”

Yet, you react on the contrary, eyes widening as you shake your head vigorously. “Nope.”

Peter reels. “No?” God, that came out way more pathetic than intended.

“Sorry.” You reel instantly, huffing out a sheepish laugh as you smooth down your dress. “It’s not that. I’m grateful for the offer, really. But, uh, you definitely don’t remember this but you actually saved me a few years back. A few times, actually.”

His chest constricts. Of course he remembers. How could he forget? One of the last times he held you was swinging you away from danger, one of the last times he touched you was helping you down from his arms so you could plant your feet on the ground without stumbling, one of the last times he saw you – really saw you – was kissing you goodbye, even though you’d shift into a daze just moments after, lips tingling from a kiss you’d never remember.

“But the whole being airborne thing,” you continue with a shudder, “is not for me. Scares the shit out of me. I live close, I was just gonna walk.”

“Let me walk you then,” he offers instantly, reeking of desperation. “Please. It’s late,” he reiterates with a soft tone.

You stare at him for a moment, lips twitching. “Didn’t know Spidey did door to door ground service.”

“It’s a special offer. Every fiftieth New Yorker I encounter.”

That’s when you fully laugh, appeased with his humor. “You’re probably booked and busy then.” You start walking in the direction of your apartment (he fully knows where he’s going without your guidance), and he falls into step alongside you as if it's the most natural habit. “Yeah?”

Peter scratches the back of his neck, not that he could really itch anyway through the suit but more as a nervous tick. “Well, it’s actually something I started doing tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Trial and error experimenting with civilians is one of my favorite pasttimes.”

You peer over at him for a moment, and then hum unconvincingly. He meets your eye through his lens, gaze shamelessly dropping to your mouth where you suppress a grin at the back and forth banter. The moonlight illuminates through the leaves of the trees to etch a kaleidoscope on your features, brightening your eyes and the glitter around it. You shimmer, practically. And even though your eyes are still a little glassy and makeup a bit messy, you’re more beautiful to him than ever.

It’s almost as if you can see him through the lens, seeing Peter Parker. The idea of it makes him shudder because he put that theory to bed ages ago, defiant on the fact that things will never return to the way they were. He's come to peace with it. There’s an ache in his chest at the notion of re-introducing you into his life, and it comes with serving you on a silver platter to all the hardships that come with being associated with Spider-Man. Selfishly, he wants you in his life again. No, he needs you in his life again. But some things are simply bigger than his own desires.

Peter forces himself to look away.

Yet you don’t cower.

Instead, you inquire.

“So,” you draw out slowly, heels echoing on the concrete with your slow pace that he’s matching, “we know why I was out so late. But what about you?”

His pace falters. “What about me?”

“Does Spider-Man sleep?”

“Nope.”

Humming quietly, you nearly nudge him and his mind goes dizzy at the warmth emulating from the almost-contact. “Well, real spiders sleep. They may not be able to close their eyes, but studies show they can enter a R.E.M.-like state.”

Peter preens, and you’re sure you can see him grinning through the mask.

“Are you calling me a fake spider?” he accuses playfully, tone light and airy. For a moment, a weight lifts off his chest.

“You said it, not me.”

He finds himself chuckling, and you practically beam at the accomplishment of making the Spider-Man laugh. If only you knew how you used to make him laugh with the twitch of your fingers, effortless and naturally. Like it was your day job.

“But hey,” you interject with a pointed finger. “Stop deflecting. Why are you helping random loners get home in the middle of the night instead of sleeping or going home?”

You’re not random, he almost says, but bites his tongue.

“Grind never stops,” he settles on.

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly kickstarts a migraine. “Oh, please. You’re one of those?”

He scoffs. “One of those? Those what?”

“Those abhorrent gym bro micro-influencers who step their body into an early grave by overworking themselves with the pathetic excuse of the grind never stops?”

“Wow.” Peter whistles low at that. “You didn’t even take a breath. Are you that passionate about the habits of others?”

You groan low and this time, you do nudge him playfully, completely missing the way his body stiffens as if he’s been electrocuted.

“Absolutely not. You’re playing D1 right now in Avoidance. Are you gonna answer me or not, Spidey?” you jest quietly, voice hoarse from the night behind you yet lively enough to keep the conversation going.

Taking a beat, the conversation eases in a brief silence as he calculates his thoughts. Sure, the question isn’t complicated nor does it warrant a pause, but Peter stumbles around in his brain trying to figure something honest out. Because you were honest with him, and you don’t even know him, so why should he brush aside a genuine question solely because it came from you? Anyone else and he would’ve had a quip locked and loaded.

But this is you.

So he runs through the reasons in his mind. Sleep seems like a chore these days, especially when these ongoing migraines are the only thing he can think about when he shuts his eyes. His apartment is due for a cleaning, clobbered with new tech equipment he acquired on his last dumpster dive and cobwebs from his… latest mutation. Plus there’s the fact that his fridge is empty. The encompassing theme is that his apartment simply isn’t a home, and sometimes all he wants to do is be in one.

But what he actually ends up saying is worse.

“I didn’t really wanna be alone.”

“What?” you blurt immediately, all playful undertones gone. “You don’t have anyone?”

The disbelief in your voice makes his chest do something weird. Peter shrugs and it hurts all over again, and there’s something so raw in the wordless confirmation. It’s as if the gears are turning in your head and you’re realizing in real-time that Spider-Man is simply a guy. A real person who craves real connection. And loves. And hurts. And who sometimes really needs a hug. Because the confession that slipped out exposes the reality of his life, a notion that often gets overlooked in the grand scheme of things, since people know Spider-Man. Not Peter Parker. And for a while it was fine. Manageable (barely). For the greater good. But each day he wakes up with no one there for him, something in him breaks a bit more.

You stop in your tracks. Peter doesn’t realize until he’s a few steps ahead of you that you halted.

“No one?” you echo incredulously.

Peter’s breath hitches. Maybe you notice, maybe you don’t. Yet you’re staring at him with an incredible amount of hurt for him. Concern for him. Sympathy for him. Brows curled upward and a slight frown etching your pretty lips. All he needs for you to do is to keep walking, to sweep his pain from out under the rug and put it on the back burner. Please. Please ignore it. Ignore me. Don’t let me get in your life again.

Swallowing thickly, he tries his best to sound nonchalant as he confirms, “No one.”

That seems to break your heart. “For how long?”

Too long, he almost pleads. It’s been too long without you. Without anyone. Ned. May. MJ. Happy, even. Too long without anyone knowing who he is, his quirks and habits and interests. Too long of yearning for human connection from afar. Too long of embracing the dark corner of a room, huddled in himself and convincing himself that this is what he deserves.

You said it yourself, right? Spiders close themselves off to people, hide in their dark spaces and remain hidden to stay alive. He’s a part of that, yeah? Why should he break habits, break nature, and steer off course? Why shouldn’t he embrace what he really is?

It seems like torture to force himself to shake his head, to pretend it’s fine because he can’t ask you to stop asking questions. But he wants you to start moving. He needs you to start walking. Because he’s this close to pouring his heart out for the simplicity of being seen, even for a fleeting moment, and that’s not fair to you.

“Guys like me can’t have nice things for too long,” he says unevenly, trying to jest but it really just sounds like a cry for help. “Part of the job description.”

You take a beat. Then, softer than he’s ever heard you, you murmur, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It's not. Tears are brimming in his eyes. “Can we please just keep walking?”

You open your mouth to retort something else, perhaps something that would make those tears fall. Because you’ve always been too caring. Too sweet. Too patient with him and his self deprecating ways. He can’t count how many times you’ve talked him off a ledge, or held him at night when he’d wordlessly climb through your window after a hard patrol, or washed his face and cleaned up his cuts without him asking. That’s just who you are. Who you’ll always be. Magic spell affecting your memory or not.

It’s clear you want to say more, but ultimately know it isn’t your place. So you indulge and start back up at a slow pace alongside him. Peter’s grateful that you didn’t comment on the waver of his voice or how quick he dismissed you, really, but something twists in his heart at the thought of you caring.

He steals a shameless glance at you and you’re pursing your lips, brows furrowed and staring distantly ahead, and he can easily make out that you’re deep in thought, calculating your next response carefully in order to tread lightly with the information you’ve just received. Peter knows you too well. He knows you wanna ask. You’re dying to ask. All you wanna do is understand and help. Sometimes to your own detriment. But there’s a small piece of him that wouldn’t be angry if you kept asking. He misses your voice, truthfully. And he hates seeing you despondent.

So after a few minutes of silence, Peter bites.

He musters his best attitude as he muses, “Hey, it’s not so bad. I could work in corporate.”

Your lips twitch. You try to ignore it. “Stop trying to make me laugh. This is serious,” you nearly scold.

“Of course. So serious.”

“Stop.”

“I’m not even doing anything!”

“You are totally dealing with this in an unhealthy way.”

“Oh, yeah,” Peter clarifies immediately. “Alarmingly unhealthy. But I can’t afford a therapist, much less rent.”

You pause for a moment. “Friendship is free.”

He really resists the urge to slip his hand into yours. “Subjective.”

“Well,” you start cautiously, and the wind knocks from his lungs at your next words, “you have me.” Beat. Then, “Objective.”

Peter’s head whips towards you. You sheepishly meet his lens’ gaze and offer him the warmest smile he’s been on the receiving end of in a really long time. His mouth opens in panic to push you away, to keep you safe from him, to let you live out your life without him ruining it.

But you beat him to it.

“I know you don’t know me.” Your voice is quiet yet firm. “And I don’t know you. But everyone should have at least one friend.”

Peter’s heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his fucking chest. His breath is shaky. “Okay.”

“Even Spider-Man.”

He blinks stupidly, and for a second a flicker of bile rises in his throat. God, he needs you. But are his own self interests more deserving than your freedom? You have a whole life outside of him. Is it worth introducing you back into his? He knows you better than he knows himself, even after all this time. Is that something you’d want in your life?

“Thank you,” he ends up saying quieter than intended.

When you reach your apartment steps a few minutes after, you linger in the doorway with a pondering presence like you want — no — need to say more. Peter waits politely at the bottom, watching you go and wishing you’d stay, as he feels the thrum of his thumping heartbeat up to his ears. Nothing is worse than seeing you leave, as you both have never really been good with goodbyes. The day he said goodbye to you forever haunts him at night.

But something strange happens.

You don’t bid farewell and disappear into your building. Nor do you ask him any more questions about the intricacies of his loneliness. You don’t even crack a joke or quip something smart just to try and make him laugh. You don’t say a word. All you do is look at him as if you’re boring through the lenses and peering straight into his soul, seeing beyond the mask and seeing him: a person. A man. Just a guy.

Wordlessly, your heels click as you come back down the stairs, stopping one short in front of him as you take a moment, teetering between backing out and just fucking going for it, until you lean forward, slowly wrap your arms around his shoulders, and hug him.

Peter stiffens. Immediately.

Yet you don’t back down.

Your fingers smooth against the fabric of his suit, palms splayed flat against his back as you feel the rapid thump, thump, thump of his heart against your sternum. His hands lay idly at his sides, fingers flexing as he isn’t sure what to do. Indulge? Refrain? Die?

But, god, how wonderful it is to be held. Even if it’s for a moment.

Peter feels tears brim his waterline, cheeks flush with something he can’t really explain, though he supposes the longevity without human contact will do that to a person. Swallowing his internal battle and tossing his morality aside, he raises his arms cautiously around you.

It’s practically instinct for him. It’s been too long without you in his arms and you fit back together clearer than two puzzle pieces, slipping into a physical rhythm that the mind may not register, but the body remembers.

His eyes flutter shut, brows pinched as warmth spreads through his chest achingly quick. Instinctively, Peter brings you a tad closer, holding you firmer than before as he selfishly soaks in this moment. Your palm rubs soothingly up and down his spine, something you used to do to calm him down, and he melts into your touch as the memory of it nearly sends him through a state of distress.

God, he misses you. He needs you. He loves you.

You hold him there for a little while longer, only pulling back when he starts to first. Though you can’t see his face, your heart twists when you catch a glimpse of tear drops through the mask. Bracing your hands on his shoulders as a comfortable distance, his linger on your waist cautiously, almost airy, as if he's afraid to really hold you.

“I felt like I needed to do that,” you whisper. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

Peter scoffs through tears. Sorry? How could you ever be sorry for that? He thinks you just changed his brain chemistry by hugging him, by hearing him, by seeing him beyond the mask. And you’re saying sorry?

“Are you kidding?” he says shakily. “I haven’t done that in years. I’ve really missed you.”

Your head tilts.

Peter reels, trying to backtrack. Quickly. “Uh. Well. Not you in particular. Just… people. In general. That was a general statement.”

His hands immediately leave your waist as he clears his throat. You take that as your cue to remove yours from his shoulders, offering him a kind smile instead of being weirded out by his outburst. Perhaps you understand, more than most, that everybody’s going through shit. Sometimes something as simple as a hug helps.

The corner of your mouth twitches.

“Okay. General statement it is,” you say skeptically, but evidently let it go to spare his dignity. “Do you think you’ll go home now?”

The question burns between you. He didn’t want to five minutes ago. But now that he remembers the shape of your body, the warmth of your heart, and the scent of your hair, Peter might actually have a scenario good enough to fall asleep to. A sense of hope, a feeling he hasn’t come across in a long time that he’s almost forgotten.

He finds himself nodding before he can register it. “I think so. That helped. So… thank you.”

“That’s what friends are for, right?” you muse, smiling sweetly.

Peter involuntarily mirrors your smile under the mask. He’s sure you can tell. “Right.”

You beam harder. He’s never seen a prettier sight.

With his heart skipping a beat, he decides he’s going to tell you at this moment. Sure, he doesn’t have the note he wrote all those years ago, but Peter can paraphrase. The feelings are all there, mumbled and jumbled and scrambled like eggs in his brain, but the poison that intoxicated his morality seems to have found a cure. Who knew it’d be in your arms? Your embrace? Because he isn’t really sure he can go back to nothing after this, a loose promise of being friends with a vigilante shouldn’t be something you need to stick to. But maybe, just maybe, Peter Parker can enter your world once again and keep his promise to May. It’s been too long in the shadows, too long of staying hurt, getting kicked and staying down emotionally.

Maybe it’s a sign from a higher being. Perhaps a sick and twisted coincidence. But the wind picks up slightly between the two of you, and your hair blows gently in the breeze. Peter catches a glimpse of the scar littered on your temple.

A scar that you got the last day he held you. A scar you got because of him.

The breath gets knocked from his lungs, and all the words he plans on saying fizzle out. Forget the note. Forget the grand gesture. Forget the small flicker of hope that blossomed in his chest at the idea of having you again. Who is he kidding? You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him. He’s gotten you hurt countless times, why add to it? For his own personal needs? Peter metaphorically folds the mental note in fours, storing it in the back of his brain to never be opened again. Solemnly swearing to himself, he vows to never broach it again.

You tilt your head at him, anticipating him saying something when he inhales slowly, but nothing ever comes on the exhale. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “Just glad you’re home in one piece.”

Studying him for a minute, you furrow your brows momentarily. “Doubt anyone would snatch me when Spider-Man’s my personal escort,” you draw out slowly, eyeing him.

“Wouldn’t be smart.”

A beat. Then, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

God, no, he almost says. This feels like some sort of twisted dream that he got to hold you one more time but knows he can never do it again. Dangling the possibility of being in your life on a fish hook just out of reach.

Peter nods despite himself. “Yeah.” His voice wavers as he tries to sound upbeat. “Have a good night.”

The abrupt farewell makes you tilt your head even further, and he hates how he’s dismissing you like this. You’re just trying to help. God, you’re being so nice. Such a sweet girl. He’d always call you that because it’s simply what you are. Made of sugar. Sometimes sprinkles of spice. And here he is: shooing you away because he’s seconds from bursting into tears and it’s not something he wants you to see. But this is what he does, right? Pushes people away, recluses himself to a dark corner, and turns any possibility for happiness away at the door.

“Thanks,” you whisper, taking the hint. “You too.”

Once you do make it up the stairs, you stay up there this time, much to his dismay. But instead of instantly disappearing into the building and offering him a quiet goodnight, you spin around in the doorway and study him for one, two beats. Then—

You tell him your name.

“You should know since we’re friends now,” you argue gently, though he never rebutted. “Don’t worry, I’ll still call you Spidey. I don’t expect you to give up your secrets that easily.”

Shit, Peter thinks. You could ask at this given moment and he’d tell you everything.

Instead, he nods gratefully, repeating his name on your tongue as if it’s the first time he’s saying it, meanwhile he’s been aching for a reason to call you by your name for years.

Then you bid him goodbye and actually enter the building, shutting the door gently behind you and ascending up the stairs to your floor. Peter waits until you’re out of sight, and he waits until your bedroom light turns on to indicate your safety from the few flights of stairs, then he’s thwiping to the roof, catapulting into the night, and swinging home to finally find some shut eye. Even though his heart emulates a kettlebell settling in his chest, and even though he cries the entire journey home, the weight on his shoulders slightly lifts.

Peter got to hold you one last time. That’s good enough for him.

Sleep comes — for once — with flickers of you on his mind. How your body felt against his. How your laugh slowly unraveled something broken in his chest. And how pretty you looked in the moonlight.

─────── ─────── ───────

You’ve been peering through a fogged window for what feels like ages.

Well, you’re here. You’re present. Yet there’s a glass that shields you from seeing what’s truly there, and no matter how hard or how long you attempt to scrub the grime away, it simply stays. Stubborn fucking thing. The infuriating part is that you know something’s behind it, and you’ll catch glimpses of it only in dreams for nanoseconds, never enough to paint an image or see any familiarity. Sparks of deja vu explode in confetti yet they burn out too fast to study it, appreciate it, learn it. Headaches stem from thinking too long, pondering too hard, overexerting thought and patience in trying to unscheathe the grime.

It’s not that you’re seeing things. No. There’s a phantom ache settling in your chest about a concept you can’t grasp, a microscopic speck that flutters between your eyes in that sweet blind spot, a pull towards random objects and phrases that come from nowhere you can conjecture. Prescribed migraine medication worked to make the pain go away, but the flickers are still there. NyQuill only made you wake up feeling hungover twice over. Weed is good every now and then to numb the strangeness of it all, only to end up wishing the effects would tell you something. You’re totally not seeing things. Not crazy at all.

Although you’re one hundred percent certain that the Punisher is standing at your door.

That you’re seeing.

The time’s just past one in the morning, your current show paused in the living room as your roommate’s passed out on the couch as you hold the door open, no doubt looking fucking stupid as you ogle at the infamous Punisher that patrols the streets of New York standing in your doorway. Well, patrols is too kind a word. Terrorizes seems more like it.

Frank Castle looks like he wants to be anywhere else right now, especially as he favors his right leg and appears to have been put through the wringer perhaps moments before coming here. But despite the apparent distaste for running a fool’s errand, he grips an old piece of paper in his fist, crumbling an already-folded note, weathered with years of age. The absurdity of it all makes you quirk a brow.

Your eyes shoot down to the note, then back up at him. Then, “Is that a hit?”

“The fuck?”

“Are you here to fuckin’ kill me?”

The eye roll from the man is immediate. “Jeeeesus Christ,” he mutters at the ceiling.

“If you are,” you continue, “can I at least fill my cat’s water? My roommate will forget and will probably be more hung up on the fact that I’m dead–”

“Will you shut the f–” Frank takes a long deep sigh and pinches his eyes shut.

He can’t cuss you out. The kid would kill him, point blank. He doesn’t even know that Frank’s here on the opposite part of town with Peter’s biggest kept secret balled in his fist. The kid moped around his apartment almost every night this week, refusing to explain why he was relishing in the Punisher’s company, of all fucking people, and Frank knew that if he’s the only person the kid’s got, then that’s a fucking problem. Once Peter fell asleep with the note clutched tightly in his hand, Frank took it, read it, tracked you down within minutes, and now he’s here: definitely overstepping, but sick of emotional constipation emulating from the arachnid.

So he takes an elongated breath, then juts his arm forward to hand you the note.

“Here,” he gruffs, choosing that saying less is more.

You eye the note for a beat, then swivel your head to make sure your roommate is still asleep. Catching a glimpse of her figure slumped on the couch, as well as your cat perched on the arm as she watches you intently, you step into the hallway to meet the Punisher halfway. You cautiously take it from him. Unraveling the weathered sheet, your fingers skim over the scrappy handwriting, and another burst of confetti sparks in the back of your mind, something familiar about the calligraphy and strokes of ink.

Hi, my name is Peter Parker, and you don’t remember me.

Brows furrowing, you peer up at Frank, probably looking so fucking stupid.

He juts his chin out to gesture to you to keep reading.

You do. And the words make your breath stop, simple yet raw with a truth that’s hard to swallow. This… Peter is someone that was once in your life eons ago, and apparently he was your person. You were together. You knew him, and he knew you. Not to mention the fact that he’s Spider-Man: the masked vigilante that was so adamant on getting you home safe and hugging you as if he knew the cadence of your movements before you even did, and you realize that that moment probably meant more to him than you’ll ever comprehend. No wonder he left in a hurry, overwhelmed with emotion that he couldn’t put into words, and your chest constricts with the thought that he’s been battling this alone, breaking his own heart to put everyone’s safety before his own happiness. To think that bearing this weight on his shoulders is his responsibility makes you sick, for him to believe that him being alone is the right choice nearly makes your knees buckle.

But the truth is I love you. And I hope that deep down, something inside you remembers you love me too.

Your breath hitches when you finish, peering up at the Punisher.

Frank notices the concern flicker across your features and huffs impatiently, “Christ, it’s not me, kid. I’m doin’ a solid. He’s gonna thank me one day for it.”

“I–I know it’s not you.” Your lip wobbles. “But what is–? How do I even–?”

Stumbling over your words, your thoughts jumble into a million different sectors, trying to distinguish which point you actually want to get across, but nothing works, and instead you stand there with your mouth gaping like a fish, blinking fervorously as you clutch the note between your fingers.

You relay the recent interaction over and over. How close Spider-Man (Peter?) sat next to you on the bench, how his hand hovered over your shoulder but never closing the distance, the tone dripping in more concern than he should have for a normal civilian. Oh god, and you told him about your ex-boyfriend, mulling over your insignificant problems thinking it’s the end of the world, meanwhile he was sitting there, taking it, forced to interact with you as a stranger. A funny feeling rises to your throat thinking about him, Peter Parker, having to endure that moment, the boy behind the curtain. The tears he shed through the mask after the hug make more sense.

What breaks your heart the most is that you can’t even picture his face.

That flicker of recognition does nothing to aid as you search your memory, search for any anecdote that can tell you something, anything. You don’t know him. You can’t. But something aches in your chest at the mere thought of him all alone, a stranger, because it would’ve meant the end of the world if he didn’t let you go. That selflessness, the character that it takes to be Spider-Man, it makes sense why you were with him in the first place. The girl you used to be, the girl he once knew, she must’ve been smart.

Deciding to take pity on you, Frank takes another long breath to regulate his patience.

“Look,” he starts slowly, waiting for you to blink up at him before continuing with a gentleness that seems completely uncharacteristic, “he’s a good kid, but he’s killin’ himself here. Thinks he’s doing a greater service to everyone else by keepin’ it to himself. Drivin’ me fuckin’ nuts. And if he crashes on my couch one more night, I’m gonna have to start charging him rent.”

You clutch imaginary pearls, processing those words.

Frank’s words cut jagged into your heart, low and honest. “He was never gonna tell you.”

“Why?” You find yourself pleading before you realize you spoke. “Why would he do that to himself?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“Okay,” you say on autopilot. Maybe that’s why you felt the need to hug Spider-Man that night, some sort of divine intervention in the back of your mind that told you it needed to happen. “Do you know where he is?”

Frank snorts, as if the question seems to irritate him more than he already is, but nods nonetheless.

So in a matter of minutes you find yourself in an outdated college sweatshirt and striped pajama pants getting escorted by the Punisher through town.

The drive is silent, roads unprecedently clear (cars skid out of the way when they saw the monstrosity of a truck Frank drives come cruising down the street). The note sits in your palm as heavy as a stone, branding the words marked in ink on your skin. The weight of the words on the page settle in your gut like a kettlebell, and you reread that same line over. And over. And over.

But the truth is I love you. And I hope that deep down, something inside you remembers you love me too.

Do you? Will you? Once you see him, see his face, will it all make sense? Will the memories stolen from you reappear? Or will the confetti still fall around your face, framing your cheeks with ghosts of memories experienced by a girl you don’t know? What if he wants nothing to do with you? And what if you’re not able to be the person he knows, the person he needs, the person he loves? Would he even like the person you are? God, how long has it been since he’s seen you, really seen you, really known you? How long has he been going through this by himself?

Your legs work on autopilot once Frank shoves the gear in park, clambering down the massive vehicle and really trying to ignore that you’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by old warehouses and abandoned factories. Though the rust and ominous energy doesn’t faze the Punisher as he moves around the place like muscle memory, and you’re quick to follow before you can get lost. There isn’t much time to process exactly where you are right now or even what time it is.

Climbing metal stairs and then descending into what appears to be a bunker, your heart skips a beat at what lies within, or specifically who, especially when you emerge in a kitchen littered with miscellaneous papers, a gun on the stove, a Spider-Man mask thrown over one of the chairs. Christ, you have no idea what you’re walking into, no clue who you’re about to meet, and no rhyme or reason as to how this is about to go. What if he’s angry? What if this is severely overstepping and makes this even worse for him? Does he even know that you’re here? Will he even–?

“Frank?” A voice calls out from another room and your breath hitches.

Casually, Frank tosses his keys on the counter. “In here.”

Something clutters in the other room. A quiet Ow! echoes. “Did something happen? Did the arms dealers break bad early–?”

Then from the next room, Peter Parker emerges. He’s just about finished with zipping his suit up, clearly getting ready to swing back out into the night at the possibility of crime occurring, brown unruly curls scattered across his forehead and a bruise blossoming on his jaw. He doesn’t see you at first, still focused on getting his suit fully on — the suit, the one you smoothed your palms over just days ago – and talking a mile a minute.

“Why didn’t you wake me? I didn’t hear my alerts go off–” Peter lifts his head, immediately freezing at the sight in front of him.

You balance your weight between your feet, suddenly shy under his gaze in your pajamas. Panic surges through you for a moment, because should you have dressed up? Looked a bit nicer? This is a pivotal moment for him and you’re in your fucking pajamas. Though it doesn’t seem like he’s intently focused on that as much as you are, because you think he’s still trying to process that you’re here.

Brown eyes bore into yours, and with a sliver of familiarity, you recognize him from the museum. Such a brief encounter with a stranger, but was that him trying to build up the courage to tell you? Was Spider-Man the reason he abruptly left without rhyme or reason? God, fuck, and you said all that shit about spiders at the exhibit. As if he doesn’t know that already. As if he cared about any of that.

For a moment, Peter doesn’t speak. It doesn’t even look like he’s breathing, like the wind just got knocked out of him and isn’t returning. He blinks at you, processing this in real time, and you really can’t tell what emotion he’s trying to emulate. Indifference? Fear? Panic? But when he gives you a onceover, his eyes immediately widen when he sees the familiar note clutched in your hand.

“Frank,” he grits eventually, voice wavering as his eyes don’t leave you. “What did you do.”

You frown.

All the Punisher does is sigh, long and heavy, before snagging his jacket. “You’re welcome, kid.” Then, he’s gone, shutting the bunker door behind him as his footsteps gradually disappear.

The silence is palpable.

Besides the distant thrum of a far off generator, the white noise acts as a buffer as you simply stare at each other. His expression shifts by the second, anger with Frank, then panic at the void of silence, then worry as his mouth gapes open as he tries to find something to say, anything to say, and you can tell by his breathlessness that he has no clue where to start, no idea how to broach this, because here you are, and here he is: suit on and mask off. There’s no hiding now. And you see him recognize that in real time.

You break the quiet with a whisper. “Hi.”

Peter’s eyes immediately soften as he takes you in. “Hi,” he murmurs fondly.

“I recognize you,” you say without thinking, then you add quickly, “from the museum. We talked.”

He nods instantly. “Yeah. We did.”

Mirroring his nod, you swallow thickly. Are you supposed to just… get into it? Does he even want to see you right now? A million questions surf through your mind, and you need to weed out the what’s your favorite color or did we have a favorite movie or what side of the bed do you prefer and save those for later, because now’s not the time to ask filler questions. Those are things you used to know, a girl who seems distant to you knew everything about him, and you want to be the person to rediscover all the anecdotes.

What you end up saying is worse.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

Peter’s eyes shoot down to the note. The damage is done, and by the looks of his unwavering stance you can tell he isn’t ready to have this conversation. Was he ever going to be ready, though?

He calculates his thoughts for a moment. The silence only augments your heartbeat.

“I was,” Peter says eventually. “But I realized it would be best if I didn’t.”

“For who?”

A beat. “For everyone.”

Something twists in your chest. You weren’t the only one he had to let go.

“It’s just that you go through the motions and write the letter, but never send it.” Said-letter makes your hand tingle as you hold it between your fingers. The weight lies in the words on the page. “What happened? What changed?”

His eyes shift between yours, glassy and red rimmed and utterly exhausted. “Are you sure you wanna know?”

You pause. Do you?

This is… big. Catastrophic. The containments of that letter uprooted his entire life, Peter Parker’s entire life, and has the chance to completely change yours but only if you let it. He’s giving you the choice whether to live in ignorant bliss or to uncover the cold, hard truth, one that he’s had to sit with for god knows how long. It’s horrifically daunting, the possibility of knowing.

But if you were once his, he was once yours. Even if you can’t remember it, you were with him for a reason. If past-you trusted him, present-you can too. You can handle the responsibility of bearing this weight, but you can also help lessen it from his shoulders. Sort of similar to helping Atlas hold up the sky, to share the burden, even just for a little while.

Before you register it, you’re nodding, firm and solidified in your choice.

“Yeah.” You take a long breath. “I do.”

Peter stares at you for a moment, letting you bask in the silence of your choice and giving you the opportunity to take it back, and you’re grateful that he presents the option. It’s a background layer of his morality, a snippet of a clue towards figuring out the guy who sacrificed love for everything. Despite probably wanting, no, needing to open up and rekindle his relationships, it shows a lot about his character that he’s letting you choose. He’s allowing you to rescind the offer.

But you don’t. You stand your ground, mustering your bravest face as you give him the smallest of nods — a reassuring one — to give him the confirmation that you’re sure. You’re here. You’re not going anywhere.

Although you’re not ready for how he opens the conversation.

“You were everything to me.”

Oh.

Your breath hitches at his teary expression, how his voice wavers at your green light to open this can of worms. But there’s no turning back now, you suppose. Not when his glassy brown eyes are simply pleading to be heard.

So you remain silent. You listen. Because he needs it. And if he can put everyone else above himself, you can push down the ache in your heart and pray he doesn’t see how much it hurts.

For now, he doesn’t. “I swore to myself that I would protect you no matter what. We both knew the risks of being associated with Spider-Man. Everyone I was close to knew that, you especially.” His eyes meet yours for a moment, as if to show gratitude. “You understood the danger and stayed anyway. That’s why I loved you, and it’s why I still love you. Because you’re standing here right now, even after everything.”

Your eyes soften at the anecdote. For a moment, you picture a younger version of yourself in love. Doe eyed and bright smiles. Confetti with flashes of Coney Island and a rooftop a little ways away from here. You imagine a younger version of you and him braving these hardships head on. It doesn’t sound like an easy feat, towing a fraying line and hoping it doesn’t snap at any given moment. But you figure that Peter Parker is someone who’s worth the risk, especially when he’s the one courageous enough to get out of bed everyday and put on the mask.

“But I lost someone.” Peter’s bottom lip wobbles. “Someone really important to me. It's my fault that she’s gone. I carry that with me everyday. Even that scar on your forehead makes me nauseous every time I see it, knowing it’s there because of me.”

Whether he notices your frown, he doesn’t comment on it. Part of you almost reaches forward to grab his hand, to pull him from the harsh memory of whoever he lost and back into the moment, but you refrain. Let him come to you, let him finish.

He continues gravelly, “The spell was the only way to save you and everyone on the planet. If everyone forgot who I was, then no one else would get hurt. Things would return to the way they were supposed to be.” Peter smiles sadly. “And it did. It worked.”

You watch as he drops his gaze momentarily, kneeling his fingers together as the weight of the confession sits heavy in the air between you, thick and unforgiving. He takes a beat to gather his thoughts.

“I really did want to tell you. And Ned. And MJ. I got close once.” Peter swallows thickly, blinking tears away. “Then I saw how happy you all were, how excited you were for college, for Boston, and I realized that you didn’t need me, nor did you need Spider-Man. After losing my Aunt May, I couldn’t survive losing you, too, and I didn’t want to take anything else away from you guys. I couldn’t,” he says firmly, as if to solidify the decision into law, as if he’s convincing himself it was the right thing to do, the noble act to choose. “But that was a long time ago. I made peace with it.”

…Huh?

Your blood turns ice. “What?”

“What?”

“How long is a long time?”

Peter’s eyes cast downward.

After a moment of reluctant silence, you frown further. “Hey. Please answer me.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.” Your heart races at the anticipation of his answer being worse than you can imagine.

That’s when he pauses, inhaling as if to speak but ultimately he decides against it. Gears turn in his mind, teetering between whether he should reveal the hard truth or keep bearing it on his shoulders, and you hate that he hesitates, meaning the answer cannot be any good. If it wasn’t bad, he would’ve said it by now. Right?

Because it does matter. You know the world of Spider-Man and the Avengers and the Punisher and all beings synonymous to that encounter evil and magic on the daily, and despite the absurdity of it all, the note and everything surrounding it is plausible. Spider-Man’s been present throughout your high school life, which you always thought was strange or some sort of divine intervention, only to solidify that it’s been him all along. Protecting you. MJ. Ned. Even Flash, for fuck’s sake. In Washington. In Prague. London. In your abode of New York.

So yes. You do believe him, you believe his letter, and you wish you could recount memories through his brain just to get a glimpse at what life was like before. Even though you’re seeing through a different lens, through that grime and fog that never seeps, you believe him. You do.

Maybe a part of you recognizes him, that’s why your heart hurts so fucking bad right now. Maybe your body phantom aches in the places that used to know him, bones and muscle memory acting on pure instinct, relying on past love, and overcompensating for what the mind can’t provide. Because there’s a physical pull towards him, mind and body pushing and pulling like the tide and teetering between how to really feel.

When he remains silent, you plead, “Peter.”

The sound of his name on your tongue makes him physically shudder, and the mere thought of you begging makes him feel sick.

“Four years,” he barely whispers. “Give or take.”

(Yeah, such a hypothetical. Totally. As if he doesn’t know the date down to the exact minute.)

But you reel nonetheless, an expression emulating that of when he told you that everyone was going to forget who he was. Pinched brows, glassy eyes, lip wobbling with trembling hands. Yet you’re a bit older now and you’ve grown into your features, but your eyes reflect the same concern as they did all those years ago.

And you’re just so sweet. So fucking sweet. Always thinking of others, putting yourself in his shoes and imagining a life completely isolated for four years, and the mere idea of it makes you sick. Knowing he sacrificed everything he knew for the greater good forms a knot in your stomach, queasy from the sadness of it. He lost everyone: his aunt, his love, his best friends, and he’s still here. You need to roll a metaphorical window down at your nausea.

Everything you want to say gets caught in your throat, and the only thing you can muster is a hum.

“Oh.”

Peter frowns in concern at you, eyeing the way your hands shake. “You okay?”

You nod quickly. Too quickly.

It takes no idiot to be able to tell that you’re not. He can sense that from a mile away. You seriously look like you’re going to puke.

Peter says your name cautiously.

And the flood gates open.

“You just— That’s a— You— Okay.” Collect your thoughts, god. Coherence is good. Especially now. He deserves that much. But why are your hands shaking? Why do you feel so fucking sick? Why are you so haunted by lost memories? “Okay. Alright.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

You shake your head. “No. No, that’s not— I’m fine. I just— Okay.”

Peter just blinks at you, unsure whether to outstretch a hand to steady your wavering stance or let you process this in real time. Ultimately, he decides on the latter as you clutch imaginary pearls.

“I–I mean I got to live a whole life in that time. I went to college.” Your voice wavers. “I left.”

Peter immediately shakes his head. “Don’t. None of this is your fault. Please don’t say that.”

Your lip wobbles involuntarily. “How can I not? This spell– You’ve been alone all this time and I– I’m really trying to remember you. Honest. I am. But I– I can’t–”

“Hey,” he reassures gently, taking a cautious step forward to comfort you from a safe distance. “Breathe. Please. It’s okay.”

Covering your face with your hands, you take a deep breath. Okay, certainly not how you expected your night to go: crying in front of Spider-Man who also happens to be your long lost lover that you have no recollection of. Not to mention you’re in your pajamas. And the fact that he seems to be okay with living in complete solitude and saving a world where he literally does not exist to anyone that matters to him. Yet you’re the one who’s more upset.

Fuck’s sake. Peter Parker’s the one who should be crying. Not you.

“Sorry,” you splutter immediately, embarrassed at your lack of composure. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m just really trying to wrap my head around this.”

“It’s definitely not a bedtime story.” Then, “Maybe to Frank, it is.”

You snort without meaning to, trying to suppress a pained laugh. “Stop. This is serious.”

“Of course. So serious.”

Flickers of your interaction with Spider-Man sprinkle like confetti around your temples. You smile without meaning to.

Then he just fucking tears your heart in two in the same breath. “Please don’t cry, though. I promise it’s okay.”

You swallow thickly, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment as you try and recollect your thoughts.

“Can you—?” Another deep breath. “Can you explain it to me? How it happened? I want to understand.” Then, smaller, “Please.”

His eyes soften as he takes another step closer, arm outstretched as if he’s going to touch you, but settles on hovering his palm dangerously close to your bicep to refrain from overstepping.

“Yes,” he murmurs so gently it could cut glass. “Do you wanna sit down?”

Nodding wordlessly, you let him steer you in the direction of the living room. Well, it could be classified as a living room. There’s just one three-cushioned couch and a tv that has a couple of minute cracks in the top right corner. Peter has to discard the makeshift blanket and pillow he was using twenty minutes ago, sheepishly clearing his throat once everything is green lit to sit. He leaves the room momentarily to put on regular clothes, and your heart skips a beat when he comes back in wearing pajama pants and a Delmar’s t-shirt.

Taking a seat on one end of the couch, Peter takes the opposite end, polite enough to leave you enough space as you tuck your legs up, hugging your knees as you face him head on. At first, he’s a bit stiff. Rightfully so. And he fusses with his hair out of nervous habit so the already-unruly curls coil even more. The hushed light cascades over his features, and for a moment you appreciate the slope of his nose to the curve of his jaw, blotched with a bruise yet pretty nonetheless.

And he gets right into it.

Peter starts with your school trip to Europe, filling in gaps of Spider-Man venturing across the Atlantic (which was always something you could never fucking figure out). But, of course, it wasn’t a normal trip, which ultimately led to him getting recruited by that pirate Avenger with the eyepatch to fight those weird element creatures that wrecked multiple historic places. How he got into that predicament is beyond you.

Mysterio gets introduced and you ultimately decide you have the guy. Sure, you vaguely remember him, but he uprooted Peter’s entire life by essentially screwing him over, lying to him, and stealing high tech glasses that had way too much power in the first place. Not to mention revealing his identity to the world without any sort of rhyme or reason whatsoever. Something you apparently helped Peter get through when times were darkest.

Then the first botched spell comes into play. To be quite honest, these ramifications of the story fly over your head. All you can comprehend is that a wizard cast a powerful spell which ended up bringing in multiple Spider-Men and their respective enemies, and that Peter tried to help every single one of them before resorting to violence. Yet, that was betrayed by one bad guy going AWOL, leading to his aunt May dying in his arms. The only way to safely return everyone home and not tear the fabric of the universe was to cast a new spell: make everyone forget about Peter Parker.

When he finishes, you exhale long and slow.

“I’m really sorry about your aunt.”

The mere mention of her makes him nod too quickly. “Me too.”

Then, after sitting on that for a beat:

“So Mysterio fucking sucks, then?”

The words make Peter nearly choke.

“Yeah.” He gets out eventually. “Yeah he fuckin’ sucks.”

You sit back against the cushion, relaying the story over and over in your head. “I can’t believe one guy started all of this.”

“Yup.”

“To a teenager, mind you.”

Peter’s lips twitch. “Average day of being 17, no?”

God, the thought of it makes your stomach churn. To think Peter’s been dealing with this since he was fourteen, saving people and putting himself in harm’s way as a child himself. Then having the fate of the planet (universe?) on his shoulders as a teenager, making an ultimate sacrifice that robbed him of a life, of his life. On top of all of that, on top of all the bullshit Spider-Man had to deal with before the Blip, he still found the strength to keep putting on the mask. And you think it’s the most courageous thing you’ve ever heard.

Especially when he was so young. A teenager with a whole life with his friends and family ahead of him. An opportunity for college, for love, for growth. It leaves you wondering about Peter Parker, as he just told you everything that happened in Spider-Man’s world. But what about the kid under the mask who has to live with the fresh bruises and aching bones?

Your voice is smaller than intended. "What about us?”

Peter stills, eyes widening for a fraction, as if this wasn’t the territory he is expecting to tread on.

“What about it?”

“Can you…” you trail off, feeling a bit silly for having to ask in the first place. “Can you tell me about us?”

He opens his mouth to answer but you beat him to it.

“I know she’s…” You search for the right word. “…different. Or the same. I don’t know. But if that’s something you can or want to do, I’d like that.”

Peter stares at you for a moment and you can’t tell what emotion he’s expressing. Disbelief? Fondness? Indifference? It’s almost as if he didn’t think you’d ever ask, that the girl he once knew is buried deep in the depths of his mind and made to be at peace. Dormant. Definitely not supposed to be resurfaced by you, of all people.

Squirming under his gaze, you wring your fingers together as he makes up his mind.

Then he settles on, “We met freshman year of high school.” Peter meets your eye for a fraction of a moment almost sheepishly, but you’re listening and hanging onto every word, brows pinching at how long ago that was. “You had just transferred and Mr. Townes paired us together in bio. Couldn’t even look at you for the first month.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re beautiful,” he says as if it’s law. “And I was fourteen with no game whatsoever.”

You suppress a smile. “Does anyone at fourteen?”

“God, no.” Peter chuckles lightly, and for a second you admire his smile lines. He must’ve done it all the time. “But you were sweet about it and talked for both of us. Once I figured out how to formulate a sentence, we became friends. You integrated really well with Ned and MJ, too. The four of us hung out almost every chance we could, and even when I became Spider-Man a couple months later, you guys stayed close. But yeah. You and I were friends.”

You think fondly of Ned and MJ, and of how the three of you get together at least twice a month for dinner and games and catch up. Sometimes within your trio, confetti flutters with flashes of a forth, ears ringing with an unfamiliar laugh meshing with your own. Now it comes into fruition, and your imagination sorts him in the group perfectly like a missing puzzle piece. It makes sense, now that you really think about it, how abruptly you became friends with Ned and MJ that you could never wrap your head around, but it was Peter who really was the catalyst of the group after all.

Sitting on the anecdote, you nod, almost to yourself.

Then, you inquire, “Just friends?”

The softness of your voice seems to cut glass at the rawness of the question, and Peter stares at you for a moment as his smile fades into something fonder. He looks younger like this, features shadowed by the dim light and peering at you more delicately than anyone has ever looked at you before. It's almost as if he’s still in awe that you’re here, and you catch him not-so-subtly pinching himself every now and then to make sure he isn’t dreaming. The gesture makes the moment feel so human.

“For a while, yeah,” is what he settles on. “I, uh, I knew I liked you the day I met you. But I valued your friendship more than anything, so I kept it to myself.”

“What changed?”

“The Blip.” He wipes his palms on the thighs of his pajama pants, averting his gaze. “When everyone came back and saw how much time passed, I realized how fragile life really was, how little time we actually have with each other in the grand scheme of things, especially being associated with Spider-Man. And I just, um, panicked.”

You tilt your head, wordlessly encouraging him to go on.

“Mr. Stark dying kinda screwed me up,” he admits softly. Then once he registers your confusion, he corrects himself. “Uhm. Tony. Tony Stark. He was my mentor for years, and losing him made me realize that life really is too short to let things remain unsaid.” Peter takes a pause at his own words, then chuckles in a self deprecating manner. “Which is ironic.”

“Maybe,” you amuse the jest gently. “But different scenarios, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He’s grateful for your understanding. “There was one night I couldn’t sleep. Like, at all. Tossed and turned until the sun came up. All I could think about was losing you the same way I lost him.” The confession makes your breath hitch, yet he continues despite it. “Before I even knew it, I was swinging to your window, and I guess I was so freaked out that I didn’t even put my suit and mask on.” Peter smiles for a moment, gazing at you gently. “You were so tired, you didn’t even question how I got to your window and instead asked me if I was there for the Chem notes.”

Scoffing, you squeeze your eyes shut. “I’m not–”

“–not a morning person,” Peter finishes affectionately. “I know. I’ve learned that the hard way.”

Something pangs in your heart. Have you spent the night together before?

Those thoughts simmer when he recommences, “When you actually woke up a couple minutes later and put the pieces together, you said–”

“Did you actually just come through the window or am I making shit up?”

You blink blearily, coated with sleep and suddenly super aware of your Hello Kitty pajama shorts and off-the-shoulder shirt as Peter stands in front of you, chest heaving as he stares, waiting for you to finally come to your senses. And you do. Because how the fuck did he get to your window? Why is he wearing gadgets on his wrists? Why is he so out of breath and shaking like a leaf?

He swallows thickly. “I need to tell you something, okay? It’s not– It’s gonna sound crazy and you’re probably gonna tell me I’ve been eating too many GMOs, but I need you to listen to me. Please.”

The concern in his voice makes you wake up immediately. The back of your hand meets his forehead to rule out a fever that’s making him hysterical. “Peter–”

Peter takes your outstretched hand in his, replacing it with his own in a bold fashion that seems so uncharacteristic for him it makes you freeze. You hugged him on New Year’s and his face was red for forty five minutes. You shared an air-mattress once at MJ’s and he nearly fell off since he gave you too much space. But now he’s deliberately making this contact, choosing it, owning it. This is different. This is serious. And he’s looking at you with those brown doe eyes that stop your heart every time you stare at him, really stare, and you conjecture that he’s going to tell you something in this moment that will change the trajectory of your life as you know it.

He says your name so gently you almost miss it. “I’ve had a really weird week. I keep writing the date wrong on my assignments and I keep trying to call someone who isn’t here anymore, who didn’t Blip but brought back everyone who did.”

“Wh–”

His hand gripping yours tighter makes you shut up. You do.

“There are so many things that I want to say to him but can’t. He’s not here anymore. But you… you are. And I can’t let myself sleep or exist until I tell you,” he says with a cadence you aren’t familiar with.

“Tell me what?”

“Well–” Peter blinks, reverting back to his normal, quirky self for a moment. “Two things, actually.”

“Okay.” Then, “You’re not, like, leaving or anything, right?”

His brows furrow. “Wh–? No.”

“Or going blond?”

“That’s not– Okay. Okay. Just out with it. I’m gonna say it. Just gonna tell you. Right now. Gonna–”

You place your unoccupied hand on his chest, the vibrating thrum of his heartbeat stinging against your palm as he noticibly falters, breath hitching at the contact. His eyes shoot down to it, then peer back up at you, and there’s a shimmer in his pretty brown does that emulates a wordless thank you in calming him down.

“It’s just me,” you whisper reassuringly.

Peter nods far too quickly. He knows that. That’s why the words stay lodged in his throat. But he lets himself have a moment, nonetheless, gathering his thoughts and swallowing his pride.

But the words don’t come.

Instead, his wrist slowly raises towards the window, and before you can voice your confusion or before he can chicken out, Peter lets a web fly.

And your eyes widen like saucers, tennis-match toggling between the web cascading over the glass, down to his wrist, up to his face, and back to the window like clockwork. He’d almost laugh at your expression, still riddled with sleep deprivation as you blink in flutters, probably trying to process whether you’re actually awake or not. But you adjust to the wordless confession in real time, inhaling sharply at the harsh reality of it, and suddenly everything is falling into place. You’re smart. He can see the gears turning in your brain.

His voice fails him, as he’s shown you something he wasn’t really sure he could formulate into a coherent sentence. The web speaks for itself. Then the missed decathlons make sense. Hang outs that he abruptly had to skip. Homework assignments that were never completed. Mysterious bruises and winces from acts as simple as stretching. But his character never changed, he always stayed Peter Parker, and that’s what’s throwing you off the most.

The superhero that everyone looks up to is your best friend: the guy who cried during Sing, who handmade your favorite ring in his shop class, who threw up from laughing so hard at Ned tripping in a grocery store last month. …Your best friend who can apparently stop a five-ton car from crashing into a bus. Or hold a split ferry together with webs. Or put his life on the line every single day to save a city flooded with people he doesn’t even know. Holy shit, didn’t Spider-Man go to fucking space?

After what feels like eons of silence, Peter breaches the quiet. “That’s one of the things.”

“And the other?” Your mouth gapes open like a fish.

When Peter doesn’t answer immediately, you tear your gaze from the webs on the window back to him, already to discover him staring at you. It takes one, two beats to process what he’s wordlessly saying with his eyes, how they soften into an expression you haven’t seen before. Unbeknownst to you, it’s a look he wears every time he sneaks a peek at you. Now that you’re seeing it, understanding that you’re on the receiving end of it, you place the emotion behind it. And once you do, your heart stills.

“Oh,” you murmur.

“Yeah.” His fingers twitch against yours still holding your hand. “Oh.”

Swallowing thickly, you blink at him, probably looking fucking stupid.

“You’re sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

“I– I mean, out of everyone? Ever?”

“Positive.”

Then, meekly, “Me?”

And then, fondly, “You.

With a newfound confidence that surprises you both, Peter raises your hand just inches away from his face. He takes a beat, searching your eyes for any indication you don’t want this, giving you the opportunity to shove him into next Tuesday at the bold act, hesitating in order to offer you an out, but he gets nothing of the sort. Instead, you continue to peer at him so intently that it feels like you’re gazing into his soul. So he closes the distance, pressing his lips gently to the smooth back of your hand without once breaking eye contact.

The declaration itself makes your heart stampede against your ribcage. Can’t he hear it? Feel it, even? With how loud and how fierce it’s bumping at the simple act of adoration? You’ve never been treated like this before, so deliberately delicate and appreciated without needing to say much to back it up. This is Peter Parker: the guy who practically carried you the twenty minute walk to the ER after you broke your hand and stayed with you the entire time you were admitted. The guy who stayed up all night to help you prepare for a calculus exam – a class that he wasn’t even in. The guy who swipes wildflowers to arrange them into a centerpiece for his aunt. The guy who loves so intentionally and loud, even though he doesn’t use his words to express it.

Then, with a voice so affectionate, Peter confesses, “Always been you. I think I love you.”

Tears brim your waterline.

“And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” he assures selflessly, so brutally honest that it makes your brows pinch.

“Peter–”

“Really. It is. But I had to tell you. After everything that’s happened, I needed you to know.” He gulps at the mere thought of losing you, “If something ever happened to you, and I never got to– If you didn’t–”

Your palm presses over his heartbeat. “Peter.”

He doesn’t relent. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to bother you with this. But I couldn’t– I can’t lose you, too. I needed you to know–”

As a last ditch effort, your hand once encasing his heart moves to cover his mouth entirely, shutting him up immediately.

“Okay. I know. But I need you to kiss me now, okay?”

So he does.

“That’s a really sweet memory.”

Peter peers over at you, cheek smushed against the cushion as you peer at him with a soft smile on your face. God, he must’ve been talking for ages, having gotten lost in the story that helps him sleep at night, but you give no indication of boredom or indifference, instead focused and holding onto each and every word as if it’ll lose meaning entirely if you don’t pay attention. You absentmindedly twirl around the ring on your finger, the one he made you, the one you always fidget with, and it takes everything in him to keep his hands to himself. Deciding against that, he nods once.

“Yeah. It is.” He swallows sandpaper. “We stayed together after that. No one was surprised, like, at all. May baked a cake and nearly set the apartment on fire.”

You chuckle at the thought. Peter swears he’s never heard a prettier sound.

“You...” He searches for the right words. “You were my first everything. First kiss, first girlfriend, first.. uh…” The heat rises in his cheeks as he clears his throat. God, why does he feel like a fucking teenager again? “You know.”

There it is: the sprinkles of confetti of an intimacy your body remembers. The movements are there, muscle memory of entangling under cool striped sheets warmed by the blood of your bodies, the fanning of hushed breaths, experiencing a world of firsts with a face you couldn’t pinpoint for the longest time. But there were flickers of a mop of brown hair, a boyish laugh you etched in your heart, a sensation of overwhelming emotions, especially of love, flourishing when embraced. The heart remembers. It aches for what it used to feel without trying. Now it’s crying, begging, pleading for you to put the pieces together that your mind struggles to comprehend.

Aiding his embarrassment, you hum quietly, “It sounded really special.”

He thanks you with his eyes. “It was.”

Peter offers you a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, pained with bearing the weight of these precious memories alone before looking down to his lap. A teeny, tiny, minute part of him hoped the anecdotes would jog your memory, kickstart anything that could relate your life back to his, but despite your sweet understanding and patience for indulging his elongated tangent, you don’t verbally rejoice at regaining an ounce of memories. Instead, you still sit in the fog, which cleared up a little bit, but still feels fuzzy around the edges.

You notice. Immediately. And your heart breaks for the millionth time tonight for not being able to provide him with the reaction he was hoping for.

Before you can stop yourself and convince yourself it’s a horrible idea, you reach forward to grab the back of his hand with what you hope is a reassuring gesture. His skin is hot, seering in comparison to your ice touch, and the contact nearly makes him jump as his head whips up to meet your eye. For a moment, everything you want to say gets lodged in the back of your throat simply at the rawness of it all, not being able to pinpoint exactly the words that could ease his racing heart, his watery gaze, his depleting hope.

The only silver lining is that he needs this. He’s spent four years going throught the motions completely alone, wallowing from the corner while everyone dances in the center of the room, abandoning Peter Parker entirely and embracing Spider-Man, fully encompassing himself in the alias and losing himself in the process. It’s not fair. Really. It’s not fair that you can’t give him what he deserves, and it’s not fair that he can’t fix the past.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you give a gentle squeeze.

“I know I can’t remember things as they were,” you start slowly, his brown eyes shining with unshed tears, “and I’m sorry I can’t love you the way you want me to.”

A singular tear brushes down his cheek, and with your other hand you reach forward to cradle his jaw, swiping the tear away soothingly with the pad of your thumb. Peter subconsciously leans into the touch despite the bruise on his cheek, and because of the mere rawness of the act, you don’t pull away. You don’t even want to think about how long it’s been since he’s been held like this.

“But that’s right now,” you reassure with a gentleness you didn’t know you possessed. “Who knows what things could be like a couple months from now. What I said to Spider-Man that night still applies, Peter. I want to be your friend. I want to be in your life. I want to try and give back pieces of your life that were stolen from you.”

The pad of your thumb brushes across his cheekbone, smoothing down the skin and callouses caused by hurt. The curve of your palm molds into the slope of his jaw like a jigsaw puzzle that’s been weathered with years and cobwebs, but the hold still stays, and it feels right as law. Peter just seems to be relieved that you’re still here, facing the repercussions of the spell head on and understanding that, in the grand scheme of things, love doesn’t die. Not really, anyway. Because with the way you’re seeing him, hearing him, understanding him, maybe there is a teeny, tiny, minute part of you that remembers the shape and topography of his body.

“Is that okay with you?” you ask.

Peter nods against your palm immediately. God, it’s been far too long without this.

Pausing for a moment, you peer beyond him to see etches of sunlight poking through the smallest window to ever be put in a bunker. The functionality of it surpasses your mind, and you don’t dwell on the integrity of the architectural structure as an idea pops into your mind.

“We can work towards what once was,“ you murmur. “But, for today, what about breakfast?”

Frowning, Peter follows your gaze to the window, to the sun, to the start of a brand new day, and immediately understands that you’re clearing the slate for him. His heart skips at the thoughtfulness of it all, how you’re braving the morning on a night without sleep – something he knows is very precious to you – and opening a door for him to finally follow May’s advice, to finally allow himself to move through this instead of letting it happen to him.

“Breakfast sounds great,” he says honestly.

When you rise with a smile, Peter follows blindly, and he’s appreciative of the reaffirming squeeze you give his hand before dropping it. Taking that as a cue to move, he clears his throat, legs working on autopilot as he manuevers through the living room (if he can even call it that?) and stepping up into the kitchen area. It’s the same as it was left, the chair out of place from where he ate dinner and the utensils laying in the sink, the half drank glass of water he couldn’t stomach before he got some shut-eye.

But then your steps falter behind him, and Peter whips his head around in fear that you’ve changed your mind.

“Um.” You blink stupidly. “I don’t have my wallet.”

Peter’s mouth falls into an ‘O’, mirroring your pause for a moment. Then, he snaps out of it, beelining towards a specific cabinet next to the table and yanking it open, and your eyes widen at the rolls of cash stashed there, neatly organized and clearly untouched. Clearly, it’s not Peter’s, but he doesn’t seem to care as he snags a roll, an amount that’s way too much for a breakfast for two, and pockets it in his pajama pants without blinking twice.

Slamming the cabinet shut, he takes in your appalled expression and shrugs.

“What? He owes me.”

You eye the wad of cash protruding from his pocket and hum. “I suppose he does.”

The two of you leave just like that: suppressing grins from the absurdity of it all, eyes bleary from the lack of sleep, and a newfound appreciation for early mornings.

© salem-s do not copy or replicate work without permission

notes hai? missed yall so much! sorry for the near year-long hiatus i had genuinely no inspiration. but nothing like seeing peter parker depressed to cure the block, i guess. not sure if im entirely proud of this but i had to put pen to paper in some format. please please please ignore any grammatical errors mistakes misspells whatever anything synonymous to that. it’s 2am.

(and thank you for all the lovely messages while i wasn’t posting. it means everything!!!!!)

divider by @diviniyae

[clarkkentluvr]

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗓𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗈 𝗑 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌!

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 1.8𝗄

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌/𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌: 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍 (𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗆, & 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗆𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁)

𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾: 𝗁𝗂𝗒𝖺 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝖿𝗍 𝗂 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗅𝗌. 𝗂𝖿 𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 <3

The key takes three tries to find the lock.

You're giggling against Carmy's chest, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, his lips pressed sloppy and warm to the side of your neck. The wine from dinner is still buzzing through your veins, making everything feel soft at the edges and a little bit fuzzy.

You and Carmy usually never have much time for planned dates, both so busy with running your respective businesses. Him with The Bear, and you with The Honeycomb Daycare.

When things get busy it's rare that you both have time alone together, which is normally spent inside in your shared apartment. So when a date does come around that you're both up for, you tend to go all out.

Carmy brought you to one of his chef friends' new restaurants in the city, and it was great. He gave you guys a wine bottle on the house, which was most definitely put to use given that you both were ridiculously wine drunk.

"Baby, you gotta hold still," Carmy murmurs against your skin, his voice rough and low. His hand covers yours on the key, steadying your shaking fingers. "Let me."

He turns the lock with a soft click, and the door swings open. You stumble inside together, his hands finding your hips, guiding you backward through the dark apartment. You kick off your heels somewhere near the entrance, not caring where they land.

"Carmy—" you start, but he cuts you off with a kiss, deep and hungry, tasting of the red wine and the chocolate dessert you shared. His tongue slides against yours, and you melt into him, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his button-up.

He walks you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft bounce. Carmy hovers over you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide. He looks at you like you're something precious, something he can't quite believe is his.

"Look at you," he breathes, trailing his knuckles down your cheek. "So pretty, honey. Got all dressed up for me tonight."

You feel heat bloom across your chest, your cheeks flushing under his gaze. "Wanted to look good for you, Carmy."

"You always look good." He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then your lips. "Always so fucking beautiful. Can't believe I get to come home to you."

His hands find the hem of your dress, pushing it up slowly, deliberately. The fabric bunches around your waist as his fingers trace the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You shiver, arching into his touch.

"Carmy, please—"

His thumb brushes over the damp spot on your underwear, and you gasp, your hips lifting instinctively toward his hand. Carmy hums, low in his throat, and pushes your panties to the side. His fingers slide through your slick folds, teasing, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your breath catch.

Your hands drift up towards his shoulders, bringing him down closer to you, giving you something to hold onto. Your head falls back as his middle fingers presses inside, slow and deliberate. Your back arches off the bed, a broken moan escaping your lips.

His thumb circles your clit while his fingers pump in and out, a steady rhythm that has you seeing stars. The wine makes everything hazy, heightened, every touch electric.

"Atta girl," he coaxes, watching your face contort with pleasure. "Can feel you squeezin’ the shit outta my fingers. Let go, honey. I've got you."

You come with a sharp cry, your hips bucking against his hand as waves of pleasure crash through you. Carmy works you through it, his touch gentling as you shudder and gasp.

"There she is," he praises, pulling his fingers out slowly. He brings them to his lips, tasting you, and the sight alone makes heat pool in your belly again. "So sweet. Knew you would be."

He strips off his shirt, then his pants, and you watch the muscles in his shoulders flex as he climbs over you. He's hard, thick, and the sight of him makes your mouth water. You reach for him, but he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm.

You get the message, he’s in control tonight.

Then he lowers his mouth towards your panties, placing warm, soft kisses on top of the soaked fabric. You arch into him, chasing the precise flicks of Carmy's tongue. 

Only after you had begun whining and pulling at his hair did he sit back and completely remove your panties from your legs, before diving back in, even sloppier. He buries his face between your legs and starts licking long, filthy laps up your pussy. 

The sounds fill the room as he sucks and slurps, pushing his tongue deep inside you to get every drop. Carmy was many things, and being thorough in everything he does was one of them.

Which is why you can't help but reach your release again as he pulls your clit into his mouth, devouring you like his favorite meal.

Your body trembles through the aftershocks, legs shaking as Carmy presses a final, lingering kiss to your inner thigh before sitting back on his heels. His chin is glistening, his lips swollen, and there's something dark and satisfied in his eyes as he watches you struggle to catch your breath.

"Look at you," he says, his voice low and rough. "Already falling apart and we're not even close to done yet."

He reaches for you, pulling you up into a sitting position, then guides you to straddle his lap. You're still sensitive, every brush of his skin against yours making you shiver. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs stroking lazy circles into the soft skin there.

You hover over him, your core brushing against the length of his cock, and you can feel how hard he is, how ready. But you pause, your eyes dropping to his lips, still slick with you.

Carmy catches your gaze and smirks, that slow, knowing smirk that makes your stomach flip. "Go ahead," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "Taste yourself on me. Wanna see you."

Your heart pounds as you lean in, your mouth meeting him in a deep, messy kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet, and the intimacy of it makes you moan against his lips.

He lets you take control for a moment, his hands still resting on your hips, before he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours.

"Good girl," he breathes against your mouth, pulling back just enough to look at you.

Your lips are red and slick, your eyes hazy, and he hums in approval. "Look so pretty like this. All needy and desperate for me. You think you're ready for me, honey? You think you can take it?"

You nod, reaching down to guide him to your entrance, but he catches your wrist again, his grip firm.

"Uh-uh. Not so fast." He lifts his hips just slightly, the head of his cock pressing against your slick folds but not entering. "I asked you a question. Answer me."

"Yes," you breathe, your hips bucking instinctively. "Carmy, please. I'm ready. I can take it."

"Yeah?" His eyebrow raises, that condescending edge creeping into his voice. "You sure about that, honey? 'Cause I remember how tight you were around my fingers. How you were squeezing me like you couldn't handle it. And I'm a lot bigger than my fingers, aren't I?"

You whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I know. I know but I can—I want—"

“No, I don’t think you’re ready just yet, baby. Let me check again, just to be sure.”

His words send a shiver straight through you, but before you can protest, he's already lifting you off his lap and laying you back down on the mattress. His hands grip your thighs, pushing them up and apart, opening you wide for him with a strong grip.

"Carmy—" you start, but the word dissolves into a gasp as he drops his head between your legs again.

He dives in like a man starved, his tongue flat and wide as he drags it from your entrance all the way up to your clit. The pressure is firm, unrelenting, and you cry out, your hands flying down to tangle in his dark curls.

He groans against you, the vibration shooting through your core like electricity. His tongue flicks over your clit in rapid, sharp strokes before he sucks it into his mouth, and your hips jerk off the bed. He pins them down with his forearm, holding you in place as he works you over and over and over, his mouth slick and hot and so fucking good.

The room is filled with the obscene sounds of it. The wet, sloppy slide of his tongue, the desperate little whimpers falling from your lips. He's eating you like he's been starving for days, like you're the only thing that could ever satisfy him.

You're already so sensitive from before, and every lick, every suck, every nuzzle of his nose against your clit sends you spiraling closer to the edge. Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling, and he hums his approval, the sound rumbling through you.

Carmy makes sure to thoroughly work you open with his mouth, leaving no room for anything but your desperate pleas.

"Please," you gasp, your hips trying to buck against his mouth despite his hold on you. "Please, Carmy, I'm close, I'm—"

He doesn't let up. If anything, he doubles down, his tongue curling inside you before dragging back up to your clit, sucking hard. His middle finger presses into you, then a second, curling against that spot that makes your vision go white.

That's all it takes. 

You come again with a broken gasp, your body bowing off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over you. Carmy works you through it as usual, his tongue gentling, lapping at you softly until you're trembling and oversensitive, twitching away from his mouth.

He doesn't stop, though. He presses a soft kiss to your clit, then another, and another, until you're gasping and pushing at his head.

"Carmy, stop, I can't—"

"Shh," he soothes, pressing soft kisses to your inner thigh before sitting up. His face is a mess—slick, glistening, his lips swollen and red. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and the sight of it makes your stomach flip with desire all over again.

He crawls up your body, his weight settling over you, and you feel him pressed against you—hard, hot, insistent. He leans down, his mouth hovering over yours, and you can taste yourself on his breath.

"Now you're ready," he murmurs, his voice rough and wrecked. "Now you're ready for me, honey."

[delaneycore]

Fast Times ― Peter Parker

part two | playlist | edit

Pairing: Street Racer!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Peter have been inseparable for years. When his life takes a turn down darker paths, scrambling to keep up in the dangerous scene of street racing and illicit, underground crime, you pledge to remain by his side. However, when Peter found a possible way out for the both of you, he could have never expected all the chaos and peril that ensued after.

Warnings/Tags: street racer! peter parker, criminal! peter parker, boyfriend! peter parker, angst, violence, weapon use, vulgar language, crime, mentions of murder, eventual smut, creampie. read responsibly! mdni, 18+

Word Count: 11.6k

Author's Note: This was so inanely fun to write. I love to put Peter Parker in crazy ass situations, so I hope you enjoy it as well!

Inspiration: The Fast and the Furious films and “03’ Bonnie & Clyde” by JAY-Z and Beyonce. "All I need in this life of sin is me and my girlfriend."

The rain was pelting down as you dug your hands deeper into the pocket of the sweatshirt that didn’t belong to you, keeping your head down while making quick strides down the Queens city streets that were uneven and littered with puddles. 

It was like the ending of a movie, when all the action and drama was over, leaving the main character to reel in the stark, eerily quiet absence of what they had gone through. 

“You good?” Peter asked, matching your hurried pace on the sidewalk next to you.

You flinched instinctively, blinking up at him. His bleached curls that were growing out brunette at the root were drenched from the late-August storm and there heavy raindrops falling down the leather of his racing jacket. When your gaze flashed up to meet him, reeling over the way his cheekbone was bruised with a small gash and his bottom lip was swollen and scabbing, you quickly looked away.

Sucking in a sharp breath, you peered back over your shoulder to ensure there wasn’t anyone following. “I’m fine,” you told him, glaring back ahead.

Peter’s hands dug further in the front pockets of his damp jeans, sending a stinging sensation up his forearm when his bloodied and bruised knuckles scraped the material. Guilt stabbed at his conscience and pain ricocheted through his tattered body, but all he could think about was how grateful he was that the wounds were on him and not you.

“What do we do now?” you heard yourself ask.

He swallowed hard, feeling the pain in his bruised jaw when he did so. “We’ve gotta get out of the city.”

Glancing up at him, your shoulders tensed. “What if they find us?”

“They won’t,” he said in a bizarrely calm and even tone before looking over at you, knowing there was a good chance his rib was fractured based on the agonizing pain that thrummed in his side. “I won’t let them catch us.”

♯┆48   HOURS   EARLIER  .ᐟ 

This part of Queens always looked different after midnight. It felt dirtier, louder. There was an electric hum in the air from flickering streetlamps that the city never bothered to repair and the industrial stretch beneath the Kosciuszko Bridge was transformed by darkness into something that belonged only to the people who knew where to find it. 

Abandoned warehouses that lined the stretch of broken pavement were black and hulking on either side of the street. The few that were still open and operating had their loading bays chained shut for the weekend, graffiti crawling across corrugated metal and concrete barriers. 

Beyond the rooftops in the distance, the Manhattan skyline glittered, but nobody was really looking at all that. 

Everyone was too distracted by the cars that lined both sides of the road in uneven rows, parked halfway onto sidewalks and beneath “no parking” signs that nobody bothered pretending to respect. 

There were Hondas dropped so low that their bumpers nearly scraped pavement, and the few gleaming Toyota Supras and Nissan Skylines were a jarring sight next to battered old Mustangs with more money beneath their hoods than their bodies were worth. Somewhere in the commotion, a girl in a denim mini-skirt leaned over the hood of a candy-red Mazda RX-7, wiping the custom-built motor with a pink microfiber cloth, surrounded by a crowd three people deep. 

Hoods stood propped open beneath portable work lights and bass rattled through open windows. Someone had dragged speakers into the bed of a modded pickup truck, and the blaring rhythm of DJ Shadow and Mos Def’s “Six Days” was loud enough that you felt it deep in your ribs before you could make out the song. 

Cigarette smoke tangled with exhaust fumes in the humid, August air. A few girls sat on hoods in flattering streetwear paired with platform heels while guys shouted over engines and money passed from hand to hand. 

Every few seconds another car screamed down the makeshift strip, disappearing beneath the bridge before returning slowly through the crowd like some victorious fighter entering an arena, accompanied by the nauseating smell of burnt rubber.

Peter Parker belonged here in a way nobody who met him during daylight hours would've believed. Leaning against the driver's side of his black Nissan Skyline GT-R with his arms folded over his chest, he had one ankle crossed over the other, listening to one of his friends argue about twenty dollars like it was twenty thousand. 

His Skyline itself wasn't flashy by the standards of the cars surrounding it. Peter hated flashy things. The body was clean and almost entirely black save for the chrome wheels and the faint red lettering he'd painted onto one brake caliper because you'd complained that the car needed something interesting about it. 

There were no ridiculous decals—no neon glowing beneath the chassis, nothing advertising what Peter had built beneath the hood. That was the whole point, really. Your boyfriend liked watching people underestimate him. He liked it even more when they put money on it. 

His gray West Coast Choppers T-shirt clung to his skin slightly between his shoulder blades in the heat. His bleached mess of curls was growing out, returning to their natural shade of brunette at the root, and falling messily across his forehead every time he ducked his head. Your gaze, however, hung on the clasp of his thin, silver chain that disappeared beneath his collar.

Whenever somebody called his name from across the street, Peter lifted two fingers without bothering to look. Everything about his exterior read comfortable, cocky, and completely at home with his surroundings. But you knew Peter better than anyone. Therefore, you knew the cracks taking place within his tough interior. 

"You've checked your phone, like, six times," you said, peering down at him slipping his cellphone back into his pocket.

Peter looked down at you, his brows furrowed. "Have not."

You pointed at his hand that was working to hide his phone. "Seven."

"I was checking the time," he argued, returning to his nonchalant stance, but you saw the way the muscle in his jaw ticked.

"There's a clock in your car."

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "It's not accurate."

"You fixed it yesterday," you countered, scoffing.

Peter's mouth twitched. "Why are you keeping track of how many times I'm checking my phone?"

"Because,” you sighed, “you're being weird."

"I'm always weird," he combatted, turning his head to give you his full attention.

You frowned up at him, dismissing the way your insides felt all mushy when he looked at you like that. "This is a different weird."

That earned you the smile that you'd been fishing for. All crooked, smug, and infuriatingly effective. Peter caught you by the hips when you stepped between his knees, pulling you closer until the denim of your shorts brushed his jeans. "I like it when you’re worried about me."

"Well, I don’t," you told him. Still, your lips curled, hands instinctively draping over his shoulders. “Stop making me have to worry about you.”

He just shrugged, eyes fixed on the shape of your glossed lips and the mesh top you had on beneath one of his old leather jackets that showed the black color of your bra. "How long do I have?"

You glanced toward the starting line, where two cars were backing away after their run while a small army of people spilled into the street again. "Five minutes. Maybe ten."

"Plenty of time," he breathed, bowing his head down into the crook of your neck.

A shiver ran down your spine, feeling the warmth of his breath on the sensitive skin beneath your ear. "For what?"

Peter's hands slid up around your waist, pulling your frame flush against his. "I can think of something."

"You're disgusting." You laughed when his tongue slipped through his lips, running a stripe up the side of your neck. 

"Didn't hear you complaining last night," he replied confidently, squeezing your curves and forcing the impression of his hardened length growing in his jeans against your stomach

It was easy to get caught up in moments like this with him, when it felt as though every outside factor had vanished and the two of you were the only people on Earth. "Peter," you huffed, but you couldn’t help the way it came out more like a moan.

"What, baby?" He straightened his spine, returning back to his stance with his back pressed against his car. 

Your gaze anxiously wandered to the swarm of people around the two of you. "Your friends are right there."

"They know we fuck," he shrugged.

You reached up and slapped a hand over his mouth before he could say anything worse, causing Peter to laugh against your palm, his eyes creasing at the corners. "God,” you hissed, heat rushing to your face, “you're annoying."

He kissed the center of your palm and something about it made you hesitate, pulling your hand away from him.

It was too soft for him tonight. Not that Peter wasn't affectionate. The version of Peter that you had could be embarrassingly affectionate when he wanted to be. But there was something lingering in the way he looked at you afterward. His hands stayed at your waist and his thumb moved slowly beneath the hem of your shirt, brushing the bare strip of skin above your low-rise denim skirt. 

The noise and commotion ceased around you when you caught that look on his face. "What?" you asked.

"Nothing."

Your features hardened. "There it is again."

He cocked a brow. "What?"

"Nothing," you responded, mimicking the deep tone of his voice.

Peter sighed through his nose. "I'm fine."

"Something’s bothering you, Peter," you urged to say, desperate to know what was going on in that head of his. “I can tell. Why can’t you just talk to me?”

"You’re right," Peter said and for the briefest moment, you thought he was about to be open and honest. But then he pressed his bulge deeper into your stomach. “That’s bothering me.”

Your eyes rolled. "You’re fucking insufferable," you groaned. But you didn’t move away from the grip he had on you. That, you probably would have stayed in forever if he’d let you.

He laughed again, but his gaze immediately flashed behind you.

Unwittingly, you followed it. Your gaze hung on a dark SUV that was parked half a block away beneath a dead streetlight. There wasn’t anything remarkable about it. There were dozens of cars you didn't recognize tonight, but that one had caught his attention, so that immediately made it your business.

When you looked back, Peter was watching you. "What?"

"Nothing," he told you for the nth time.

You narrowed your gaze on him. "Peter."

He rolled his eyes a bit, leaning his head back. "Stop saying my name like that."

“Like what?”

A smirk returned to his lips, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Like you’re trying to scold me, or some stupid shit.”

Peter leaned forward and kissed you before you could respond. You made a startled sound against his mouth, more irritated by the obvious distraction tactic than the kiss itself, but Peter's hand slipped behind your neck and your annoyance lasted a mere three seconds. His lips were warm, tasting faintly of the cherry Coke he'd stolen from you on the drive over. You curled your fingers into his shirt. 

Somebody nearby wolf-whistled. Peter lifted his other hand without breaking the kiss and gave whoever it was the finger, making you laugh into his mouth.

"Classy," you murmured.

He flicked his gaze down at you when he pulled away. "Always."

The sudden shriek of a car horn blared twice behind you, forcing Peter’s attention to drift. 

"Parker!" someone bellowed.

He glanced over your shoulder again, greeting whoever it was that his gaze fell on with a toothy grin.

Mikey—who was your boyfriend’s loyal-to-a-fault best friend that had a penchant for stealing catalytic converters from broken down cars on the side of the street and ad-libbing rap songs in the back seat whenever he rode around with the two of you—stood in the middle of the street waving him forward. "You racing tonight or trying to get laid?"

Peter shouted back, "Why can't I do both?"

A chorus of laughter erupted around the cars, all too familiar with the cocky smugness that was Peter Parker. 

You pushed yourself away from him, unable to conceal the smile on your face despite the commotion. "Go," you whispered to him.

Peter caught your hand before you were able to get too far, causing you to snap your head back in his direction. For a second, he simply held it, eyeing every single one of your features. Then, he pulled you in again and kissed your forehead.

"See you at the finish line," he whispered.

Your eyebrows pulled together. "Where else would I be?"

Peter smiled, but that strange look was back. Before you could pry any further, like you so desperately wanted to, he opened the driver's door and climbed inside.

His Skyline came alive with a low, violent growl that immediately swallowed all the chatter around it. You stepped back automatically as Peter tapped the accelerator, the engine snapping upward before settling into an uneven purr. 

Whatever unease you had initially felt disappeared beneath the familiar thrill of hearing that car run. You'd spent enough nights lying underneath it beside Peter to know exactly what lived beneath that hood. You had watched him rebuild half the engine on the floor of his garage, watched him spend money he didn't have on parts he absolutely did not need, watched him tune and retune and retune again because apparently almost perfect was a personal insult. 

Most people here thought Peter was lucky. But you knew better. Peter was fucking terrifying behind a wheel.

He eased the Skyline into the street, people moving aside to let him through. The other car rolled forward beside him—a cobalt-blue Supra belonging to Dante Ruiz, who'd spent the better part of the evening telling anybody willing to listen that tonight was the night he would finally put Parker in his place. 

Dante leaned across his passenger seat and shouted something through the open window, enticing Peter to glance over.

Even from where you stood, you saw the shit-eating grin. That was where Peter belonged. That was where the real Peter—your Peter—felt the most alive.

You followed the crowd toward the start, slipping between shoulders until you reached the front. Some idiot dull enough to talk to you shoved a wad of bills toward you.

"Your boy?" his thick New York accent drawled. 

Your brows snapped together, peering down in the man’s dirty palm.

"Two hundred on Parker," he told you.

You snorted. "That's it?"

The guy grinned and pulled another hundred from his pocket.

"Better."

You handed the money to the girl taking bets and moved toward the finish line instead. You didn't need to stand at the start. You'd seen Peter launch a hundred times. You much preferred watching him arrive back to you in one piece.

The crowd gradually pulled away from the asphalt. Music was lowered slowly and conversations became shouting before shifting into scattered whistles as the starter walked between the two cars. She was tall and curvaceous with long, beautiful boho braids, sporting the shortest mini-skirt you’d ever seen. Your eyes hung on her as she raised her hands in the air, toting some red fabric in each hand.

Peter revved once, his knuckles whitening around his custom steering wheel. Dante answered, leading Peter to rev again, higher this time, the sound bouncing violently between warehouses.

You folded your arms over your chest, standing amongst the hordes of people who only wanted to see chaos. 

As soon as the starter dropped her hands, it felt as though the street exploded.

Tires screamed against the pavement, smoke billowed behind both cars. The Supra jumped ahead by half a hood, but Peter caught it before second gear, the Skyline surging forward with that brutal acceleration you'd felt enough times from the passenger seat to know exactly how hard it shoved you backward. 

The crowd erupted around you. Peter shifted into third. The Supra hung beside him as he shifted again into fourth gear, causing Peter to pull ahead.

You smiled to yourself. Of course he did, you thought.

The cars tore toward you beneath the yellow wash of streetlights, engines climbing into a mechanical scream. Dante was good—better than most of the guys Peter raced. But Peter knew this road. He knew his car. And more importantly, Peter knew exactly how much he could ask from it before physics started asking questions back. 

Fifty yards from the line, he had nearly half a car on Dante and people were already shouting his name, itching to receive their payment when he ran again.

You cupped your hands around your mouth in reluctant anticipation.

Peter's headlights flashed across you and for one impossibly slow second, you could've sworn he looked directly at you.

You blinked hard just before his Skyline abruptly slowed. Nobody unfamiliar with the car would have noticed the change, but you did. You noticed. You noticed the way he shifted too early, which caused the engine note to drop and the Supra to gain several feet.

It felt as though your heart had plummeted into your stomach. "What the fuck?"

Peter had the room. He had the speed. You knew his boost hadn't dropped because you could hear it. You knew he hadn't missed the gear because Peter Parker hadn't missed that shift since he'd installed the transmission himself six months ago.

Dante pulled even and despite everything, Peter didn’t correct.

Your stomach tightened. "No." The Supra nosed ahead, nearing the finish line with such ease. Peter stayed behind him. "No, no, no—"

The blue car crossed first, Peter followed less than a second later.

The crowd erupted into a mind-numbing pitch.

Dante's people screamed like he'd just won the Monaco Grand Prix. Money flew between hands and someone beside you cursed loudly and kicked an empty beer bottle across the sidewalk. Dante shot past before braking farther down the road, drifting into a circle as rubber squealed, horn blaring triumphantly.

Unlike everyone else, you weren't watching him. You were watching Peter as his Skyline slowed.

Peter turned around at the end of the strip and drove back toward the crowd. Nobody else could understand, assuming he’d screwed up, or that Dante had finally forced him to meet his match.

They hadn't spent hundreds of hours in Peter's passenger seat. They hadn't listened to him explain gear ratios until they threatened to walk into traffic. They hadn't watched him drive that exact stretch of asphalt at speeds that made the hairs on your arm stand up.

Your boyfriend hadn't lost. He had let Dante win.

Peter’s Nissan Skyline rolled to a stop and you immediately started towards him with your hands clenched into fists at your side.

He kicked open the door, climbing out slowly.

Dante was already running toward him, laughing and shouting something about Peter owing him five grand. Peter barely acknowledged him, though.

His eyes instantly found yours, cementing his gaze on your features.

The crowd forcefully moved between the two of you, making it nearly impossible to make it over to him. But neither of you looked away.

You stopped, feeling the familiar sensation of your nails digging into the fragile skin of your palm. Finding a name for the way you were feeling felt unattainable. You weren’t angry, but you weren’t content. All you did know was that you were spiraling and something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. 

Peter's expression changed, something akin to guilt washing over him as he watched you lose sight of him in the chaotic flow of the crowd. He felt something splinter inside of him, but there was nothing he could do.

A cold feeling slid down your spine as you pushed past a few drunk guys barking insults at each other over a lost bet. "Peter?" you called out.

But everything—the world, your thoughts—shifted drastically when red and blue light exploded from down the make-shift strip.

For half a heartbeat, nobody moved. 

Unmarked SUVs lurched away from curbs. Doors flew open as men and women in tactical vests poured into the street from both directions, badges flashing beneath the streetlights.

The entire race detonated into chaos. 

People ran, all sprinting to their cars or hurdling themselves into others’. Someone dropped a stack of cash, bills scattered beneath pounding feet. A car mounted the curb trying to turn around while another slammed backward into a parked Civic. 

Music continued pounding stupidly from the pickup as people shoved past one another, engines roaring to life all at once. You stumbled when someone crashed into your shoulder.

"Move!"

You ignored them, though. You weren’t running away. There was no where for you to fucking go without him.

When your eyes finally found him again, he was still standing next to his Skyline. His head was working on a swivel, chaotically searching the pure mania for your face.

You knew that he wouldn’t run—he wouldn’t flee. Not without you. But he wasn’t even trying. He hadn’t even moved to look for you. He was just standing, moving in frantic circles

“Peter!” you screamed, forcing your way through a mess of people all running against you.

Mikey disappeared between two cars. Dante dove back into the Supra before tearing off and a girl in silver heels abandoned them entirely and sprinted barefoot toward the warehouses.

Peter didn't move.

Your hands flew to your mouth, a panicked gasp becoming caught in your windpipe when an officer approached him with his weapon drawn.

No, no, no, no, no.

"Hands where I can see them!" the officer roared, gripping the back of his collar and slamming his body down on the hood of his car.

Peter didn’t fight back. He didn’t even fucking squirm. He let the officer drive his upper body into the steel of his car’s hood, raising his hands above his head.

You stared, tears swelling in your eyes. "No."

"Hands behind your back!" The officer grabbed his wrist, fumbling for the cuffs on his belt. And Peter still wasn’t fighting.

Something inside you dropped as the realization dawned on you like the weight of the world itself crashing down on your shoulders. The phone, the SUV, the way he’d been looking over his shoulder all night, the kiss. “See you at the finish line.” He threw the race. He knew.

You pushed through the crowd. "Peter!"

His head snapped toward you just as the officer yanked Peter's arm behind his back.

Stopping dead in your tracks, your body trembled when Peter’s face changed when he registered you standing only a few feet away from him in the center of all the commotion.

Your voice barely made it through the noise. "You knew."

Peter shook his head. But he wasn’t denying it, he was trying to warn you. That was what they had told him—if he complied, no harm would be done to you. That was the only reason he had agreed to it. 

"You fucking knew," your lip trembled, watching him be forcefully jerked around against the hood of his car by the cop with a badge and too much authority for one man.

"Baby—"

A handcuff snapped around his wrist and you took a reluctant step backwards, your vision tunneling and thoughts reeling. The one person who always vowed to be truthful—the one person who swore to protect you—had lied to your face and done the unthinkable.

Peter saw it happen. He caught the realization settling across your face. He saw you understand exactly what everybody else was about to understand too.

His voice broke through the chaos. "Run!" You stared at him. "Baby, go!"

The first gunshot echoed. It cracked through the street loudly enough to silence everything for one surreal fraction of a second.

Peter's expression changed and another shot rang through the air. The sound ricocheted off the vacant buildings making it impossible to find the source. Glass shattered somewhere behind you and the sound of someone screaming forced you to drop to the ground, not knowing if the next bullet was going to go through you.

Three black SUVs came roaring around the corner at the far end of the street, one smashing directly through a police barricade. Officers spun toward them with their weapons raised. 

Some voice shouted, “Everyone get the fuck down!”

Peter's eyes weren't on the SUVs, or too worried about the officer manhandling him. They were fixed somewhere behind you as you fell to the ground, flinching every time a shot rippled through the air. 

His face went white with fear as he saw the familiar face pushing through the fleeing crowd, coming straight for you with nothing but ill-intent littered on his expression.

The cruel recognition hit you before the fear did. It was Nico Velez. You had known Nico long enough to know he wasn't somebody Rivas, the man who called the shots in your world, sent to ask questions. 

He was big without being bulky, built like somebody who had learned a long time ago that intimidation worked better when you didn't have to advertise it, dressed in black jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. 

You'd eaten pizza with him in the back room of Rivas's shop after watching him put a gun to someone’s temple. He'd once driven forty minutes out of his way to bring Peter a transmission he'd needed before a race. Three months ago, he'd sat across from the two of you at a diner at four in the morning and stolen half the fries off your plate while telling you about the time he set a car on fire in the Vegas desert. 

Right now, though, he was pushing against the stream of people running in the opposite direction, his eyes locked directly onto you. There was no confusion on his face, no panic over the police flooding the street. He knew exactly where he was going.

You swallowed hard. "Fuck,” you panted before staggering up onto your feet and running into the opposite direction. 

Another gunshot cracked somewhere behind you, followed by three more in rapid succession. You ducked instinctively, hands coming over your head as somebody slammed into your shoulder hard enough to send you stumbling sideways into the hood of a parked Honda. Its alarm started shrieking. You shoved yourself upright and kept moving, sneakers skidding across loose gravel as you tried to disappear into the mass of bodies pouring toward the warehouses. Police were shouting commands nobody was listening to and a helicopter had appeared overhead, its searchlight sweeping across rooftops and washing the street in brief flashes of white. 

One of the black SUVs had stopped sideways across the intersection, doors hanging open with two masked men crouched behind it while officers took cover behind cruisers. The race had ceased to exist. There was only noise now—sirens, engines, gunfire, screaming, shattering glass, tires squealing—and somewhere beneath all of it, Peter shouting your name.

Peter jerked his cuffed wrist forward so violently that the officer holding him nearly lost his footing. "That's my girlfriend!"

The officer was adamant, kicking his foot into the back of Peter’s knew. "On the ground!"

The hit caused Peter’s knees to crash with the pavement. Pain ricocheted up his spine, but he couldn’t even think about it. "He's going after her," he told the officer.

"Get on the fucking ground!"

"Nico!" Peter shouted, already knowing how badly he had fucked up.

You heard him. Your head snapped in his direction, barely able to make out his position on the ground. Unfortunately, so did Nico.

His head snapped toward Peter for half a second, and that was all the confirmation Peter needed.

"Don't you fucking touch her!" Peter shouted, spit flying from his mouth as he tried and failed to climb up to his own two feet. 

The officer grabbed the back of Peter's shirt and tried to force him downward. Peter twisted. "Listen to me, that guy… He’s the one you’re looking—"

"I said down!" the officer roared, sending a swift kick into his ribs.

Peter hit the pavement hard, unable to brace himself due to the grip the officer had on his wrists.

You made the mistake of looking back once more, realizing Nico was closer. Peter noticed it, too. 

Later, you wouldn't remember exactly how Peter got free. You'd only be able to remember small pieces of it. The officer reached for his other wrist, so he could handcuff them both together, Peter suddenly twisting beneath his arm, somebody shouting, Peter driving his shoulder backward, the officer staggering into the Skyline. You'd remember the metallic flash of the handcuff still hanging from Peter's left wrist as he vaulted over the hood of another car. 

He, however, would remember thinking, distantly and absurdly, that Detective Torres—the woman who had put him in this position—was probably going to fucking kill him.

Mostly, though, you would remember Peter running toward you.

"Nico!" Your boyfriend’s voice carried over the chaos.

Nico naively turned, allowing Peter to hit him at full speed.

Both men crashed into the side of a parked Challenger hard enough to dent the passenger door. Nico recovered first, driving an elbow into Peter's ribs. Peter doubled slightly and Nico caught the front of his shirt, slamming him backward against the car.

"Fucking rat," Nico seethed.

Maybe he was, Peter thought to himself. Perhaps he was a dirty, no-good rat. But if Nico loved someone the way Peter loved you, he would have also clutched onto the possibility of having a freedom just as hard as Peter had. Because that was all Peter wanted out of this. He wanted the two of you to be able to start over somewhere safe, where you were no longer in harm’s way.

That was all he could think about when he was sitting in the interrogation room at the 105th Precinct last week, being threatened with some serious prison time after being pulled over in a routine traffic stop. 

He wondered for a moment if going away, being caged, would be what was best for you. Maybe, without him, you would be able to move on and finally find a life away from crime where you could be safe. Perhaps you would find someone who could protect you from the mundane things in life, like your fear of spiders and the everyday pickpocket, instead of the way he had to hold your head down in his passenger seat when bullets flew through the car window. 

But Detective Elena Torres had a way with her words and, in the grand scheme of her case, Peter was the least of her concerns. The only person she wanted to pin was Victor Rivas, who you and Peter had only started working for a few months earlier. Becoming more of his pawns, the life that the two of you shared had shifted dangerously from your relatively small-time car thieving and contraband trafficking into guns, drugs, and violent highway robberies. 

It was nothing that you and Peter couldn’t handle. It was just the understanding of knowing that the only way it would ever end was in pure destruction and peril that kept him up at night. He didn’t know what he would do with himself if something ever happened to you. 

Detective Torres had laid it out to Peter plainly: cooperate with an investigation into Rivas and receive immunity, or face serious charges and the risk of spending the rest of his life behind bars.

“If I do this,” Peter had responded, eyeing the two-page rapsheet of all the charges he would be put away for if he didn’t, “I want immunity for her, too.”

The second Torres negotiated a deal with him to wipe not only his record, but your record, too, and provide enough funding to get the two of you somewhere far away, he took the deal without hesitation. 

He knew the risk. There was an unfathomable price to pay in his world when you worked with the Feds. If he did what she wanted, there would be no way he could ever return. The only way to reclaim his dignity and get by unscathed would be to completely reinvent himself far away from the people who would undoubtedly want to get him back for all of it. 

And he was fine with that. He wanted that for you.

Peter drove his forehead into Nico's nose, knowing no one would understand what he did.

Nico reeled, lulling his head back and clutching the bridge as bright-red blood oozed down his mustache and into his mouth.

Peter’s fist reared back, crashing forward into his jaw. He did it once, then again, and again. The third punch sent Nico stumbling into the Mustang's side mirror, snapping it backward. Peter rushed over the curb and grabbed your wrist, his chest heaving up and down with frantic breathing.

"Move," he told you through gritted teeth as blood trickled down the side of his face from the gash above his eyebrow.

You ripped yourself away. "Don't touch me."

Peter stared at you like you'd slapped him. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

"Completely," you snarled.

A bullet struck the Mustang and Peter’s hand shot to your head, forcing you down to kneel on the ground next to him. He tucked your upper body beneath his. 

Peter looked at the spiderweb of fractured glass above his head, then back at you. "Can you hate me somewhere else?"

You shoved him off you. "I can hate you right here." Another shot punched through the rear window, like it was taunting you. "Shit,” you screeched, instinctively clutching onto him.

Peter took your wrist in his grasp again and, this time, you let him. Still crouched, he scrambled up to his feet and started sprinting down the sidewalk with you right on his trail.

There wasn't time to decide where to go. Peter pulled you between two parked cars as officers rushed toward the gunfight at the intersection, then through a gap in a chain-link fence somebody had cut open earlier in the night. You stumbled into an alley running behind the warehouses, Peter immediately changing direction when headlights appeared at the far end. 

His hand stayed locked around yours. The loose half of the handcuff slapped against his wrist with every stride.

Racing down the alleyway, your heart was beating loud enough to hear and you jerked away your hand. "Peter!"

"I know," was all he said, not bothering to slow his pace.

"You knew."

You saw the way his shoulders tensed. "I know," he repeated.

"You set—” your voice cracked, forced to stare at the back of his head. “You set everyone up"

He shook his head. "No."

"Cops show up thirty seconds after you throw a race,” you scoffed, “and that's your answer?"

You heard his rugged sigh. "It's complicated."

"I swear to God—"

He gripped your hand, silently urging you to hurry and match his pace. "Can we do this when people aren't trying to kill us?"

"They’re only trying to kill us because of you!" you roared, trying to pry your hand away from him once more, but you nearly collided with him when he stopped suddenly.

A steel gate blocked the alley. "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me," Peter groaned before looking right and then left. He peered up and your heart sunk.

"Peter." He let go of your hand, ignoring you, and gripped onto the gate, hoisting himself up. His biceps flexed, a dim, distant light reflecting off his sweat-slicked skin. "Peter, what are you doing?"

"Helping," he grunted, planting one of sneakers against the brick wall and hauled himself upward, catching the top of the gate. "Come on."

"You cannot seriously—"

His neck craned to look back at you. "Baby."

"Don't baby me," you snarled.

"Fine.” He huffed, reaching his hand out towards you. “My girlfriend who currently hates me, climb."

You would've laughed if you weren't considering murder. “Crazy of you to think I’d still want to be your girlfriend after this.”

Peter got himself over first, dropping onto the other side and pretending like that threat of yours didn’t make him want to run in the middle of all the crossfire on purpose. You found footholds in the metal and hauled yourself upward. Peter reached up and caught you around the waist when you reached the top.

"I've got you."

You swatted his hands away "I don't need—"

"I know," he cut in, glaring up at you. “Just shut up, okay?”

You did, only long enough for Peter to lower you down. You landed against him, his arms tightening automatically around you. For a moment neither of you moved.

When shouting echoed from the alley, he released you.  "Come on."

You emerged onto another street two blocks from the race. The chaos was slightly muffled here, though red and blue lights still pulsed against windows and the helicopter remained circling overhead. People who had escaped the raid were scattering in every direction and cars tore through intersections without stopping. Somewhere nearby, somebody had crashed into a fire hydrant and water geysered twenty feet into the air.

"We need a car," Peter said, trying to keep his head down as the two of you made hurried steps down a new sidewalk.

"My car's a block away at the garage," you told him.

He shook his head once, peering over his shoulder. "Not anymore."

"What the hell does that mean?" you asked, furrowing your brows at him.

"It means—” he exhaled heavily “—the cops know your plates."

You stopped in your tracks, feeling another sting in your chest. Peter took only two more steps before realizing you weren't beside him.

He turned, slowly, features softening.

"You gave them my plates?"

His face did something deeply unhelpful for his case.

Your jaw went slack with disgust. "Oh my God."

"Technically—"

You took a step backwards. "Peter, who even are you?"

"They already had your plates," he explained, closing the space.

"Oh, well,” you coughed out a laugh, “that's so much better." But nothing—not a single fucking thing about this—was funny.

His shoulders tensed. "They had a whole lot more than your plates."

You stared at him, which made Peter immediately regret speaking in the first place.

"What does that mean?" you pried, glaring up at him with nothing but rage coursing through your veins.

"Not now," he countered, dragging a hand down his face, looking at it with a puzzled expression when he realized the handcuff was still clasped around his hand.

"No, we’re not doing this shit, Peter," you barked. “What does that mean?”

Before you could register the engine roaring around the corner, Peter grabbed you and pulled you behind a parked van as a black Charger shot through the intersection. You recognized it immediately. It was Victor Rivas.

Peter swore under his breath, clutching you harder when the Charger slowed. You could feel his heartbeat against you and the way every muscle in his body was shaking with something much more than fear.

He took in a sharp breath before pushing you up. "Run."

You both took off again, not daring to look back when the Charger reversed.

It was just pure luck that the driver's door of a silver Acura parked along the curb was unlocked, which you only discovered by yanking it open.

Peter stared at you.

"What?"

He squinted up at you. "That's not our car."

You tilted your head to the side. "And?"

Without giving him the time to argue with you further, you ducked inside and reached beneath the steering column. Peter climbed into the passenger seat. "You're stealing a car."

You ripped the plastic panel loose. "Would you prefer to call an Uber?"

"I don't think our passenger rating could survive this one, baby."

"Peter," you deadpanned.

"Right. Sorry. It’s just…" he watched you with precision, waiting for you to make a mistake, but you never did, “that’s kind of my thing.”

Your fingers worked quickly through the wiring. “I had a good teacher.”

Peter glanced through the rear window, smirking at your comment. He instantly found the Charger again, realizing it was turning around. His heartbeat quickened when he turned back to you. "Any chance you could go a little faster?"

"You've got a lot of opinions for a fucking snitch," you bit.

Peter went quiet, not knowing how to escape the validity of that one.

Tugging at another cord, you heard the engine spark to life. “Yes,” you hissed, a smug grin spread across your face. "Got it."

You scrambled up into the driver’s seat and slammed the Acura’s shifter into drive. The Charger was thirty yards behind you when you floored it.

The Acura lurched forward hard enough to throw Peter backward. You shot through the intersection, narrowly missing a taxi coming from the opposite direction. Its horn blared behind you.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Peter shouted, reaching up to the grab handle, clutching onto it for dear life.

You peered over at him, coughing out a laugh. "You scared?"

"A bit," he managed to say, peering over his shoulder. 

An ironically ill-timed chuckle spilled out of you. “I can drive, Peter.”

“I know that.” He nodded stiffly, fixing his gaze back out the windshield. “I was the one who taught you.”

Your mind betrayed you, forcing you to look over at your boyfriend just as the Charger slammed into your rear bumper.

The Acura jerked sideways and every muscle in your body tensed. "Fuck!"

You corrected hard, tires squealing as you fought the steering wheel. Peter twisted around in his seat. "They're coming again."

"I can see that," you replied through gritted teeth.

He pointed at the rearview mirror. "Mirror."

"I know what a fucking mirror is, Peter," you barked.

The Charger accelerated, plenty ready to smash into your rear again. Peter grabbed the dashboard as you tightened your muscles, bracing yourself for the impending impact.

The second hit was harder. Metal crunched behind you and the Acura fishtailed across two lanes. An oncoming truck blasted its horn and the headlights blinded you as you yanked the wheel right, missing it by inches.

Peter's hand shot across your body instinctively despite the seat belt being already locked against your chest. "Are you okay?"

You nudged your elbow, forcing his hand away. "I'm fine."

"You're sure?" he pressed, raking you over with his gaze.

Exhaling frantically, you roared, "Stop asking me if I'm okay!"

"I care about you!" your boyfriend quickly countered.

"You—” you turned to him for a brief moment “—got me raided!"

His brows scrunched. "I did not get you raided!"

"No, worse,” you said, flattening your lips. “You got everybody raided!"

"Technically,” Peter sighed, gripping the grab handle again, “the NYPD got everybody raided."

You whipped your head toward him, scowling.

"Bad time," Peter admitted.

The Charger appeared beside you and the minute Peter saw the passenger window lowering, he shouted, "Down!" before reaching over and grabbing the back of your neck.

You complied, ducking and not being able to control the fearful shriek that escaped you when gunshots exploded beside the car, causing the passenger window shattered.

Glass sprayed across Peter's lap and you inhaled in a sharp breath, swerving violently as the Acura clipped the Charger and sent both cars grinding together. Sparks erupted between them and Peter shoved himself upright, trying to not get caught in the crossfire.

"Drive!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

"What the fuck do you think I'm doing?" you countered, matching his tone as the man in the Charger raised the gun again.

Peter reached over and grabbed the steering wheel.

"What are you—"

He tore your hands off it. "Trust me."

You laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. "Not exactly your strongest pitch right now!"

He twisted the wheel to the right, completely dismissing you.

Pushing your back as far as it could go in the driver’s seat, you gasped and told him, "There's no road!"

He was biting down on his busted bottom lip. "Exactly!"

You saw the opening in the loading entrance and helped him by jerking the wheel, sensing his struggle from the other side of the car. The Acura shot across the sidewalk and through the entrance of an abandoned distribution yard. 

Peter braced one hand against the dashboard as the car bounced violently over cracked concrete. He immediately clocked in your rearview mirror that the Charger had followed. "Shit," he hissed.

"You sound surprised," you quipped, keeping deep focus on the terrain before you.

He shrugged despite the impending disaster. "I was hoping they valued their suspension."

"Apparently not.”

Shipping containers formed narrow corridors ahead of you, stacked two and three high beneath skeletal loading cranes. You threaded between them, headlights bouncing across rusted steel.

Peter barked out orders, instructing where to turn and which direction to turn in. “Left!” he screamed, followed by another sharp, “Right!” a few minutes later. He continued that for a while before you glanced at him in the passenger seat.

"Peter, do you know where you're going?"

He nodded quickly. "Absolutely."

Peter had no fucking idea where he was going. He just knew that there had to be an opening somewhere in this godforsaken place and he was just hoping he’d be able to help you find it.

"Left!" he shouted again, forcing you to swing the car in a sharp left turn.

You immediately slammed on the brakes when you realized it was a dead end. Both of you stared at the concrete barrier ahead, before you slowly turned to look at your boyfriend.

He winced. “Okay. So…”

Your jaw went tight. "I'm going to fucking kill you."

"That’s understandable," he mumbled, jerking around in his seat when headlights appeared behind you once again. 

You exhaled through your nose, throwing the car into reverse. “Later."

The Charger accelerated toward you and Peter’s foot instinctively jerked downwards in the floorboard of the passenger seat. But there was no brake pedal there and he was not the one driving. "Baby," he warned.

"I see it," you told him.

He gasped, watching the Challenger rolling towards the two of you at a horrifying speed. "Baby!"

"I fucking see it!" you repeated, flooring the Acura backward despite the way the Charger kept coming.

At the last second you wrenched the wheel. The Acura spun nearly one hundred eighty degrees, tires screaming across the concrete as you slid back in between two shipping containers. The Charger's driver tried to brake when they realized, but it was too late.

The Charger slammed headfirst into the barrier, airbags immediately exploded inside. You didn’t waste a second before peeling out.

For several blocks neither of you spoke.

Queens streaked past outside the windows. You kept to side streets, avoiding the distant pulse of police lights. Your breathing slowly stopped feeling like it was trying to tear through your chest. Peter checked the rearview mirror every few seconds.

In the newfound, eerie silence, the sound of JAY-Z and Beyonce’s “03’ Bonnie & Clyde” hummed at a low volume from the stolen car’s stereo. With your jaw tight enough to splinter, you reached to the dial and turned it all the way down.

When you finally spoke up, your voice was hoarse. "How long?" Peter didn't answer at first, so your grip tightened around the steering wheel. "How long have you been talking to them?"

He exhaled through his nose, sinking further into the passenger seat. "Three weeks."

Your head snapped toward him. "Three weeks?"

His hand instinctively flew to the steering wheel when you swerved. "Watch the road."

"Don't tell me where to fucking look,” you argued, slapping his hand away.

"I'm not trying to piss you off." Peter rubbed his face.

You thought for a moment, glaring out at the dimly lit backroad. "So every time you said you were staying late at the garage—"

"Not every time," he cut in, peering over at you.

Glaring over at him, you deadpanned, "Peter."

He huffed. "Most times."

You laughed, but there wasn't anything funny in it. "You lied to me."

"I had to."

“You didn’t have to do anything!” you yelled at him, feeling your heart crack in places you didn’t know possible. “You could have told me.”

He shook his head. "I couldn't tell you." He ran a hand through his bleached hair. "If I'd told you, you would've been involved."

A scoff came out of you. "I am involved."

"Not legally, you’re not," he quickly countered.

You stared at him, eyes twitching from unending stress, fear, and utter disbelief that someone you have loved your entire life could do something like this. Peter just looked out the window.

"What did you do?" you asked, voice bizarrely quiet and calm. He refused to respond again, so you increased your pitch. "What did you do, Peter?" He clenched his fists in his lap and screwed his eyes shut. Your stomach dropped. "Peter."

"They had evidence," he finally broke by saying.

"On you?"

“No,” he exhaled a ragged breath. "On both of us."

The road suddenly seemed very quiet. "What kind of evidence?"

"Enough," he explained vaguely.

"That's not an answer," you argued.

He held up his hand, counting on his fingers. "Grand theft. Conspiracy. The warehouse job in Jersey. They had photographs from the docks. They had your phone connecting to two towers near the—"

"Jesus Christ," you breathed, cutting him off.

"I know.”

You glanced at him once more. "And you knew?"

Solemnly, he nodded. "I found out three weeks ago."

"When they arrested you," you filled in thoughtfully.

Peter looked at you.

You remembered that night. Peter arrived home after sunrise with a bruise along his jaw, telling you he'd gotten into a fight outside of a bar. You had put ice against his face while sitting on the bathroom counter. He had kissed your knee and complained that you were pressing too hard.

Your throat tightened. "You weren't in a fight." A dull ache reappeared in your gut. "You were arrested."

"Yeah." He had to look away.

"And you came home and you—you lied to my fucking face."

Peter's jaw flexed. "I came home."

You turned to him again, analyzing the weight in his words and the way the streetlights illuminated the bruises and scrapes that tattered his entire face. "That supposed to make it better?"

He shrugged helplessly. "No."

"Then why say it?" you spat.

"Because,” he exclaimed, a sudden rush of tension in his demeanor, “for about six hours I didn't know if I was going to." The anger in your chest shifted, just slightly, while Peter kept staring through the windshield. 

"They had me, okay?” he admitted, chest heaving. “They had enough to put me away. Torres showed me everything. Pictures. Transactions. Cars. Names. They knew about Rivas. They knew about the shipments. They knew about you."

Your voice went achingly quiet. "So you made a deal."

Peter nodded.

"For yourself," you scoffed, the deepest, sharpest pain shooting right up to the heart that he had betrayed.

"No," he quickly countered, flashing his gaze over to you. "For you."

Something cold settled beneath your ribs. "What?"

"They wanted Rivas,” he explained, “I told Torres I'd give ‘em Rivas."

Your eyes slanted at him. "In exchange for what?"

"Immunity." The Acura drifted slightly before you corrected it when he turned to look out the windshield again. “Freedom and safety for the both of us.”

Your foot pressed down hard on the brake. “Get out.”

His face contorted. "What?"

You reached across his body, pushing the passenger door open wide with force. “Get the fuck out, Peter.”

"Come on," he sighed, pressing his head back against the leather headrest.

"You made a fucking deal with the police about my life without telling me?" you yelled at him, pointing to your chest and ignoring the tears threatening to stream out of your eyes when you peered up at him.

"They were going to arrest you—they were going to take you down with them!"

You shook your head once. "So?"

"I wasn't going to let that fucking happen!" he roared, sitting up straighter in his seat.

Silence crept its way between to the of you as his chest rose and fell at a frantic pace, ragged pants exiting both of you. You just stared at him, eyes dancing between his two dark ones, unable to come to terms with all that he’d done.

Peter looked away first. "I wasn't going to sit there while Torres showed me pictures of you and talked about eight years like she was discussing the fucking weather,” he continued, dragging two hands down his face. “I wasn't going to let Rivas keep dragging us deeper until one of us ended up dead or locked away. So, yeah, I made the fucking deal."

"Without me."

He sighed. "Without you."

"You didn't trust me."

"No." Peter turned toward you again. "I didn't trust you to choose yourself."

It pained you to admit that that hurt. You swallowed hard, watching Peter immediately soften in your peripheral vision. "That's not—"

"Fuck you," you croaked, eyes fixed on your lap. 

"Baby—"

"Don't," you sneered. “Just fucking don’t, Peter.”

He reached across to touch you—to hold you, to do fucking something. He was so desperate to make this right, he didn’t know what to do with himself. "I'm sorry.”

Your pain was vibrating through you. "You thought I'd stay." Peter didn't respond, which was all the answer you needed. "You thought if you told me Rivas was going down, I'd warn everybody."

"I thought you'd try to save people," he clarified.

You shook your head. "Our friends."

"Those people stopped being our friends a long time ago," he told you.

You knew he was right. You had sat back and watched how many times they had thrown the two of you under the bus, having no qualms about the hell you both had to endure as long as they got by scott-free. "That's easy for you to say," you said anyway.

"No, it isn't." His hand fell on your arm and his voice cracked just enough to make you glance at him.

He looked something more than exhausted. There was blood dried beneath his nose from the fight with Nico and a scabbing cut crossed his cheek accompanied by dozens of other minor contusions. His shirt was torn at the collar and the handcuff around his wrist looked almost absurd now.

"I love those people, too," he said quietly. "But I love you more."

You looked back at the road, unable to give him the reply he needed right now. The Acura's engine whined as you accelerated onto another empty stretch. "She's not going to give me much more," you said, eyeing the check engine light that was lit-up on the dash.

Peter noticed it, too, and despite the visceral sting in his chest when you didn’t tell him you loved him back, he still said, "Take the next right."

"Why?"

He pointed ahead at the street. "Garage."

You knew what he meant, so you just drove. At the last intersection before reaching his uncle’s old autobody garage, you found yourself flicking your turn signal. Despite everything, you laughed at yourself. The car that you had hotwired was missing a bumper, littered with gunshot holes, the glass was shattered, and the two of you were no longer just criminals, but criminals on the run. And you still signalled your turn.

The minute the neon-lit sign jutting out from the side shop, reading “Parker Auto & Body,” your muscles relaxed. That old ass sign above the bay door had never looked so beautiful.

You swung into the alley beside it.

Peter pulled a key from his pocket. "Back."

Not bothering to ask him to clarify, you just followed the alley to the backside of the shop.

Peter hit the button on his remote keychain and the garage door began crawling upward.

The Acura rolled over the threshold and you forced it into a slow stop inside the dark garage. He hit the button again and the door descended. Quietness came back between the two of you, but it was entirely silent. Your ears rang and the both of you were breathing too hard.

“They’ll find us here,” you told him, watching as glass fell and scattered all around him as he pushed the passenger door open and climbed out.

Peter stood outside of the car, swiping shards of glass off his jeans and plucking the fabric of his shirt, not caring about the hundreds of tiny little pieces embedding themselves in his palm. “I know.”

You followed his actions, climbing out of the car. You were barely able to stand on your own, though. Your knees were shaking so violently and there was a stinging sensation in your back from the earlier impacts and how hard you had been tensed. 

“What’s the plan?” you asked him.

The overhead fluorescents flickered weakly above the garage, illuminating familiar workbenches, tool cabinets, hydraulic lifts and half-finished cars. Home, or as close to one as the two of you had. There was a small apartment on the second floor that didn’t have working AC, but had a damn good window unit that did a good enough job. The best part was the garage itself, though. 

You'd spent countless nights here with him—eating takeout on overturned buckets, sleeping on the ancient couch in his office while Peter worked until sunrise, and having your way with each other against that exact workbench when he was supposed to be changing somebody's brake pads.

Tonight it felt different, though.

Peter walked over to a toolbox, rummaging through the drawer for a flathead screwdriver and began working to get those damn handcuffs off his wrist. The sound of metal clashing with metal filled the quiet space until the cuffs clattered on the ground.

He took two steps away from the work station, rubbing the skin around his wrist, before his knees nearly buckled. 

You raced around to catch him. "Whoa."

"I've got it," he told you, gripping onto the dented hood of the Acura.

Your eyes peered down at the blood seeping through his shirt from the gash he’d taken at some point through the night. "You clearly don't."

"Little dizzy," he admitted, blinking slowly.

"No shit." You wrapped his arm around your shoulders and Peter leaned against you despite himself. "Workbench."

"I'm ruining your shirt," he mumbled.

You helped him onto the edge of the workbench. “I don’t give a shit right now.”

Peter sat and, for the first time all night, he wasn't thinking the worst things about himself. He was just here, with you, in the stark silence.

“Baby,” he breathed, leaning back against the cool, cinderblock wall behind the bench. You weren’t looking at him, you were too busy working to find the source of all the blood. “Look at me.”

You stood between his knees, staring at the blood spreading slowly across his shirt before finally glancing up at him. Your anger was still there, he knew that. Hell, he could feel that. But there was also fear radiating from you.

His features softened. “I did it for you.”

Your shoulders sagged when you lifted his shirt, spotting the cut just to the right of his naval, right between the two ridges of his abdominal muscles. It wouldn’t require stitches, but it—on top of everything else he’d endured—was enough to need a good pain killer.

“I know,” you admitted.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to you,” he continued. His lips were quivering as he breathed raggedly through the excruciating pain that was only now hitting him now that the two of you were temporarily safe. “I never wanted to lie to you, baby. I just wanted—I just wanted—”

“For us to be safe,” you filled in thoughtfully, smiling softly up at him. “I know, Peter.”

“I…” his entire body shuddered as he reached out and grabbed your hand, forcing you to drop the fabric of his shirt. He pulled you slowly. “Come here,” he urged, spreading his legs further with all the strength he had left.

Despite the amalgamation of contradicting emotions pumping in and out of your twisted mind, you slowly stepped further between his legs until your body knees hit the workbench. His hands shot out, touching your thighs and slowly working up to your hips as he slowly sat up, keeping his eyes focused on yours.

“I love you,” he said, voice so quiet it felt like a miniscule shard of glass falling on the ground, but it shattered you all the same. “I did this for you—for us.”

Your hands gripped his, inhaling slowly. “I know.”

“Please say it back,” he croaked. “I can’t live with myself if you don’t say it back.”

Blinking hard in an attempt to stifle the tears, you nodded slowly. “You know that I love you, Peter.”

His chest heaved with relief. “Yeah?” 

You glanced down at him. “Always.”

“Then come here,” he coaxed, pulling slightly from the grip he had on your hips. 

You shook your head. “I don’t wanna hurt—”

He pulled harder, forcing you down to straddle his lap. “You’re not gonna hurt me, baby.” His cut-up hand reached to cup your jaw, forcing your head down to his. When his lips crashed back against yours, it felt like the only right thing in the world. 

Everything about your life was thrown into the flames, it felt like. There was nothing you had to crawl back to. You didn’t have any family and your friends weren’t ever really your friends to begin with. The vast majority of the people you knew were probably plotting your downfall because of him. But him—but Peter—you would always be able to crawl back to. He would always be there.

Your lips worked in sync. When your tongue slipped out of your mouth, desperate to tangle itself with his, you felt the scabbing slash along his bottom lip and thought about pulling away, not wanting to inflict any more pain on him. But you needed this. He needed it, too.

His hands moved to the curve of your ass, pulling you tighter against him and helping you grind against the way his dick was growing taut in his jeans. It was slightly comforting, you thought to yourself, that even after everything, he was still hard for you.

Pulling away for only a second, his head burrowed into the curve of your neck, planting a string of soft kisses on your skin as one of his hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, working to pull it off.

You broke from the kiss, tearing your shirt off in one swift motion before immediately crashing your lips back to his, working in much more ferocious, insatiably hungry movements.

“I need you so bad right now,” he muttered into the kiss, gripping your ass and rocking your hips against his once more. You kept kissing him, though. “Please.”

“What do you need, Peter?” you asked him, moving your head slowly down the nape of his neck, pressing rough kisses on his warm skin. 

He lulled his head back, a deep-voiced moan spilling out of him. “You, baby,” he whispered, tangling his hand in the back of your hair. “I need you.”

Your hand tugged at the fabric of his shirt. “Take it off,” you told him, climbing off his lap and standing before him.

Tearing off the shirt, he stood, too. 

With both of your shirts deserted on the garage floor, you watched him work with the button on his jeans, unzipping and pushing them off in one swift motion.

“You’re rushing,” you commented, stifling a smug smirk. 

He nodded confidently, stepping out of his jeans before reaching out and pulling you flush against him with a tug at your wrist. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

His lips found there was back to yours as he undid your jean skirt, pulling it down and bringing your panties with it. 

It wasn’t your first time being naked in the garage with him. However, a part of you splintered at the realization that it would probably be the last.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, picking you up in one swift motion without breaking the kiss. Turning around, he walked back to the bench and slowly lowered you down on it, wasting no time to crawl on top of you.

Instinctively, your hips bucked up against him, desperately needing the friction on your needy center.

“I know, baby,” he moaned against your lips.

He kept himself up on top of you with one hand while the other snaked down to his waist, pulling his boxers down just as far as they needed to be.

Usually, Peter liked to take things slow with you. He thoroughly enjoyed the build up, making you squirm and pant and beg for him to hurry up and be inside of you. And even though it was only a matter of time before the NYPD and Detective Torres came banging on the garage door, he still wanted to give that to you.

His fingers trailed your folds, sending a pleasurable shudder up your spine. But, just as his thumb began working your swollen clit and his fingers threatened to slip into your drenched entrance, you shook your head.

“Just fuck me,” you slurred, peering up at him, immediately met with his bleary-eyed gaze.

He kept his hand between the two of you, gripping his dick and aligning it where you needed him most. “Are you sure?” he asked.

You nodded quickly, draping your arms over his shoulders and pulling his head closer to yours. “I just need to feel you,” you told him. 

When the sensitive skin on his tip slowly worked itself inside you, his jaw went slack at the feeling of your walls squeezing around him, suctioning him in deeper.

Your head tilted back against the workbench as a sloppy moan spilled out of you. 

Peter’s head fell in the crook of your neck as he slid in you as far as he could. “God, you feel so fucking good,” he grunted, his heavy breath causing your toes to curl.

“Faster,” you hissed, followed by a mindless moan that sent your eyes rolling to the back of your head when he picked up his pace inside you. “F—Fuck, Peter,” you moaned, nails digging into the rigidly muscular skin of his back. 

He picked his head up, screwing his eyes shut as he felt you clench around him. Your legs tightened around his waist and he moved one of his hands to your thigh, forcing them to spread further. “Uh-uh,” he grunted, digging his fingers into the plump skin. “Keep ‘em open, baby.”

“It—It feels…” your body shook beneath him. “It feels so good.”

“I know,” he moaned, reeling in the way your arousal saturated his length and the wet sounds that echoed off the walls of the garage. “So… fucking good.”

You could feel your release coming, but you didn’t want any of this to end. “Peter,” you whispered, working your hands up to his head, tangling one finger in his hair while the other hooked around the silver chain swinging in your face each time he pounded into you. “Peter,” you repeated when he didn’t respond.

“What is it, baby?” he grunted through gritted teeth, barely able to contain himself.

“Are we—Are we gonna be okay?” you reluctantly asked him, knowing this wasn’t necessarily the time, nor the place.

His eyes fluttered open, peering down at you with such softness that it physically pained you. “Of course,” he assured you. “Nothing else… is okay,” he trailed, his cock twitching deep inside you. “But we are.”

“I love you,” you told him again, bucking your hips without thinking as your high washed over you.

His head fell into your neck once more. “I know, baby,” he grunted, feeling your body tighten in his hold. “I love you, too.”

“Oh, God,” you moaned, your entire body convulsing beneath him. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

Peter didn’t have the strength to tell you that he was, too. Instead, he gently bit down on the skin near your collarbone, grunting and panting against your skin as your orgasm crashed through your body, accompanied by his cum pooling inside you. 

Neither of you made any move to stop, though. He kept a slow pace inside you as you trembled uncontrollably beneath him and he reeled in his own thoughts. 

Deep down, the fear and doomed understanding that this could be the last time he was inside you for a while rotted in Peter’s conscience. He knew that whatever came after this wasn’t going to be good and it definitely wasn’t going to be fucking easy. 

He knew that he had not only betrayed the people he worked for and his friends, but he also double-crossed Detective Torres and the entire NYPD that were counting on him to put the right people behind bars for once.

In hindsight, though, they should have known not to trust someone like Peter Parker. 

Still, his out—his freedom from the dangerous life he lived and forced you to stay in—was right there. But he knew he would never be truly free if you weren’t, too. If he had to go back to the moment he sprinted after you, evading the faux detainment, he would do it again. He would jeopardize everything for you.

hope you enjoyed it! pls leave a comment/like/reblog. if you have a one shot request, you can send it through my “ask me.” ୨ৎ─ delaney!

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[twoweeks]

January 30, 2025

[superbassbuck]

spider studies | peter parker (18+)

⤷ arachnid!peter parker x fem!reader

⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, college setting, inaccurate depictions of arachnology and entomology, established relationships, fluff, rough p in v, porn little plot, breeding kink, mask stays on, dirty talk, inappropriate use of webs (bdsm), soft dom!peter

⭐︎ word count: 4.2k

⭐︎ a/n: this literally came to me in a vision right before bed and i woke up like a sleeper agent and got to work. kinda proofread so we kinda die like men

synopsis: You're an overworked entomology student trying to finish a report on spiders and their mating cycles. At the same time, Peter Parker is undergoing strange, ravenous arachnid changes in his body. Lucky for you, Peter also happens to be your boyfriend.

← previous fic | marvel masterlist

Another rainy evening results in you staying cooped up in your dorm, eyes heavy despite being dosed up on caffeine, the warm lamp light on your desk ghosting over your laptop screen and papers in a golden blur.

It’s that point in the semester where the weather is getting colder, the stakes are getting higher, and everyone is cramming to memorize fifteen weeks of school work in one night. For you, an Entomology major, your current ball and chain is a thoroughly written report on arachnids, their mating cycles, and their habits.

The sound of the rain thumping against your windowsill makes it hard to focus. But it’s not just the rain that tears away your attention—it’s the fact that your boyfriend, Peter, is out doing God knows what on his exam night. He assured you he would be back no later than ten, but one quick glance at the clock tells you he’s late. It reads 12:45 AM.

You’re eager to reach for your phone and shoot a quick call to Evie, but you try your best to resist so you don’t get in the way of his typical superhero duties. As the minutes tick by and your daunting report burns bright on your screen, your worry gives way.

With a sigh, you sit up straight in your chair and snatch your phone. As you’re dialing his suit, a hard crash against the window makes you gasp and jolt in your seat.

As if he knew you were about to call, Peter is right there.

He quickly slides your window open and sneaks in smoothly—drenched in rain and panting hard.

“Christ, Peter!” You try to will away the adrenaline from the scare. “You told me you’d be back at ten. I was just about to call you—”

Peter nearly collapses over your desk as he tries to hold himself up, scattering your research papers. Normally, you’d give him a lecture for messing up your study station, but as worry washes over you, you don’t even glance at the pages you’ve slaved over for the past twenty-four hours.

“Peter? Peter, look at me—what happened?” you hurry over to him, your hands cupping his cheeks through his mask.

His suit is soaked through, cold rain pooling on the floor, but despite the chill, his body radiates a feverish, unnatural heat. His breathing comes in hard pants and desperate gulps. He rips his gloves off harshly and tears at the neck of his suit.

“I—I don’t know,” he rasps, his voice strained as if he’s trying to swallow down a growl. “Something’s wrong. I—I’ve been feeling like this for days, and I thought it was just a fever—but then I started producing my own webs, and I—”

“Okay, okay, just breathe. Help me get you down.”

You wrap one arm around his waist and guide him toward your bed, but the contact makes him hiss sharply, as if your touch hurts him. You quickly help him undress out of the rest of the suit, eager to examine him for any injuries.

He lies before you in just his underwear—and as you scan Peter’s muscular frame, you notice nothing unusual except for a strange pulsing in the veins at his wrists.

“Peter,” you frown, eyeing him up and down to make sure you haven’t missed anything. “You’re not injured—are you?”

“No,” he reassures through ragged breaths. “No, I’m not injured—it’s just—I don’t know, everything feels so warm and I—”

“Here, let me help you remove your mask.”

Without warning, you lean over his body and reach for the hem of his mask at the base of his neck. He gasps sharply the moment your fingers graze his hot skin. “No! Don’t touch it!”

His hand shoots out and clasps your wrist tightly, making you wince. He has never grabbed you like that before.

Peter, realizing what he’s done, loosens his grip on your wrist just slightly.

“Crap—I’m sorry. I just… don’t remove it, okay?” He pants heavily. “My eyes—they’re pitch black. I’ve never had this happen before, and I don’t want to scare you.”

A line creases between your brows in worry. “I could never be scared of you.”

“I know, I know,” he sucks in a deep breath, the pillows rustling as he turns his head toward you. You can’t see his face, but his voice betrays his pained expression. “Please don’t remove it. Not yet.”

“But what if you’re injured?”

“If I had a head injury, I would tell you.”

You search the white lenses of his mask, but eventually, you give in with an exasperated sigh and slowly lower your hand from his neck. Peter doesn’t let go of your wrist; he intertwines his clammy fingers with yours.

With a solemn expression, you cup your free palm over his knuckles while holding his hand.

“Peter, what’s happening to you?” you ask softly, kneeling beside him at the edge of the bed.

He swallows hard, his neck flushing a deep, embarrassing shade of red where his mask pulled up.

“It’s hard to explain,” he stammers, his lenses focusing on the ceiling of your warmly lit dorm room. “For the past few days, my body’s been feeling restless. It’s like every single instinct I have is screaming at me to do something, but my brain couldn’t figure out what.”

His hand—the one that isn’t holding yours—clenches into a fist, the veins and muscles in his forearm popping with frustration.

“And then tonight,” he continues in almost a bashful whisper, “I started producing my own webs. Like Peter Two did—” He turns to you real quick. “You remember Peter Two, right?”

You nod. He looks back up at the ceiling.

“Anyway, the webs weren’t strong enough to control at all. It felt… almost painful. It wouldn’t stop spurting out. There’s also this feeling in my gut— like I’m hungry.”

The white lenses of his mask narrow in embarrassment. “And I don’t mean for food,” he mutters, shifting his hips awkwardly until the bed creaks. “My body was screaming at me to come back to you. To feel your touch, to hear your voice… and now that you’re here, my skin burns every time you touch me, but I don’t want you to stop. I feel like I’d die if you did.”

You hum softly, your fingers stroking over his knuckles as your eyes rake over his body once more. Without even looking at you, Peter can feel the weight of your gaze—and fuck, it’s heavy. You’re his girlfriend, and you’ve seen him through all his ups and downs, but for some reason, this feels completely different.

His body is tense, his skin is burning hot, and his heart is beating erratically. The longer you stare at him, the longer you stroke your fingers against his hand, the more he feels an unmistakable ache in his groin.

Before he knows it, his underwear begins to tighten, revealing a prominent, pulsing bulge right in front of you—begging for your touch to move from his hands to somewhere much lower.

You swallow hard, your face heating up instantly at his size.

Your mind—trained by months of endless lectures, lab practicals, and late-night readings—slowly begins connecting the dots. The feverish body temperature, the blacked-out eyes, the hyper-fixation on your presence, his restlessness, the involuntary production of silk, the sudden surge of physical arousal—it isn’t just a random mutation spike.

It’s textbook arachnid behavior. It also happens to be exactly what you’re writing your report on right now.

“Peter,” you try your best to pry your eyes away from the space between his legs. “You’re in an ultimate molt cycle.”

Through the white lenses of his mask, he squints at you in confusion. “A... a what?”

“Ultimate molt,” you repeat, pushing yourself off the floor so you’re sitting at the edge of the bed. “In mature male spiders, the final molt signals sexual maturity. Their bodies undergo a massive physiological shift. They stop eating, their metabolic rate and temperature skyrocket, and their brain gets overtaken with one goal in mind.”

Peter swallows hard. “And what’s that?”

“Um,” you say, sheepish. “Reproduction.”

His head slumps back onto the pillow with a small thud. “Oh, God.” He shuts his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. “I’m pretty sure you’ve explained this to me before.”

You squint at him. “I did. During the beginning of the semester. I also told you this was something you should keep in mind—but you insisted that none of it actually applied to you.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, but you can already see the smug grin sitting behind his mask.

“Anyway,” you quickly glance down at his erection before continuing. “When a male reaches this stage, his silk glands change. He builds what’s called a sperm web—a small, specialized sheet of silk where he deposits his genetic material so he can charge his pedipalps.”

“English, please.”

You roll your eyes. “Your body is trying to build a sperm web, Peter. Your spider DNA is hitting its final maturation phase, and your bloodstream is swimming with reproductive hormones.”

“And the only way to fix it is by…” Peter drawls.

He already knows the answer, but the way he dances around the words makes it clear he’s trying to get you to admit it out loud. You can’t believe that even in such a vulnerable situation, he still manages to find a way to tease you.

“Having sex,” you finish, a shy expression creeping onto your face.

A silence settles between the two of you—a silence filled with so much tension that most people wouldn’t consider it “normal” for a couple.

The few times you and Peter had sex, it was gentle, intimate, and respectful. It always involved him whispering sweet nothings into your ear and making sure your pleasure came first. Even without saying it aloud, you both know that if you were to do it right now, it would be entirely different. Peter isn’t even sure he could control himself.

You clear your throat, trying to break the tension.

“Well—that’s what I’ve been writing my research paper on. Male spiders can get extremely aggressive at this point in their lives, so scientists are trying to find remedies that don’t require a female partner,” you explain, slowly prying your hand away from his and standing up from the bed. “If I check my references, I might be able to find something that can help you—”

Peter’s whole body tenses. With your touch gone for even a millisecond, he feels like he’s starving. Before you can step away, he stops you with a firm grip around your wrist.

“No,” he breathes roughly. “Get back here.”

With a harsh tug, he pulls you back down onto the mattress. “If having sex is what’ll solve this,” Peter rasps in a low, hungry voice, “then that’s what we’re going to do.”

Warmth spreads rapidly across your face and down your neck. You look down at him, reaching to gently cup the side of his masked jaw. He shudders.

“Peter… look at me,” you whisper softly, your voice trembling just a bit. “I’m always going to want to help you. Always. But… is this something you actually want?”

Peter’s body tenses—not because of anything you said, but because your touch feels like throwing gasoline onto a roaring flame.

“More than anything,” he breathes out, his hand blanketing yours to keep it there. “Every cell in my body is begging for you.”

His white lenses stay locked on your eyes as his hands move down to his waist. Even just lying in his underwear, he feels restricted. Contained. His body screams at him to get rid of it. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and shoves them down his legs, kicking them aside.

Freed from the restraint, his length springs heavy and hard against his lower stomach, so swollen it looks almost painful. The dark tip is already glistening, leaking a clear, hot bead of pre-cum. His whole body twitches at the release of pressure, a low groan escaping his throat as he guides your hand down to his hip.

You’ve touched him plenty of times, but tonight, even the simplest graze of your fingertips feels like nothing he’s ever experienced before.

“It hurts so bad,” he whimpers behind his mask. “Please… I need you to ride it.”

His cock twitches, his balls sitting heavy and full between his legs. You swallow hard, clenching your thighs together. You’ve never ridden him before, and the thought of doing it now—when he needs it most—makes you feel self-conscious.

“Peter, I’ve… I’ve never—”

“I know,” he reassures, though his voice strains painfully, like he’s fighting to hold back. “Just try your best, okay? I know your body can take it. I can smell how wet you are.”

His spider sense is buzzing violently. He can hear the uneven thump of your heartbeat, feel the heat radiating off your skin, and smell the scent of your arousal filling the air—sweet and intoxicating, driving every instinct in his blood wild.

His masked head tilts up, white lenses expanding slightly as he watches you straddle his hips.

Hovering over him, you reach for the hem of your shirt. You pull it over your head and cast it aside, followed by your sleep shorts, until you’re straddling him in just your underwear.

Peter lets out a trembling exhale. His large hand wraps around the base of his cock, his hot fingers closing tight over himself. He begins to stroke lazily—up and down in long drags that make his hips roll for more. The wet slicking noise of his pre-cum against his palm echoes in the quiet room.

“Fuck,” he groans. Through the white lenses of his mask, you can tell his gaze is glued to you, tracing every curve, watching every move. “Look at you… you’re so pretty.”

Emboldened by how much of an effect you have on him, you discard your panties, baring yourself completely. You settle yourself back over his hips, positioning yourself right above him. Peter’s hand rests at his base, holding his cock steady as he watches you slowly lower your body until the tip presses against the tightness of your entrance.

A choked, almost sobbing sound breaks from his throat.

Control yourself, Peter tries to remind himself. He thought he had it handled, but his senses are louder than ever—telling him to grab your waist and drive you down in one ruthless pull.

“Oh, God,” he curses, tossing his head back against the pillows as you sink deeper.

You stop halfway, your face flashing with worry. “Is this hurting you?” you ask. “We can stop.”

Peter feels like he’s going insane. His hands fist the blankets beneath him, because he doesn’t trust himself to touch you right now.

“No,” he hisses. “It only hurts because I’m not inside yet. Don’t stop. All the way in, baby. You’re almost there.”

You take a deep breath, resting your hands flat on his broad chest to steady yourself. You push your hips down, taking the remaining inch of his girth until your hips flush against his. The stretch is dizzying, making your heart take flight in your chest.

Peter’s cock sheathes hot inside you, twitching as it savors every surface of your tight walls.

You can’t make out his expression past the mask, but from the way his head is thrown back and the veins pop in his forearms as he grips the bedsheets, it’s clear he’s about to lose his mind. You tilt your head back with a soft breathy sigh, letting your hips roll against his in a slow, testing rhythm.

The movement alone drives his heightened senses over the edge.

Whatever thin thread of restraint Peter was clinging to snaps entirely.

With a sharp hiss, his hands shoot out from the tangled sheets. His large hot palms slam against your bare hips, his long fingers digging into your skin with an inescapable grip—holding you tightly in place as his primal instincts take over.

“I can’t—I can’t wait,” he rasps painfully. “I’m sorry, baby, I need it now—”

Without giving you time to answer, his hips snap upward in a ruthless thrust that sends a gasp flying from your lips. Before you can even catch your breath, he sets a punishing pace from underneath you, using his grip on your waist to guide your body up and down his length in hard, unrelenting pistons.

The wet slap of skin meeting skin echoes loudly through your dorm room. You feel his chest heaving against your hands while the white lenses hide the obsession behind his pitch-black eyes. It’s a good thing he kept the mask on—because with the way his cock is kissing your womb, he knows his eyes are crazed.

“Oh, God! Peter!” You cry out, your tits bouncing with every upward thrust of his hips.

“Fuck—fuck, you feel so tight,” Peter groans.

He lifts his hips, bridging his back so he can thrust deeper, angling his length so every hard drive grinds right up against your most sensitive spot. Your vision swims as he ravages you from the inside, a tight, coiled pressure building deep in your lower belly.

The pleasure is overwhelming, yet it’s still not enough for him. His cock needs to drive even deeper—until your wetness coats his entire length from tip to base, until both of your juices combine into a thick sheen right where his brunette curls rest at his pelvis.

He wants to make a mess out of you, to see you crying his name and begging to be filled.

Filled up…

The idea of it makes Peter go crazy.

Peter sits up fast, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you to his chest before you can even blink. Your positions are flipped as he hovers over you from behind.

His knees bracket your thighs while his chest presses flush against your spine. You gasp at the sudden shift, his hands wrapping firmly around your hips to pull you back against his cock as he aligns himself once more.

“Peter—” you cry out, your voice muffled into the mattress. It smells just like him.

“Stay right there,” he growls into your neck, his hot breath searing your skin. “Don’t move.”

He’s got you in a perfect position—face down, ass up, completely bared and vulnerable for mating.

He’s never had you in such a vulgar position before—all of your lovemaking before was face to face so he could see every whimper and tear that spills. But in this position, the angle is even deeper. Your back arches perfectly. His cock finds your entrance again, and with how wet you are, he finds no trouble burying his cock all the way back inside you, a harsh grunt breaking from his throat as your tight walls clamp around him. His hands dig into your hips, locking you in place as he begins to pound into you from behind with a speed he’s never used on you before.

“Oh!” you cry into the pillow.

Every thrust pushes you forward into the sheets, the wet, slapping sound of his hips against yours filling the air alongside his groans.

“I feel so backed up,” he grunts so quietly, it’s like he’s speaking to himself. “This feels so good—gonna dump it all inside you. Make me feel better.”

Peter’s balls slap against your folds, obscenely hot and heavy. It’s in this moment that you realize what exactly this is. He has you in the same position you’ve seen in countless textbooks during your studies.

During spider mating, the male must align his pedipalps with the female’s epigyne for a successful sperm transfer.

Peter is going to breed you.

A low growl escapes him when his cock hits a particularly sensitive spot. Your walls, tight and rubbing against the underside of his cock, drive him insane, his muscles tensing as he throws his head back in pleasure. He’s sweating profusely under the mask, almost making it harder to breathe, but he doesn’t care. His body screams for something else, and as his cock pistons in and out of you, accompanied by your moans and cries of his name, he feels himself getting close.

His girth makes your eyes roll back, an overwhelming cry tearing from your throat. Instinctively, you scramble your legs and arms for purchase, trying to get into a more suitable position, but in Peter’s blacked-out eyes, he thinks you’re running away.

A disapproving groan vibrates in his chest as one hand releases your hip to grab your wrists, pinning them behind your back. His legs wrestle against yours to keep them still from behind. Then, he shoots out a web—an organic, self-made web that slings around your wrists like a band, and then another to keep your ankles pinned, effectively keeping you in place.

“Almost there,” Peter grunts, his sweaty chest pressing up against your bare back as he ruts into you. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. God—my balls are so full, I needed this. Just stay like that—let me fill you up.”

His hand moves to the back of your neck, his palm resting gently over your nape to press your head into the pillow.

“You’re trapped,” he rasps, his voice deep and gravelly. You have never heard him talk to you like this before, and the filth of it makes your body clench with desire. “Look at you… bound up, completely wide open for me. You can’t get away.”

His hips snap forward to bottom out inside you, it makes your heels twitch against the web binding your ankles.

“You’re gonna take all of it,” Peter grunts, the words coming in shallow bursts against the shell of your ear. “Every single drop. I’m gonna flood you so deep you’ll feel me inside you for days… make sure everyone knows you belong to me. My sweet, beautiful mate…”

The biological urge to plant his seed, to mark you, and to fill you until you overflow turns his pace crazed.

The wet slapping of his pelvis against your rear sings like a song in the room, mixing with the strained, needy whines escaping your throat. His cock swells inside you, pulsing and stretching your walls to their limit. It’s more than you can take, and you feel yourself getting close.

“Peter—! I’m—I’m going to—” you cry out, your chest heaving against the bed.

“Come for me,” he commands, his fingers tightening gently on your neck as his thrusts turn short, vicious, and frantic. “Clench around my cock and take it. Breeding you, baby… I’m breeding you.”

Your mind is hazy with an overwhelming sense of desire. His words, the position—it’s like a whole new side of Peter you never knew existed, and your body is enjoying every second of it.

You cry out his name, your body twitching as your pussy clenches around his shaft, milking him for every drop. Peter’s muscles pull taut at the sensation, his forehead pressing into your damp shoulder blade as his balls draw tight against your entrance.

One pulse, then another, and your womb fills with his cum.

Thick, scorching floods of semen pump deep into your core. Spurt after heavy spurt fills you past your capacity, the force of his release so strong his entire frame shakes violently, his breathing erratic as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

His instincts move his body on command. Just like a spider aligning with the epigyne, he pulls out quickly and spins you around so your back hits the mattress. He spreads your legs, positioning himself between them as his cock slaps heavy against your lower belly, letting the rest of his cum seep onto your skin.

He groans incoherently as he watches his body mark you, holding himself at the base and smearing his seed over your stomach with his tip.

He stays above you for a long moment until you both catch your breath. Finally, he sits back on his knees.

His cock, now half-limp, slaps against his stomach lazily as a trickle of his seed drips down your inner thigh and lower belly. He slumps onto the mattress, but wastes no time pulling you in close against his chest.

He doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s never allowed himself to take you so vulgarly—almost monstrously. Now, he’s terrified of removing the mask; he doesn’t want you to see the burning shame etched on his features.

Peter’s hands cradle your back, his chin resting gently against your sweaty temple. He tries to muster up an apology, maybe say something along the lines of, “I don’t know what took over me.” Because truthfully, he didn’t.

But then your laugh comes first—soft, raspy, and utterly spent.

“You know what female spiders do to their partners after they’ve finished mating?” you ask into his neck.

Peter stiffens. “What?”

“They eat them. It's a good source of nutrients for the babies.”

Peter tries to remember if you had anything to eat before he got here. “Oh.”

📝 idk what to say. if you've read my first peter parker fic, i felt like i just put on an evil mask because this is a complete 180 twist from my last story. again, i only proofread like half of it and got lazy, so i apologize for any mistakes !! 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.

← previous fic | marvel masterlist

[capsslutt]

Peter Parker x Reader - Forgotten Memories (Smut)

Everyone forgot who spiderman is—including his girlfriend Y/N. But her body remembers something her head can't. She wakes up in the middle of the night craving something she never knew she had. Peter ensures they find their way back to each other (very smutty)

WC: 16.4k, unprotected sex, restrained by Spiderman's webs during sex, dirty talk, kinda Dom!Peter, sex dreams (memories), reader is horny af, casual mentions of sex throughout the entire story, this is the same as my NCT Donghyuck story, this is a MCU ver! Part 1, part 2 at the end

----------------

Spiderman slips onto the fire escape outside Ned's apartment, the city humming below him like a heartbeat he can't quite feel anymore. He's not here to spy—he tells himself that. He's just checking. Making sure she's safe. That's what he does now: patrols her life like a ghost, invisible and aching.

But then he hears Ned's voice through the cracked window, and Y/N's laugh—that soft, familiar sound that used to be for him—and he can't tear himself away.

He crouches low, listening.

"So you're telling me you haven't gotten laid in, what, three months?" Ned's voice is teasing, light. He's sprawled on his couch, a beer in hand, grinning at Y/N like they're having the most casual conversation in the world.

She's curled on the other end, legs tucked under her, a throw pillow hugged to her chest. "That's not what I said."

"That's exactly what you said. You said you're 'too wound up, stressed, can't sleep.' That's textbook horny, babe."

"Ned!"

"What? I'm just saying." He takes a lazy sip of beer. "You're way too tense these days. You need to hook up with someone. Let off some steam."

She gasps, swatting at his leg. "I absolutely am not."

He grins, eyes glinting. "Yes you are. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem so restless lately. Like you're crawling out of your skin."

"It's just stress over work." She pulls the pillow tighter. "Writing for the New York Chronicles is a lot of work. Deadlines, interviews, fact-checking—"

"Uh-huh. And when's the last time you got properly fucked?"

"Ned!"

He laughs, full and unbothered. "I'm serious. Maybe some good dick will help you. Relax those shoulders, clear that head of yours. You're practically vibrating."

On the fire escape, Peter's hands tighten into fists.

She's mine.

The thought crashes through him, possessive and raw. His jaw aches from clenching. He watches her through the window—her flustered expression, the way she hides her face in the pillow, the way she doesn't deny it. She's restless. He knows. He's seen her pace her apartment at 2 a.m., seen her press her thighs together in the bathtub, heard the soft, frustrated moans she thinks no one can hear.

And he knows Ned is right. She needs release. But the idea of her finding that release in someone else—some stranger's hands, some stranger's mouth, some stranger's cock inside her—makes his stomach twist with something dark and violent.

"You're impossible," she mutters, throwing the pillow at Ned.

He catches it easily. "And you're in denial. But okay. Keep telling yourself it's deadlines."

She stands, smoothing her shirt. "I'm leaving before you say something even more embarrassing."

"Text me if you change your mind! I know a guy—"

"Goodnight, Ned!"

The door clicks shut. Ned chuckles to himself, shaking his head.

Peter stays frozen on the fire escape long after she's gone, her scent still lingering in the air, her laugh still ringing in his ears.

He knows what he has to do.

He has to reintroduce himself. Casually, carefully. Slide back into her life before she finds someone else to release those frustrations on. Before some other man touches what's his.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he watches her walk home from a rooftop three blocks away, her silhouette moving under the amber streetlights. He watches her pause at her door, glance over her shoulder like she feels something watching her. She hugs herself, shivers, and disappears inside.

Soon, he tells himself, pressing a hand over his chest where his heart used to belong to her. Soon I'll make you remember. Or I'll make you want me again.

But for now, he waits.

Peter stands outside the coffee shop, his reflection staring back at him from the glass door. He checks his hair three times—runs his fingers through it, smooths the front, tucks a stray strand behind his ear. The black shirt hugs his shoulders just right, and the glasses frame his face in a way that used to make Y/N bite her lip and look at him twice.

She loved these glasses, he thinks, adjusting them once more. She used to say I looked like a secret librarian. A hot one.

He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks in with a confidence he's been practicing for weeks.

The bell above the door chimes. Y/N looks up from the counter where she's been scribbling in a notebook—probably working on another article for the New York Chronicles. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a simple apron over a cream sweater, and when she sees him, she smiles.

It's polite. Professional. The same smile she gives every customer working at her parent's cafe.

But it's still her smile, and his heart stumbles.

"Hi," she says, setting down her pen. "What can I get started for you?"

He steps up to the counter, leaning an elbow on the polished wood. "Hey. I'll take an iced americano and a chocolate donut."

She nods, writing it down. "Anything else?"

"No, thanks. That's perfect."

She turns to prepare the coffee, and he watches her movements—efficient, practiced. The way she scoops ice, pours the espresso, reaches for the donut with a tissue. When she turns back and hands him the cup, their fingers brush.

It's barely a second. Just a whisper of contact.

But she pauses, her eyes lifting to his face. A flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?—passes through her gaze before she blinks it away.

"Here you go," she says softly.

He takes the cup, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks."

She smiles again, a little different this time—warmer, a hint of confusion. Then she turns back to the sink where a few dishes are waiting, rolling up her sleeves.

Peter takes a seat by the window, sipping his americano, watching her from behind his glasses. She's humming softly, something he doesn't recognize. From the back room, he hears Ned's voice, humming some pop song, the clatter of boxes being moved.

Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.

He comes in every other day, sometimes every day. Always orders the same thing—iced americano, chocolate donut. Sometimes he grabs a table and pretends to work on his laptop, but really he's watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she bites her lip while reading. The way she laughs at something Ned says, bright and easy.

Their interactions are casual. Limited.

"Morning Peter." She learns his name.

"The usual?" She asks.

"You know it."

A smile. A quick exchange. Then she's busy, and he's left with the ghost of her attention.

It's not enough.

So one afternoon, when the shop is empty and Ned is in the back, he makes his move.

He walks up to the counter, coffee in hand, and as he reaches to pay, he lets his wrist go slack. The cup tips. The lid pops off. Brown liquid splashes across the floor, a puddle spreading near his feet.

"Shit," he mutters, a little too loud.

Y/N spins around from the espresso machine. "Oh no! Don't worry, I'll get it—"

She grabs a roll of paper towels from under the counter and moves to crouch down, but he's already there. He takes the roll from her hands, his fingers closing over hers for a brief, deliberate second.

"It was my fault," he says, meeting her eyes. "Don't worry about it."

"Really, I can—"

"Nope. I got it." He kneels, wiping up the mess quickly, ignoring her protests. "You have enough to do. Let me take care of this."

She stands there, hands on her hips, watching him clean up her floor with an expression caught between amused and impressed.

"You're not going to let me help, are you?" she asks.

"Nope." He finishes, tosses the wet paper towels in the trash, and straightens up. "See? All good."

She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're stubborn."

"I prefer determined."

"A determined mess-maker."

He laughs—a real laugh, not the careful one he's been using.

They stand there, the air between them easier now, the tension cracked open. She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, studying him with fresh eyes.

"You come here a lot," she says.

"I do. Good coffee. Good donuts." He pauses, letting his voice drop just a fraction. "Good company."

Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then back up, a spark in her gaze. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Born and raised. Just... been away for a while."

"Ah. A returning native."

"Something like that."

She tilts her head. "What do you do, Peter? Besides cleaning up your own messes?"

"I'm a freelance photographer. I take pictures of the city, the people. Try to capture moments that don't last."

Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."

"It has its moments." He holds her gaze. "Maybe I could show you sometime. If you're interested."

The offer hangs in the air, soft and deliberate. She bites her lower lip, considering, and he feels his pulse quicken.

"I'd like that," she says quietly.

A bell rings from the back—Ned calling something about a shipment. The moment breaks, but it doesn't shatter. It settles into something warm, something potential.

"I should let you get back to work," Peter says, stepping back. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"

"Same time," she confirms, her smile lingering.

He walks out of the coffee shop, heart hammering, a grin threatening to break across his face. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't need to.

He knows he has her attention now.

Ned slides up beside Y/N the moment the door swings shut behind Peter. He nudges her shoulder with his, a knowing grin already spreading across his face.

"Okay, so that guy? Exactly your type."

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can feel the heat creeping up her neck. "Peter?"

"Obviously Peter." Ned leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Like, I get it. He's attractive in that nonchalant way. The whole I just rolled out of bed but I'm still hotter than you vibe. And that confidence? It's practically dripping off him." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Makes you horny, doesn't it?"

"Ned!" She smacks his shoulder, but she's laughing. "Shut up. He's just a nice guy."

"A nice guy who you've been staring at for three weeks straight."

"I have not—"

"You literally watched him walk to the door just now. Like a sad puppy."

She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. She did watch him. She always watches him.

Ned groans, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "When you two finally hook up, I'm going to be right there to say I told you so."

"He's just a customer, Injun."

"Mhmm. Sure." He pats her shoulder and heads toward the back room, already humming again, leaving her standing there with her thoughts.

She bites her lip.

He's just a customer, she tells herself. But her mind drifts anyway, unbidden.

His voice—low and warm, with a teasing edge that makes her stomach flip. The way he carries himself, relaxed but aware, like he knows exactly what he's doing at all times. His baggy clothes, the way they hang off his frame, hiding and revealing at the same time. The silver rings on his fingers. That little smirk he gives her sometimes, like he's in on a joke she hasn't heard yet.

Her exes were... fine. Nice. Respectful. Boring.

They held doors open and said please and thank you. They kissed her forehead and asked if she was comfortable. They never made her pulse race. They never made her wonder what it would feel like to be pushed against a wall and taken.

Peter does.

He gives her mystery. Maybe even a little danger. The way he looks at her sometimes, like he's holding something back—something intense.

She shakes her head, physically trying to dislodge the thought. Crazy. You don't even know him.

But the thought lingers, hot and stubborn, all the way through the rest of her shift. It follows her home, past the subway, up the stairs to her apartment. It settles in her bones the moment she closes her door.

---

She's restless.

The apartment is quiet, dark except for the lamp by her bed. She changes into a tank top and shorts, lies down, tosses, turns. Her body feels tight—a coil wound too tight, needing release.

She gives in.

From the nightstand drawer, she pulls out her vibrator—a sleek pink thing she's had for years. She lies back, spreads her legs, and lets the hum of the motor fill the silence.

Her mind drifts to him.

To Peter. To his hands. Those rings. What they'd feel like gripping her thighs. His voice, low in her ear, telling her exactly what he's going to do to her.

She presses the vibrator harder against her clit, her breath hitching. She thinks about his smirk, his confidence, the way he holds her gaze a second too long. She chases the image, lets it build—

And then she comes.

A sharp, quick release. A gasp. The tension snaps, but it doesn't dissolve. It just... scatters. Falls apart unsatisfyingly.

She sighs, letting the vibrator drop onto the mattress. Her body feels hollow. Empty. Like the orgasm barely scratched the surface of what she actually needs.

"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.

She lies there, staring at the dark, her skin still buzzing with unresolved heat. She wants more. She wants him. But he's a stranger. A customer. Nothing.

She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and tries to sleep.

---

Outside her window, perched on a fire escape three buildings over, Peter watches the dark shape of her bedroom through the gap in her curtains.

He didn't look. Not directly. He swung toward her building on instinct, drawn by the familiar pull of her presence, and he landed on the adjacent rooftop just in time to hear it.

The buzz of the vibrator. Her soft, breathy moans.

His name. She whispered his name—Peter—on a desperate exhale.

And then the sigh. That disappointed, hollow sigh at the end.

He heard it all.

His fingers curl into a fist against the brick wall beside him. A smirk spreads across his face, slow and predatory, mixing with the ache in his chest.

You're not satisfied, are you, baby?

He knows the feeling. He's been unsatisfied too—in a different way. Hungry for her touch, her voice, her warmth. But that hunger is about to be fed.

He pushes off the ledge, letting the night air rush past him as he swings into the darkness.

Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.

Below him, the city blurs. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Another night of crime waits for him—thugs to stop, civilians to save. The usual.

But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.

———

It starts slowly.

A whisper of warmth against her skin. The weight of a body behind her, pressed close, solid and familiar. She can't see his face, but she knows him—or rather, her body knows him. Her back arches into his chest instinctively, seeking more contact.

His hands. God, his hands. Calloused palms sliding up her thighs, fingers digging into her hips with just enough pressure to bruise. She feels the cool bite of metal rings against her overheated skin. A low chuckle rumbles against her ear.

"You've been so good for me, baby. But I'm gonna take what's mine now."

She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already rolling her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up, positioning her on her knees. The sheets are soft beneath her palms. She can feel his cock—thick, hard, pressing against her soaked entrance—and she whimpers, pushing back against him.

"Please," she breathes. "Please, I need—"

He cuts her off with a sharp thrust. He slams into her to the hilt, and she screams, her body clenching around him immediately. He doesn't stop. He fucks her like he owns her, like he's been waiting for this, each stroke deep and punishing, hitting a spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.

"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."

His voice is low, rough, almost unrecognizable through the fog of lust. She can't think. She can only feel—the stretch, the burn, the relentless pounding. He wraps a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding, tilting her head back so he can whisper directly into her ear.

"You missed me, didn't you? Your tight little pussy missed me. Say it."

"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"

He groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through her bones. His pace quickens, his grip on her hip bruising. She feels the coil building, tighter and tighter, her moans turning into desperate sobs—

And then she wakes up.

---

Gasping.

Y/N bolts upright in bed, her tank top soaked with sweat, her thighs sticky with arousal. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, so empty it almost hurts.

She blinks at the ceiling, panting.

What the fuck was that?

The dream is already fading, slipping through her fingers like water. She remembers heat. A deep voice. Being pinned down and fucked senseless. But the face—she can't remember the face. Just a blur of dark hair, broad shoulders, a cruel smirk.

She presses her palm against her cunt, gasping at the sensitivity. She's soaked. Her thighs are slick. Her hole flutters, desperate to be filled.

"Fucking hell," she mutters, flopping back onto the pillows.

It's been like this for almost a week now. Every night, another dream. Some nights she's on her knees, sucking a thick cock while a hand tangles in her hair. Some nights she's tied to a bed, spread open, being fucked so slowly she can feel every inch drag against her walls. Some nights it's just a voice—a low, possessive voice—calling her filthy, desperate, mine.

She always wakes up the same way: wet, aching, unsatisfied.

She reaches for her vibrator on the nightstand, but even as she presses it against her clit, she knows it won't be enough. It never is anymore. She comes—hard, fast, grinding into the plastic—but the release is hollow. An echo of what her body actually craves.

She doesn't know what that is.

Her exes were boring. They never made her feel claimed. They never made her scream.

But her body wants something more, something she's never experienced. Or so she thinks.

She sighs, tossing the vibrator aside. Her cunt still throbs, still clenches, still weeps for something she can't name.

Why does this feel like grief?

---

Across the city, perched on a water tower overlooking her block, Peter watches the distant glow of her window with a dark, hungry expression.

He knows.

He's been watching her sleep through the gap in her curtains. He's heard her moans, her whimpers, the desperate sounds she makes when she's lost in a dream he put there—not consciously, but through the lingering threads of the spell that binds them. She can't remember him, but her body can. Her body is a traitor, whispering his name in the language of her muscles, her slick, her trembling thighs.

He clenches his fists, his cock hardening painfully in his suit.

He lets out a slow, shaky breath.

I'll give you what you're craving soon.

He pushes off the water tower, swinging into the night, leaving his mark on the rooftops like a promise.

But he doesn't go far. He lands on the fire escape just outside her window—close enough to hear her frustrated sigh, the rustle of sheets as she rolls over, the quiet, desperate whisper she thinks no one hears:

"What do I need? What's wrong with me?"

He presses a hand to the glass, his rings glinting in the moonlight.

Nothing's wrong with you, love. You just need me.

————

The morning rush at the coffee shop had been mercifully slow, leaving Y/N and Ned with nothing better to do than wipe down the already-clean countertops in a lazy, synchronized rhythm. The TV mounted in the corner murmured in the background—some local news broadcast about a bank robbery in Midtown. The anchor's voice was tinny, almost an afterthought.

"...and witnesses report that Spider-Man intervened just moments after the robbers entered. No casualties reported. The web-slinger made a quick escape as usual—"

Y/N didn't look up. Neither did Ned. It was New York. Spider-Man stopping a robbery was as routine as a subway delay. They'd both heard the name so many times it barely registered anymore—a ghost in red and blue, flickering across screens, saving lives, disappearing.

Ned hummed a tune under his breath, rubbing a smudge off the granite with his thumb. Y/N's mind was elsewhere. Still half-lost in the hazy aftertaste of another dream from last night—the echo of a deep voice, the phantom weight of hands on her hips, the ache between her legs that hadn't fully faded even after she'd come twice this morning.

She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.

Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.

The little bell above the door jingled.

She looked up.

And there he was.

Peter stepped inside, and she felt the air shift. He was breathing hard, his black t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, dark patches of sweat spreading across his chest and under his arms. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in messy waves, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened over his neck and collarbones.

He looked exhausted. But also... good. Really good.

"Hey," Y/N said, her voice coming out a little too breathy. She cleared her throat. "You okay?"

He offered a tired smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just tired. Killed it at the gym today." He let out a huff of laughter, rolling one shoulder like it ached. "Didn't realize I pushed myself that hard."

She nodded, already moving to make his usual ice americano. Her body went through the motions automatically while her eyes trailed down his frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the tanned skin. The sweat highlighted every contour—the arch of his biceps, the column of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.

Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.

Her gaze dropped lower, catching a glint of silver at his wrist. A bracelet—woven black cord with a small metallic charm, a roughly shaped star. It looked handmade, well-worn, the edges smooth like it had been touched a thousand times.

She slid the cup across the counter toward him. "That's pretty," she said, nodding at the bracelet.

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. A flash of emotion too fast to name—hope? Pain? He opened his mouth, and she could've sworn she saw him about to say something, his throat bobbing with a swallow.

Do you remember that you gave this to me?

But the words didn't come. He just watched her as she pulled away from the counter, already turning back to the rag in her hand.

Of course she didn't remember.

"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already distracted, moving toward the back to restock napkins.

Peter stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The star charm. She'd made it for him on their six-month anniversary, clumsily braiding the cord while sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing about how she'd never made jewelry before. "So you don't forget me," she'd said, pressing it into his palm. "Wear it even when you're being Spider-Man. I want to be with you, always."

He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache down his throat.

She doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't. You knew that.

Ned slid off his stool and walked over, holding out a napkin. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "Your forehead's bleeding a bit."

Peter blinked, reaching up. His fingers came away with a smear of red. Shit. Must've caught a stray piece of debris during the takedown. He'd been too focused on getting there fast—on changing out of the suit in that alley, on making it to the shop before she closed—that he hadn't bothered to check for damage.

"Ah, that." He took the napkin with a casual shrug, pressing it to the cut. "Tripped on the way here. Almost ate pavement. Stupid, I know."

Ned's eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a quiet skepticism behind his gentle gaze. He didn't say anything, but Peter could feel the weight of his unspoken question.

That's a weird place to trip. And you're too banged up for just a fall. And you showed up right after Spider-Man was seen.

But Ned just nodded, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Be careful," he said simply, and walked back to the counter.

Peter exhaled slowly, pressing the napkin harder against his temple. He watched Y/N move behind the counter, her hair tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was his. And she didn't even know it.

He took a long sip of the coffee she'd made him, letting the bitterness ground him.

He smiled against the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the curve of her back as she bent down to grab more cups from the low shelf.

The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.

The morning air in Manhattan carried the usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, pretzel cart steam, and distant sirens. Y/N walked with her messenger bag slung across her body, earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats keeping her grounded. The New York Chronicle skyscraper loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the pale winter sun. She was running a little early today, which meant she could grab a decent coffee from the lobby cart before heading up to her desk.

She was two blocks away when the screaming started.

At first, it was distant—a ripple through the crowd ahead. Then it grew, a wave of panic rolling toward her. People began sprinting in her direction, faces twisted with fear, elbows knocking pamphlets and coffee cups out of the way. A woman clutching a toddler nearly collided with her.

"What—" Y/N pulled out her earbuds, heart lurching. "What's happening?"

No one stopped to answer. The tide of bodies pushed past her, and she stumbled sideways, grabbing a lamppost to steady herself. Then she saw it: a column of smoke rising from the base of the Chronicle building. Orange flames licked at a collapsed awning. Glass littered the street like crushed diamonds.

Oh god. That's the lobby.

Her feet started moving before her brain caught up. She had to get in there. Had to see if her coworkers—her editor, the layout team, Maria from HR who always gave her extra granola bars—were okay. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.

"HEY!"

A blur of red and blue dropped from above, landing in front of her with a soft thud that cracked the asphalt. She yelped, skidding to a halt.

Spider-Man.

His lenses narrowed, body angled like he was about to grab her.

"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was modulated, sharp with urgency. "There's a gas leak—could blow again any second. Get back."

"I have to see if the people in that building are okay!" She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, a wall of spandex and muscle.

"I'll check. You stay here." He pointed a gloved finger at the sidewalk behind her. "Don't move."

She barely registered that she'd just been ordered around by a superhero. Her heart was hammering. The smoke stung her nostrils. "I'm not just going to—"

He was already turning, preparing to leap. She took a step forward, following him.

A sharp thwip sliced through the air.

Something snapped around her right wrist—a rope of white webbing, sticky and warm, yanking her arm sideways. She stumbled, grunting, and found herself anchored to the handle of a police cruiser parked at the curb. The web held fast, elastic but unyielding.

"What the hell?!" She yanked at her wrist, but the webbing stretched and held. "Are you serious right now?!"

Spider-Man paused, tilting his head. She could almost hear the smirk behind the mask. "Nope. Wait here. I'll free you after I'm sure it's safe."

And then he was gone, a red streak disappearing into the smoke-filled doorway.

Y/N stood there, arm stretched awkwardly toward the cop car, jaw hanging open. People were still running past her, but the immediate panic was thinning. She looked at her wrist, at the white strands wrapped snugly around it, and felt a jolt—not of anger, but of something else.

The texture. The pressure. The slight give when she pulled.

Her breath caught.

She was in her bedroom. The lights were dim. Her wrist was bound to the bedpost with...not a rope...not a scarf...something else entirely. Her arms stretched above her head and a dark figure hovered over her. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his weight, his heat, the deep rumble of his voice against her ear.

"Stay still, baby. I'm not done with you yet."

The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping on the sidewalk, knees weak.

What the fuck?

She shook her head violently, pressing her free hand to her flushed cheek. "I'm starting to feel like a fucking sex addict," she muttered under her breath. Of all the things to think about right now—tied to a car by Spider-Man—her brain was conjuring erotic flashbacks? With...Spider-Man? For all she knew, the guy was a forty-year-old accountant underneath that suit. He could be balding.

But he didn't move like a forty-year-old. And his voice, even through the modulator, had a certain quality—young, confident, teasing.

She shook her head again, harder. Stop it. Focus. The building.

A few minutes passed. The fire trucks arrived. EMTs started setting up a triage zone. Y/N strained her neck, trying to see if anyone was being carried out. She pulled at the web again, frustrated, but it held true.

Then Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, walking casually now, hands on his hips. He jogged over to her.

"Building's clear. No casualties. Gas leak was contained before it got worse. Minor injuries, but everyone's out." He reached for the web on her wrist and gave it a sharp tug setting her free.

She rubbed her wrist, red and slightly raw. "That wasn't cool. You could have just asked me to stay."

"I did. You didn't listen." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the suit's padding. "You should be more careful. People get hurt when they run toward explosions."

"I work there." She glared at him. "I was worried about my friends."

He was quiet for a second, his head tilted. She could feel his gaze through the white lenses, studying her. There was something familiar about the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.

Then he straightened. "Bye."

And with a single leap, he was gone, swinging between buildings, disappearing into the Manhattan skyline before she could even respond.

Y/N stood there, mouth half-open, hand still rubbing her wrist. The phantom sensation of the web lingered—soft, taut, possessive. Her skin tingled where it had been wrapped.

Why does that feel like a memory I can't reach?

She stared up at the empty sky, the smoke still curling into the gray clouds.

And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.

Get a grip, Y/N. He's a stranger in a mask.

But her body didn't believe that. Not for a second.

The evening air did nothing to cool the heat lingering beneath Y/N's skin. After the chaos at the Chronicle building, after being webbed to a police car like some disobedient puppy, after the shredded remains of her dignity scattered across Sixth Avenue—she'd gone through the motions. Talked to her editor. Confirmed everyone was safe. Filed a preliminary report on the gas leak. Smiled at Maria's thanks.

But all the way home, her wrist tingled. The ghost of that webbing refused to fade.

Now she stood in her apartment, shoes kicked off, coat thrown over the armchair. The city lights bled through her window, painting amber stripes across her wooden floor. She should shower. Eat something. Answer the three texts Ned had sent asking if she was okay.

Instead, she grabbed her laptop and collapsed onto her bed, flipping it open.

YouTube.

Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it. She typed in the search bar: Spider-Man New York 2024.

The results flooded the screen. News clips. Fan edits. Compilations titled "Spider-Man's Top 10 Saves" and "Spider-Man Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight." She clicked the first one—a news report from two months ago, shaky cell phone footage of Spider-Man webbing a falling construction beam before it crushed a bus.

She watched it twice. Then a third time.

The comments section was a battlefield.

"whoever is under that suit is DEFINITELY packing i'm not taking questions"

"imagine getting railed by spider-man... the grip?? the stamina???"

"he literally fights crime every night and still has time to help old ladies cross the street... husband material"

"plot twist: he's actually a 50 year old dude with a beer belly and we're all just simping for spandex"

"even if he is 50 i'd still let him web me to the bed 🥴"

Y/N snorted despite herself, scrolling deeper. The thirst was real, embarrassingly real. These women were out there, posting paragraphs about what they'd let Spider-Man do to them. What they'd do to him. She felt a pang of something—not judgment, because who was she to judge—but recognition.

She'd felt that web around her wrist. She'd felt the possessiveness in that single thwip.

And God help her, she wanted to feel it again.

She clicked on another video. This one was different—a street interview, low-budget, filmed by someone's phone. The camera focused on Spider-Man, standing casually beside a hot dog cart, and standing next to him was a little boy—maybe eight years old, holding a notebook.

The interviewer says, "We've got a special guest today—this is Liam, and he wanted to ask Spider-Man a few questions."

Spider-Man crouched down to the boy's level. His lenses softened, tilted—the body language of someone genuinely engaged. He reached out and patted the kid's head, a casual, affectionate gesture.

"Go ahead, Liam. I'm all ears."

And he laughed—a low, warm chuckle that cut through the modulator like a blade through silk.

Y/N's breath hitched.

That laugh. She knew that laugh. It tickled something deep in her chest, a phantom sensation, like a voice calling from underwater. Her fingers tightened on the laptop. She replayed it. Once. Twice. Three times.

"I'm all ears."

The way he said it—teasing, gentle, familiar.

She shook her head, hard. You're projecting. Every guy laughs. It's not him. You don't even know who "him" is.

But her skin was prickling. Her thighs pressed together under the laptop.

She kept scrolling.

There was a Reddit link. r/SpiderManFantasies (NSFW). Her thumb hovered over it for a full ten seconds before she clicked.

The forum was a treasure trove of desperation. Women (and some men) posting photos they'd taken of Spider-Man mid-swing, or perched on a rooftop, or standing in the middle of a street after a rescue. The photos weren't explicit—they couldn't be, he was fully suited—but the captions were anything but.

"If I ever meet him I'm dropping to my knees immediately. That suit does NOT hide what he's working with."

"Imagine him pinning you down after a fight, all that adrenaline still pumping... you'd feel the bass in his chest."

"I don't even care what he looks like. I just want one night. ONE. NIGHT. With whoever is under that mask."

One post showed a blurry shot of Spider-Man crouched on a fire escape, his legs spread, the suit stretching taut across his thighs. The caption read: "I want to sit on his face and never get up."

Y/N closed the laptop so fast the screen clicked shut.

Her heart was hammering. Her cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning.

"I'm not above this," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm so far below this it's embarrassing."

She threw the laptop aside and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside—distant sirens, a neighbor's TV, the low bass of a car passing by. Her skin felt too tight. Her cunt ached, a dull, persistent throb that had been living in her bones for weeks now.

The clock on her nightstand read 11:47 PM when Y/N finally collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her jeans and a thin camisole.

Sleep came heavy and reluctant.

---

She woke with a gasp, thighs pressed together, a dull throb between her legs.

The clock read 2:47 AM.

Her skin was damp with sweat. Her nipples were hard, rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. She'd been dreaming again—fragments of a body above her, weight pressing her into the mattress, a warm mouth trailing down her stomach. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his hands. Strong, calloused, knowing exactly where to touch.

"I've got you, baby. I've always got you."

She threw an arm over her eyes, breathing hard. She was wet, aching, clenching around nothing. She slid a hand down her belly, into her underwear, her fingers finding her clit swollen and desperate.

She rubbed herself slowly, trying to chase a release that never came. She imagined the web wrapped around her wrist again. Spider-Man's lenses staring down at her. The low laugh from the video.

"Fuck," she whimpered, fingers moving faster. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She could feel a shape just out of reach.

Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.

She pressed her palm harder, hips bucking, but the orgasm hovered like a mirage, untouchable. She let out a frustrated sob, pulling her hand away, her chest heaving.

Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.

Peter pressed his back against the brick wall, his own breathing uneven. He'd heard her whimper through the glass. Heard the wet sound of her fingers working. The whine of her frustration when she couldn't finish.

His cock was hard, straining against the suit. He'd come here to check on her after the explosion—to make sure she was safe, to watch her sleep like he did most nights. He hadn't expected this.

But he couldn't leave. Not while she was aching.

Not when he was the only one who could fix it.

He pressed a palm against the cold glass of her window, the mask hiding the anguish on his face. Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll find a way.

But for now, he just listened to her breathe, and hated the spell that kept them apart.

———

The knock that rattled Ned's door at 11 PM was frantic—three sharp, pounding hits, then a pause, then another. He barely had time to unlatch the lock before Y/N pushed past him into his apartment, her eyes wild, her hair a mess, her chest heaving like she'd run the whole way.

"Okay," she said, hands on her hips, pacing his narrow living room. "You were right. You were fucking right."

Ned closed the door slowly, crossing his arms. He was in sweatpants and an old band tee, clearly winding down for the night. "Right about what, exactly? Because I'm right about a lot of things."

She whirled on him, jaw tight. "The sex thing. The needing-to-get-laid thing. The I'm crawling out of my skin thing." She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots. "It's not just being horny, Ned. It's like—" She stopped, struggling for words. "It's like my body is craving something specific. A specific touch. A specific rhythm. A specific person. But I don't know who or what. I don't remember. I just feel this ache that nothing fills."

Ned's teasing demeanor softened. He gestured to the couch, and she collapsed onto it, head in her hands.

He sat beside her, voice careful. "An ex? Someone you dated before? Maybe your brain locked away a breakup that hit you harder than you think."

She looked up, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "No. It's not an ex. I don't have any traumatic breakup memory. It's—" She groaned, frustrated. "I don't know. It feels like a ghost. A phantom limb."

Ned was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe you don't need to find that specific person. Maybe you just need to try someone new."

She blinked at him. The idea hung in the air, fresh and foreign.

"Someone new," she repeated, tasting the words.

"Someone who doesn't come with baggage or memories. Someone who can just—" He made a vague gesture. "Fuck you into forgetting whatever's haunting you. A clean slate. A hot body. A night of no strings."

She stared at him. Then, slowly, a nod. "Maybe you're right."

His grin spread wide. "I am right. And I know exactly how to start." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "There's that new nightclub in midtown. Opened last week. 'Velvet Underground.' It's got black lights, VIP booths, and supposedly a very attractive bartender who does body shots. I've been dying to go."

"A club," she said flatly.

"A club where you can find a guy—or girl, no judgment—who will take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. That kind of club."

She chewed her lip. The idea terrified her. Thrilled her. She thought of her empty bed, the wet sheets, the incomplete orgasms. She thought of the phantom hands in her dreams.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Let's do it."

Ned clapped his hands together. "Yes. I'll text you the details. Wear something slutty. I'm talking a dress that says 'I'm here to get railed.'"

She laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "You're such a bad influence."

"Someone has to be."

They spent the next hour planning. What time to arrive. Which drinks to order. An exit strategy if the guy was a creep. Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, a fragile hope blooming in her chest.

---

Outside, pressed against the brick wall of the adjacent building, a figure in red and blue watched through the sliver of curtain left uncovered.

Peter's hands curled into fists.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Someone new.

The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a knife twist. She was going to let some stranger touch her. Some random guy from a club. He'd put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat...

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled by the mask.

No. Absolutely fucking not.

He pushed off the wall, landing silently on the fire escape below. His mind raced. He couldn't stop her—not directly. He couldn't reveal himself, couldn't break the spell. But he could intercept. He could follow. He could make sure that no one—no one—got close enough to touch what was his.

Even if she didn't remember it.

He swung into the night, a plan already forming. The club. He'd be there. Not as Spider-Man—too obvious. He'd ditch the suit, put on something tight, something that would make her look. He'd find her on the dance floor, buy her a drink, let the night unfold.

The hunt was on.

The strapless bodycon dress was a weapon, and Y/N knew it.

Black velvet hugged every curve from her collarbone to mid-thigh, the hem riding up just enough to make men's eyes glaze over. She'd paired it with strappy heels that made her legs look miles long and a thin silver necklace that caught the light. Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup smoky and deliberate.

Ned let out a low whistle when she stepped out of her bedroom. "Holy shit."

"Too much?" She tugged at the neckline nervously.

"Not enough. You're going to break necks tonight. Possibly some hearts too, but who's counting." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

She took it, laughing. "Let's get me laid."

---

The Velvet Underground lived up to its name. The interior was all dark burgundy and dim gold lighting, with a massive dance floor pulsing under black lights that made white fabrics glow. Bodies moved together in a haze of sweat and bass, the air thick with perfume and alcohol.

They claimed a spot at the bar, and Ned ordered them both shots of tequila. "Warm-up," he shouted over the music.

Y/N downed hers, grimacing at the burn. A second followed. Then a third.

By the fourth, the edges of her anxiety had blurred into a pleasant haze. The bass thrummed through her bones, and she found herself swaying, scanning the crowd. Potential candidates everywhere—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders, confident grins.

None of them made her stomach flip.

But then the door opened.

And he walked in.

Peter had planned this.

Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.

Her favorite outfit.

He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."

And she had. For hours.

He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.

There she was.

Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.

He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.

Then Ned spotted him.

"Hey! Peter!"

Peter turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."

Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."

Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.

Ned gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."

"A mission?" Peter raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."

Ned sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."

Peter smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.

"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."

Ned looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."

They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—

Right into Peter's arms.

Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."

His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.

He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"

She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."

If only you knew.

Ned was already heading for the door, waving them along. Peter kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.

The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.

"You smell... familiar."

His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"

"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."

Ned shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Peter just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.

They reached her building. Ned held the door while Peter helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.

When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.

"Thank you," she mumbled into Ned's shoulder. "You're the best."

She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Peter.

Her eyes met his.

The air between them thickened.

"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."

The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.

Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.

But not yet.

Not yet.

He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."

She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.

The lock turned.

Peter stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.

"She say something?" Ned asked from behind.

"Just saying goodnight."

Ned hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."

Peter turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."

"Uh huh." Ned didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Peter."

"Yeah. See you."

When Ned disappeared down the stairwell, Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.

But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.

That was enough.

For now.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.

Peter stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.

But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.

And he was out here. Alone. Again.

He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.

It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.

He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.

"Fuck."

He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Peter saved no one. Not even himself.

He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.

But Peter deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.

He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.

"You're so good, Peter. Fuck—don't stop—"

His hand curled into a fist.

Then his spider-sense flared.

Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.

He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.

---

The city was cruel tonight.

He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.

Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.

A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.

A break-in at a convenience store.

A fire on the Lower East Side.

He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.

But it didn't.

Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Peter. One day you won't come back."

And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.

Now she didn't even know to wait.

---

He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.

The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.

He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.

"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.

He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.

He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.

Soon.

Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.

Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.

But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.

For her. Always for her.

The bell above the door chimed, and Peter walked in like he owned the place.

Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Ned had convinced her to take.

She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.

"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.

He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."

"Someone regrets everything."

He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."

She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.

Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.

A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Peter had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Peter's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.

"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.

Peter just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.

Y/N froze.

The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.

She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.

But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.

Peter straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"

She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."

She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.

She needed to get this over with.

"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Ned was being an ass, and—"

"Cute."

She stopped. "What?"

"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."

Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.

He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."

He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.

Fuck.

She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."

She shook her head, turning back to the register.

But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Peter. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.

Maybe I have a crush on him.

She bit her lip.

Or maybe I'm just that desperate.

But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.

And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Peter smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.

Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.

The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Peter—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.

She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.

A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"

Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.

"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.

Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.

She followed without hesitation.

The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—

And then he was gone.

No. Not gone. Pinned.

A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.

"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.

Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.

She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—

A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.

She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.

"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"

"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.

Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.

She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.

He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.

"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."

She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"

She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"

She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—

And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.

She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.

Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.

And something clicked.

The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.

She looked up.

The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.

Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.

I know you. I've felt you before.

She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—

He stepped back.

Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.

"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."

And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.

She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.

Why does he feel so familiar?

She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.

And yet, he's a stranger.

She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.

Who are you?

The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Peter watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.

——————————

The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.

Peter walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.

"Morning, Y/N."

She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.

Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."

He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."

She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.

She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.

"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.

She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.

The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Ned was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Peter settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.

He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.

After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.

"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.

The moment the door clicked shut, Ned emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Okay. Now's my chance."

Y/N frowned. "What chance?"

Ned didn't answer. He darted to Peter's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.

"Ned, what the hell—"

"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."

Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"

"Relax, I'm just looking." Ned's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"

"Ned, I swear to God—"

He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."

He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.

It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.

Ned held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."

But Y/N wasn't listening.

She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.

The same texture.

Her blood ran cold.

She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.

This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—

She looked up. Ned was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

She was holding Spider-Man's mask.

Peter's mask.

Peter is Spider-Man.

The realization hit her like a freight train, knocking the air from her lungs. She stood there, frozen, the fabric clutched in her hands, the truth burning through her.

He's the one who saved me. He's the one who webs me to walls. He's the one who watches me from the shadows.

He's the one I've been dreaming about.

She thought of the dreams—the vivid, explicit dreams where Spider-Man's voice had whispered filthy things in her ear, where his hands had pinned her down, where his body had moved inside hers like he knew every inch of her. The dreams where she had arched into him, moaning, pleading, coming undone.

Her face flushed, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.

Oh God.

She had been dreaming about him. About the man who had been coming into her café, smiling at her, teasing her, touching her—and she hadn't known.

But her body had.

Her body had remembered.

"Y/N?" Ned's voice was sharper now. "Put it back. He'll be out any second."

She forced her hands to move, folding the mask roughly and shoving it back into the bag. She zipped it closed just as the bathroom door creaked open.

Peter emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. He glanced at them—Ned standing awkwardly by the table, Y/N frozen behind the counter—and his brow furrowed.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine!" Ned said, too quickly. "Great. Just—telling Y/N about a thing. A thing I saw. Bye."

He scurried back to the stockroom, leaving Y/N alone with Peter.

He walked to the counter, picking up his coffee, his eyes studying her. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off today."

She couldn't look at him. She stared at the counter, at the espresso machine, at anything but his face.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just tired."

He didn't push. He just nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Alright. I'll see you later, then."

He turned and walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

Y/N stood there, her heart pounding, her mind racing.

Peter is Spider-Man.

And she had been dreaming of him fucking her senseless.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something hot and hungry—coiled in her stomach.

She had questions. So many questions.

But more than that, she had a need.

A need to find out if the dreams were somehow real.

----------

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[frostingdoll]

[scrimsturn]

strawberry moon | p. parker ᝰ.ᐟ

pairing — bnd!peter parker x fem!reader

warnings — MDNI, smut, piv, fingering, oral (both receiving), whiny & subby top!peter, unprotected sex, finishing inside, multiple orgasms, pet names, wet dreams, stalking, mask on (and off), mentions of violence, smoking, slight spoilers. i think that's it?

summary — ever since peter’s arachnid DNA started to change, he’s been obsessed with you. it hasn’t been easy for him considering you live right across the hall from him. he’s even having wet dreams about you. he knows you way more than you know him. not that he’d tell you that, anyway.

wc — 9.8k...

a/n — apologies if there are any errors/missing text. inspiration from strawberry moon by tori amos <3 v obsessed, highly recommend.

“Thank you.. oh f-fuck thank you,” Peter whines, his pitiful voice barely coherent as he watches you take him in his mouth, head bobbing rhythmically as he lays before you on his plushy bed.

Peter’s hands seek your head, wanting to pull it closer to him, but he ultimately plants them on the bed, grasping at the sheets as if they’re some sort of lifeline. His knuckles turn white, his eyes rolling involuntarily. He can’t focus, how can he?

It’s not like this is the first time, or that he’s too nervous to make such a move… he’s thankful for anything you give him, and doesn’t want to take it for granted.

“Yes, oh god, thank you s-so m-much..”

Every time you suck him off, Peter can’t believe how fucking good it feels. He wonders how you’re so good, then quickly pushes the thought aside. He doesn’t want to think about the how or why.

Peter’s moans are fucking pitiful. Such a whiny boy with shaky thighs and rosy cheeks, the heat of it all rushing to tint his skin. You can taste the pre leaking from him, his cock pulsing against your tongue. The smirk that spreads across your lips as you lick the tip and hold eye contact with him makes Peter huff. His cheeks darken even more, his body heating rapidly at the sight of you as you take him fully again.

“Oh, please… I’m, fuck,” Peter’s pathetic attempt to warn you dies out, his hands gripping the sheets even harder, seemingly seconds away from ripping them. Another reason why he’s careful with touching you. Sometimes, he just can’t help himself. Pathetic.

When you slow down your pace just to tease him, you hear his squeaky whine, the breath being knocked from his lungs. Just as you expected. Peter gets so fucking needy, and you relish in it. It doesn’t take him very long to get close, ever, and a part of you can’t stand it because you want this too. You want to make it last just to see and hear how pitiful he gets.

“No- shit, please,” Peter whimpers, emphasizing his plea to gain some sort of sympathy from you. You oblige, gradually fastening your pace, the filthy, sloppy sounds echoing between you. He can’t help it. His hand flies to your hair, fingers lacing through the soft strands before he tugs. “I-I’m-“

Unable to properly speak, his jaw slacks and his eyelids squeeze shut. Thighs trembling, he chokes out a cry, feeling his cock pulse with each string of cum that stuffs down your throat. Then, it’s over. Just like last time.

Peter shoots up into a sitting position, gulping thickly with a huff as reality sets in. His duvet covers are thick, splayed across his lower half, which is feeling exceptionally more warm than usual. The room is dark, cold, and very much empty. He feels it instantly, the way his briefs cling to his skin, wet and warm.

“Fuck… not again,” he whimpers, peeling his briefs down just enough to expose the globs of thick cum sticking to his skin. Now this wasn’t the first time. It’s almost nightly at this point. He glances over at his door, as if you would somehow know what happened or be there. You never were. He then turns his head toward the alarm clock on his nightstand, 3:14am. “Hey evie?”

Peter’s desktop illuminates with light as numerous monitors flash on, the system starting up.

“Yes, Peter?” evie’s artificial voice responds.

“We need to make a different kinda inhibitor,” he groans, pushing the covers off his legs before getting up, making his way toward the bathroom.

Peter didn’t go back to sleep. He spent hours trying to formulate an inhibitor that would target his arachnid DNA and block hormone levels… particularly his testosterone. With a cheap Newport cigarette lit between his lips, his fingertips pattered across his keyboard, his eyes laser-focused on the screen.

With a soft chime, his phone illuminated on the desk just beside the keyboard. He quickly glanced over, scanning the words across the screen before looking at the map beneath the text, the pinned location insinuating that you’ve arrived to work.

Peter knows it’s wrong. Having secret hidden cameras around the city is one thing, but using them to watch someone that’s not a threat is another.

He tried, really fucking tried, to let it go. To stop. But he can’t.

That’s just another reason why he needs to make an inhibitor that actually fucking works.

Ever since you moved into the apartment across the hall four months ago, he hasn't been able to get you out off his mind no matter how hard he's tried. He’d often think about the first time you met, running into each other in the hall as you rush to work and he heads to get flowers for May.

All of the innocent conversations in passing, the friendly smiles and waves… He tried so fucking hard. You’re just so pretty. So sweet. God, you smell so sweet.

He can smell you from your apartment across the hall, the scent similar to fresh-picked strawberries. He fucking loves strawberries.

That wasn’t what started it, though. After the incident two months ago, with you stuck in the middle of a bank robbery, it was as if a flip had switched and caused a surgical spell. You were sweet and innocent, just trying to deposit a measly check, and next thing you knew, you had a gun pointed at you. Since then, he feels like he has an obligation to protect you — to keep you safe. Knowing you only strengthened that feeling, but your voice… your face… the way you smell. It all adds to it.

He wants to get closer to you, so fucking badly, but he just can’t with how hectic his life is. He tells himself it’s safer for you to stay acquaintances, no matter how much it bothers him.

Ever since that incident, ever since he saw your terrified expression through the lens of his mask, he had your face in his records. He specifically had evie program a separate alert system with facial recognition just for you. So when he gets a legitimate alert, he knows if you’re nearby. That's what he tries to tell himself, anyway.

If only you knew that spider-man had a special system just to keep you safe.

But that's why he needs this to work. It has to. He knows his behavior is wrong. It's weird. Fucking creepy, even...

“Smoke detected,” evie’s voice alerts, prompting a banner message across the monitor screen. Peter’s eyes roll, mentally damning Tony for implementing smoke detection into her programming.

“Just a cigarette, evie. Same as last time, and the time before that,” Peter murmured, his voice muffled from the cigarette trapped between his soft lips.

“Cigarettes can impact your vitals,” evie’s voice responds, to which Peter sighs, pulling the cigarette from his lips and smashing the end into the ashtray beside his phone, the bright amber ash crushing into a pasty grey. He wasn’t a casual smoker. It was usually during late nights or early mornings like this, where he just needed something to ground him. He hated to admit that it calmed him, or at least thought it did. Maybe it was all in his head, but either way, he knew it wasn’t good for him.

While he waits for the inhibitor to finish, Peter thinks of a few ideas on how he could test it. Truly, there’s only one way to really test it. He has to talk to you, really talk to you, without making things awkward. He needs an excuse to see you that wouldn’t lead to a “hi” and “bye” situation. He hates how his heart races every time you smile at him or even pass by him. You have his mind completely scrambled with your fingers wedged in the folds of his brain.

He’s pacing now, crossing back and forth in front of his desk with his eyes planted on the hardwood floor. His hands moved around as he spoke, a somewhat comforting expression he did during deep thought.

“Maybe… I can wait and we bump into each other in the hall? No, that’s stupid. I could just… knock? What would I say?” Peter groans at himself, covering his cheeks with his hands and slowly pulling them toward his temples. “Or I could…”

Peter’s feet come to a halt, his eyes slowly moving to his apartment door, then to his monitor. The pin on the electronic map shows you’re still out in town.

Oh, he has an idea alright.

Not a sane one, at that.

He really needs that fucking inhibitor.

Within minutes, he has his suit on and is swinging around the outside of the apartment building, his webs allowing a clean swing around the brick structure before he lands on your fire escape just outside your bedroom window.

No, this is insane.

With his eyes squinted behind his mask, he looks through your window, immediately spotting it. A beautiful silver chain necklace with a diamond pendant, carefully laid on your nightstand. The same one he sees caressing the skin of your neck every time he sees you. He recalls the way it lies against your chest, the chain slightly pooling against your collarbones. Why’d you leave it today?

No, I shouldn’t do this, he thinks, shaking his head at the reckless idea. But he couldn’t muster any real flaws in the plan. He gets your necklace, then returns it to you as himself. Not as Spider-Man. That’s innocent, right? No, it’s not.

It’s not like he’s stealing it— well, he is. But… he’s giving it back to you. It’s not a total robbery; it’s harmless.

His gloved hands latch onto your window, pushing it up with ease despite the lack of a handle. It’s as if the breath had been knocked out of his lungs, replaced by the intoxicating scent of you.

Fuck it, he thought, slipping through the open window with ease and landing on his feet with precision. His heart was thumping, but not out of nervousness. Excitement.

Glancing around your bedroom, he takes in the sight of your decor, mentally picturing and framing it inside his head against his will. He’d remember regardless.

He slowly stalks toward the nightstand, the finger pads of his gloves gently catching on the chain just before he tightens his fingers around it, holding it up at eye level. Yes, it’s the exact same one you wear all the time. Not particularly expensive looking, as far as he could tell. Not that it mattered much.

Peter felt another thump in his chest, you’ll notice it’s gone. That should’ve been enough for him to put it down. But he’s giving it back to you. Shit, what is he gonna say? That he found it in the lobby? That’s ridiculous.

Peter groans, clenching the thin chain in his fist, pressing it against his mask-covered forehead.

“This is fucking stupid,” he whispers, cursing his own thoughts. No, it’s going to work. It has to. He wants you to understand that you can trust him. He’s more than just your neighbor. He’s your secret protector, but he wouldn’t directly call himself that. He has good intentions, but that doesn’t make his actions any less wrong. He knows it too: “…and creepy.”

The skin on the nape of his neck prickles. He should put it back. This is wrong. This isn’t who he is.

Peter’s thoughts are suddenly interrupted as his head snaps up, his senses spiking. As soon as he hears the familiar jingle of your keys, his throat tightens.

Fuck.

He quickly tucks your necklace into his suit, where his phone would usually sit. Of course he forgot to grab it. Too fucking concerned about getting into your apartment, he was completely unprepared. No wonder he had no idea you were on your way back.

Peter slowly stalked back toward your window, his footsteps completely silent. As soon as his hand grasps the frame of your window, he hears a startled gasp that was awfully similar to a yelp. He whips around, seeing you in the doorway of your bedroom, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Peter’s lenses widened on his mask, emphasizing his own surprise.

For several seconds, the two of you just stared at each other.

“Oh my god.”

Think. Quick!

“Hi,” Peter greets you with a slight change in his voice, lifting a hand and giving you a small wave. He's pathetic, really.

“Spiderman?” you breathe, unsure whether you should take a step forward or a step back. The spider-man is standing in your room. You’ve seen him in person once before, your mind flashing to the incident at the bank. The way he focused on you, but never spoke to you. How could you forget?

Your expression shifts, your wide eyes narrowing slightly, eyebrows leveling and furrowing closer. Why the hell is Spider-Man in here?

“What… are you doing here?”

“Oh- aha. Just a, uh, mixup. Wrong apartment… building. Entirely. I’m a little scrambled. Hit my head on the fire escape,” Peter rambles, mustering lies while using his hands to emphasize his words since he lacked showing expression from behind the mask. His pulse is racing; he's sure you can see the way his suit shifts against his chest.

Your eyes are intensely boring into him as you take in the explanation. Strange, but believable.

“Well... are you okay?” you take a step forward, the space between you shrinking, dangerously close. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Peter feels like he’s about to fucking explode. Is he okay? No, not at all. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to see him.

“I.. yeah! I’m fine, I’ll just go—“ he stammers, turning back toward your window.

“Wait-“ you stop him, slightly lifting your hand in his direction to halt him before crossing your arms over your chest. You couldn’t help but wonder. “This might be a stupid question, especially since I'm sure hundreds of people a day, but… do you remember me?”

Peter’s eyes widen again, his mask mirroring his expression. He turns back in your direction, his eyes scanning your face. Of course he does. He knows you way more than you think. It’s not a stupid question, but kind of ridiculous considering what Peter knows about you.

Though, you’re referring to him infiltrating the bank robbery, saving you amongst other innocent civilians. A pang strikes in his chest as he remembers how terrified you were, but it quickly dissipates just being in your presence.

“Uh, well,” he ponders, quickly trying to muster a response that doesn’t sound creepy while also wanting to validate your curiosity. He mirrors you and crosses his arms over his chest, trying his best to shove his panic to the side. “Now that I think about it… yeah, I do.”

“Really?” your eyes light up, and you take a step closer, your arms falling to your sides now that you feel less strange for asking. “I just- I never got to thank you.”

“Oh, no need. You don’t have to-“

“I know,” you shrug, your lips spreading into a slight smile as you step even closer, your eyes shifting from his face to his chest, then his biceps— fuck, he’s built. “but, thank you. Really. I feel a lot safer here, living here alone and all.”

Truth is, you don’t have any family here in New York. Peter didn’t know that, though. You weren’t sure what compelled you to tell him, either. Regardless, he's Spider-Man — not a threat.

Peter’s breath hitches in his throat. This is exactly what he’s been craving; your undivided attention. He made an impact, and you made it a point to mention it. He quickly shakes it off, taking in your words.

You’re not alone here. You’re so blissfully unaware that he is the same man living across the hall from you. He tries not to think about the way he feels himself twitching against his briefs within the suit the closer you step toward him. He physically can’t help it, and it doesn’t matter how tender the conversation is. He can practically feel the warmth radiating from your body despite being just a few feet away.

He needs to leave. Now.

If he doesn’t, if he allows himself to sink into your spell any further, he’s afraid he won’t be able to help himself. He can’t avoid the filthy visuals raiding his mind, disarming him of critical consideration. Your fingers had somehow sunk even deeper in the crevices of his brain. Leave.

“O-of course! Yeah, no worries at all,” he waves you off, his voice matching his relaxed, confident persona. He climbs through the window, stepping onto the fire escape with ease. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

“Whoa, hey! You can’t just break into someone’s apartment and then leave like it's normal,” you softly scoff, arms raised at your sides to express your disagreement.

“Technically, I didn’t break anything. Just came through the window, which was unlocked,” he quips with a matter-of-fact tone, the space enabling him to finally breathe and collect his thoughts.

“How is that any better?”

Well, it’s not.

Avoid the question.

With his hands still planted firmly on the windowsill, he tilts his head at you, “Lock your window.”

Mirroring him, you tilt your head as well, raising a brow at the order, “Why, so no one else can stumble in here after getting concussed?”

“Because there are people out there who aren’t as nice as me. Now lock it, and keep it that way unless you’re home, yeah?”

It’s somewhat of a cocky response, but it’s true. He lets you sit with that for a moment, the two of you just sharing a few seconds of silence before he shoots a web to the top of the building, making a quick getaway.

You stand there astonished, still trying to comprehend the fact that you came home to find Spider-Man in your room. You wish he stayed at least a little bit longer. There was something about him that felt comforting and familiar, but you couldn’t quite figure out why. You have to admit, you feel a sense of pride at the fact that he remembers you.

If only you knew.

Two nights later, Peter is pacing around his apartment, per usual. The clock on his monitor strikes 9:34pm; he's been contemplating for hours. The more he thought about how he'd return the necklace to you, the more he realized how risky it is.

There was no way he could return it as himself, as Peter, and manage to pull off a lousy lie about how he found it.

All he can think about is how you'd figure it out. He can't risk you putting the pieces together. Fuck, why didn't he think of this beforehand?

Truth is, his behavior has been beyond risky and ridiculous. You quite literally drive him insane to the point where rational decisions are nonexistent. For a split second, he even considers moving away, saving himself the absolute torture of living beside you and not being able to do anything about it.

Deep down, he knows he would never do such a thing... but he can't involve himself personally with you, he just... can't.

He has to return your necklace, but not as Peter. He understands that, but what is he going to say?

Doesn't matter. He can say a lot more with a mask on, knowing you won't figure him out. In fact, he could just tell you he took it and face zero consequences, but what's the fun in that?

As he waits for the inhibitor that’s just nearly finished, Peter lies down on his bed, staring up at the cracked brick ceiling. Maybe a tranquilizer is what he needs. He doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until evie’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Inhibitor complete. Trial number forty-seven on standby.”

Finally.

The washer in Peter’s apartment tumbled, numerous articles of clothing swishing and sloshing, covered in suds. His suit was laid flat on top, shaking along with the rumbling of the machine.

“Alright,” Peter sighs to himself, reaching around to settle the inhibitor on the back of his neck. He feels it latch on, letting out a small grunt as his eyes scan the monitor in front of him.

“Arachnid levels decreasing,” evie states as the orange-tinted bar lowers in real time.

“And my hormones?” Peter inquires, raising a brow.

“Decreasing,” evie’s responds, pulling up a second page on the screen to show various hormone levels. Peter lets out a breath of relief, nodding to himself.

“Perfect," he whispered, snatching his suit off the top of the washer.

In your bedroom, you're comfortably sprawled out, sketchbook in hand as you continue marking the thin sheet of paper with a charcoal pencil. A loud knock startles you, causing you to jump and inevitably scratch the pencil across the paper, ruining your work.

Your head whips in the direction of the sound; your window. On the other side of the glass stands Spider-Man, his arms crossed comfortably on the outside of your windowsill as he waits for your response. His suit is glistening, the loud pattering of rain bellowing in his ears.

You quickly close the sketchbook, tossing it aside before standing from the bed.

Peter would usually feel his heart racing the moment you look at him, but he feels calm. Much better. Even though you look so fucking good in your pj shorts.

Hands finding the latch, you unlock the window and push it up, opening it swiftly. The sound of the rain pattering loudly against the fire escape and nearby streets is much clearer now. Before you can even ask why he's here, his voice shuts you down,

“Good girl,” he drawls out in a high teasing tone, voice still quippy and unrecognizable. You blink, your lips parting slightly, but no words come out. What an introduction.

That's the first thing he says? Not that you can complain. You'd be lying if you denied the way it made your stomach twist deliciously.

“W-What?”

“You locked the window.”

You let out a breath, unable to contain your smile and the slight tint in your cheeks. Face flushing, you turn away from the window to make your way back toward your bed, sitting on the edge of it.

“You scared the shit out of me. I can’t keep seeing you like this, you know,” you say, which catches him completely off guard. You can't see it, but a sense of hurt mixed with panic flicks in his eyes before he can control it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean with you, at my window, uninvited,” you explain. Peter’s mouth opens slightly, words dying in his throat. Before he has a chance to panic further, your next words take him by surprise. “Come in.”

“What?”

“I said come in. You can’t be uninvited when I’m telling you I want you here,” you add softly. You took the chance, throwing the ball into his court for him to catch.

Was it bold? Yes. Did he find it hot? Also yes.

Feeling an instant wave of relief, you hear a cute, "Oh," before he chuckles, slipping through your window, his feet landing effortlessly on your bedroom floor as he stands upright. He takes in the environment, your ambient lighting causing the droplets of water on his suit to reflect even brighter.

"Care to tell me why you've blessed me with your presence again? Everything okay?" you ask jokingly, yet still surprised by his sudden return. It's been two days, and you'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought about him since then. That’s what he hoped, at least.

"I was just coming to check on you," he lies, standing still so as not to get any of your belongings wet. Besides your floor, of course.

“Why?”

“Because someone broke into your apartment.”

Another lie.

“That was you."

“I meant the building.”

“Still applies.”

“I’m aware,” he quips, the eyes of his mask squinting playfully at you as he tilts his head slightly. You snicker. This back-and-forth game gives him a rush he hasn’t felt in a while. He feels much more confident this time, much more willing to play such a game.

That fucking smirk, he thinks.

“Well, as you can see,” you start, holding your arms up at your sides. “I’m fine.”

Peter tsks, sucking his teeth slightly as he steps toward you, almost as if he's sizing you up. "Well, that's not the only reason I'm here."

You watch as he lifts his hand, loosening the grip of his fingers to release the chain in his fist, dangling it in front of you. Your necklace.

"Oh my god," you softly gasp, reaching for the silver chain and grasping it from his hold. "How did you... Wait, did you take this?"

Now he's panicking.

"W-what? No, no. I found it," he lies again, his tone strong but his legs are feeling a bit weak. Shit.

"...In my room?"

"No," he laughs, trying to muster an explanation before you can dig any deeper. His heart is thundering so fast, he can feel it in his veins, causing him to twitch slightly. "Why would I steal from you?"

Good thing you're gullible enough to believe Spider-Man wouldn't steal from you. Because that's not who he is, right?

"Where was it?"

He rehearsed this, but the way you're looking at him makes it impossible to mutter out a lie. On the ground outside of Delmar’s? No. Fuck it.

"Don't worry about it."

"But how did you know-"

"I've seen you wear it," he admits, unable to control the smile spreading across his lips beneath the mask.

You don't think much of it. He must’ve recognized it from the bank. Opening the clasp, you reach behind you to latch it around the back of your neck, the necklace now resting against your collarbones, the pendant nearly reaching your cleavage. You twist slightly to face away from him, “Can you help me, please?”

He doesn’t answer, immediately grasping the ends from your delicate fingers. His gloved fingers graze the nape of your neck, and he notices the instant goosebumps that litter your skin. He struggles at first, the chain being so small and not having much to work with, but he manages, “anddd... got it.”

You turn back and smile up at him, at his figure standing directly in front of you, head peering down at you.

You felt incredibly inferior, watching him stare with his head tilted in such a way, like you were some sort of prey. If only you could see what's underneath the mask.

"Thanks. I owe you one, again,” you smile, eyes fluttering up at him. His stomach is doing somersaults.

"We talked about this. You don’t owe me anything," he quickly responds, referring to your last conversation. All in all, he’s grateful to return it without consequences. He appreciated the gratitude, but he didn’t expect a damn thing from you. Just the ability to see you.

Pausing, unable to form a proper response, you gaze up at him. Never, ever would you have thought you would be in this position before. Especially with him being so intimately close to you.

You stand, instantly feeling the heat radiating from him. He’s so close. Less than a foot away, chests just barely touching. His posture is steady as he awaits your next move, shocking even himself. If it weren't for his inhibitor, his mind would be going absolutely nuts.

"I know," you finally murmur a response, your eyes searching for his, but all you can see is white mesh. You lift your hand, instinctively trying to reach for him, but you stop yourself. He doesn't move.

You do it anyway. Your hand finds rest at his jaw, your thumb softly rubbing over the ridges of the mask. What is it about him that gets you so?

Is it that he saved you? No...

Maybe the fact that he remembered you and made it a point to make you safe.

It's not like you could stay casual after hearing him praise you like that.

"You... you should probably stop," he warns softly, but doesn't pull away from you. He knows you can feel his chest thundering just a mere inch from you. Despite that, the inhibitor was working, because if it wasn't... you'd definitely not be standing any longer.

"Do you want me to?"

He doesn't answer immediately, his eyes intently focusing on yours through his mask. Is that even a question? It's not like he could just tell you that this is practically torture for him.

"No."

That's just enough for you to raise your other hand, fully grasping his jaw on both sides to get a good look at his mask. Curiosity gets the best of you, your thumb reaching down and gently tugging at the edge of his mask beneath his neck. You just want to feel his skin, feel how warm he is. Feel how real he is.

In a flash, his hand wraps around your wrist, stopping your hand in place.

"Hey, hey. I didn't say you could do that," his tone is playful but his thoughts are a complete contrast, his grip tight on your wrist, but not too tight. Just enough to convey the message. God, he wanted to let you, though. So fucking bad.

It’s too risky. No matter how badly he wants to.

Even if he only shows his lips, he’s sure you’d recognize them after so many small talks. After so many exchanged smiles.

"Then how am I supposed to..." you trail off, the word kiss dying in your throat as your eyes trail down to where his lips would be beneath the mask, then down to where his hand is wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm but soft. He understands immediately.

"You don't."

It killed him to say it.

"I can't kiss you?"

"No."

Your lips curl into a small frown. You understand and respect his boundaries, but you can't deny how much you've thought about this. Rehearsed this. Ever since you caught him in your room, you couldn't help the thoughts that pooled in the moment he left. The fact he'd saved you once before only strengthened that.

What if he just took you, right then and there? God, that's fucked up. You knew that, but... the way you'd feel your core twist and get damp, fuck.

I mean, who doesn't want to fuck him? He's a hero. He's sweet. He's incredibly muscular, and his suit only accentuates that. You could go on and on.

It's not crazy to think about. You're not the only one that thinks this either, confirmed by the many reddit forum threads you dove down after he left. But, you are the only one to have this kind of luxury. The luxury of him being in your room, so close to you, touching you

"You're right, I'm-" you cut yourself off, taking a step back as you rethink your actions. What the hell are you doing? You don't even know him. You're being ridiculous - pathetic, even. You shake your head at yourself, shyly plastering your hand over your face. "I'm so sorry-”

"No, no, don’t be,” he whispers, releasing your wrist from his grasp, shaking his head. If this is his chance, he’d be a goddamn fool to pass it up.

“I can’t kiss you, but..” he continues, his hands moving to find your waist, gently gripping your soft skin through your soft, silky shirt. "I can touch you.”

No, he shouldn’t be doing this. He should’ve left right after giving you the necklace. This wasn’t part of the plan at all.

Tilting your head back up, you peer at him through the gaps of your fingers, your cheeks tinted rosy pink.

“Wha.. what?”

It's a bold move, he knows that. At least it's something he can actually give you.

Slowly, he backs you up, the back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed, inevitably making you fall back down into a sitting position. He leans down, hands planting on your plushy covers on either side of your thighs. You’re trapped.

“You heard what I said. I can touch you— I want to touch you,” he repeats, his teasing grin beneath the mask widening as he watches your eyes melt. Despite his rather audacious idea, Peter truly didn’t have a dominant bone within him. Not when it came to sex, anyway.

He would try for you, though. If that’s what you wanted.

The heat radiating from your skin through your shirt was a clear sign of just how much he was affecting you. You wouldn’t know tell, but he does. He can sense it. He can smell it.

Despite how much he’s wanted this, how much he’s been dreaming of this, he couldn’t shake the thought in the back of his mind that this wasn’t right. This feels too fast. No real connection. No romance.

But if you want this just as much as he does, he’s not fucking leaving.

“I…” you start, your words absolutely failing you. You feel so small below him, so vulnerable. An idea sparks, and there’s a particular glint in your eye. Fine, you can play that game. “If I can’t see you, then you can’t touch me until I say so.”

Oh.

Peter wasn’t expecting that. Not by a long shot.

“Oh really?” he murmurs, his purr causing you to instinctively squeeze your thighs together. You’re fucking leaking. Maybe he can… just only when you tell him to. You’re calling the shots. His padded fingers move to gently caress your jaw, softly grasping your chin. “You sure about that?”

Who is he kidding? Peter knows he would be a fucking mess if you told him when he could and couldn’t feel you or take control of himself. He loves seeing you flustered, though. It’s a sight he will never forget.

You grab his hand, pulling it away from your chin before pushing him over to land beside you. He lets you, allowing himself to plop down on the bed, his legs still hanging off the edge. He stabilizes himself, sitting up to grab your waist as you straddle him.

Just before his hands can make contact with you, you quickly grab his wrists, shaking your head at him with a grin, “Nu-uh.”

“That’s not very fair.”

“You heard what I said.”

Peter let’s put a short, weak huff of protest at you using his own words against him. You’re fully aware that he’s much stronger than you could ever be, and yet he was letting you control him. You release his wrists, pressing a hand against his chest, pushing him down until his back is against the bed.

Softly grinding your hips on his way down, you could feel him twitching and hardening against your clothed cunt, his suit failing him tremendously.

“Shit, you’re that easy?” you tease, moving your hips back and forth, the friction only worsening the wet spot forming on your panties, seeping to your shorts. He could feel it.

“F-fuck, so are you,” he whimpers in defense, unable to control how pathetic he is from the change in dynamic, his gloved fingers grasping at the blanket to avoid touching you without permission. “You’re so wet.”

“You can feel that?” you smile, leaning forward to cup his jaw, running your thumb over his mask-covered lips. You lift yourself up, and he whines at the loss of contact. A playful smirk tugs at your lips, “Aw, don’t be like that.”

Your hand moves from his face and down his chest until you feel his abs, feeling them twitch beneath your touch. You need to see him.

“Take it off,” you demand softly, removing yourself from his lap and moving to lay properly on the bed, watching as he struggles to regain himself to stand. Once he does, you watch him discard the suit, taking note of the way the cloth tightly hugs his muscles until it’s gone. Your eyes light up as soon as his abs are exposed, you almost want to throw the whole game out the window and have him take you. But you had to admit, watching him struggle and fall apart was even better.

Your eyes trail down to his briefs, the large tent exposing just how much he needs you. Of course, he kept the mask on. He stands there, unsure of what to do, suit discarded to the floor.

You twist your wrist, motioning for him to come closer with your finger, curling it toward you. His drops his bare hands to the bed, carefully crawling onto your covers until he’s hovering over you.

“Now take mine off.”

Holy fuck.

Swallowing thickly, Peter’s hands shift to the hem of your shirt, wanting to slip them underneath and touch your warm, bare skin. He contains himself just enough. He gently pulls your shirt up, his heartbeat picking up once again. He pushes it above your waist, exposing your bra that's so pretty and lacy. Almost as if you'd planned this already.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers to himself, the barrier of the mask making it difficult for you to hear. You don't bother having him repeat himself, lifting your back slightly to allow him to pull your shirt over your head.

He reaches to grab your clothed breast, eyes wide and hungry, but he stops himself. Still lifted, you unclasp your bra and before you can even move another inch, he's tugging it off you, the straps easing off your shoulders.

"Shit," he nearly moans, the sight enough to have him leaking. He's already throbbing, it's almost painful. He wants to touch them, to squeeze your plushy skin, but you haven't told him to yet. "You're so pretty. You know how fucking pretty you are?"

"I've been told," you smile irresistibly, your shoulders lifting slightly in a shrug. You've been told? By who?

Stop it, he thinks to himself, to his own thoughts. He has you right here, underneath him.

His hands shift downward, eager and cold, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. He doesn’t waste any time. As he tugs your shorts down your thighs, you hear a pitiful, muffled whimper. You look down to see his thumb just barely grazing the wet spot on your panties.

God, you smell so sweet.

“Please,” he whimpers again, his fingers hovering over the side of the thin cotton, wanting to pull them aside. You smile, your hand lowering and wrapping around his to guide his hand, having him push them over, exposing your slick folds.

"Go on," you nod, slightly condescending and full of pity as you hand-over-hand guide him further, allowing his finger to graze before pushing closer, his finger slipping between your wet slit and making a filthy squelch. 

“Pretty,” he huffs. He’s fucking vibrating. Every bone in his body, his mind, everything is telling him to just take you. He’s being good, though. You have to give him that credit. 

He pushes his finger inside you, a puff of air being knocked out of his lungs as he feels your walls hug around it. You’re tight. He curls it inside you, earning a tiny moan from you as you buck your hips up ever so slightly. All restraint is lost. 

“Oh, god,” you whimper softly, melting beneath him. You sound so pretty. He can’t take it. He can’t keep holding back. He needs you to break and give in fully. 

Peter’s free hand moves to your lower stomach, pressing down to hold you in place as his finger works inside you, pumping slowly yet deliciously loud. 

“S-shit, so wet. So fucking wet,” he murmurs to himself, easing in a second finger. It almost feels like he’s done this before, or it’s just from the spike in confidence after hearing the pretty noises you make. 

Softly biting your lower lip, you try to grasp his hand, wanting to stop him just to tease him but he surprises you. Quickly, moves his free hand to grab yours before holding it down against your stomach, on the same spot that his was previously. “J-Just.. wait. Please, let me.”

Of course, you give in. Peter experiments, pumping his fingers as deep as he can, the veins in his hands prominent. He watches, completely mesmerized, at the way your pussy sucks in his fingers, accepting them, your juices leaking around them. The filthy sound your pussy’s making combined with that warm squeeze — he can’t wait any longer.

If you smell this good, he can only imagine how you taste. He needs to know. He pulls his hand back, looking up at you.

“Please… Cover your eyes,” he demands in a gentle tone, waiting until you cover them with your forearm, your back resting comfortably against your plushy sheets. He pulls the mask up just enough to expose his lips, raw and plump from him biting them, trying to keep himself from sounding utterly fucking pathetic. 

He doesn’t even bother properly removing your panties first, he just keeps them held to the side as he dives down. You gasp, feeling his tongue dip between your folds, collecting your wetness on his tongue before swiping it up to your clit. You taste just as sweet as he thought you would; even more so. 

He groans against you, the vibrations shooting straight into your core. His lips wrap around your sensitive bud, pulling a loud, unapologetic moan from your throat. The pretty sound causes his cock to twitch against his briefs, his hips starting to slowly rutt into the mattress. He’s ravenous. 

“Fuck, you taste so sweet... so good.. s'good,” he slurs incoherently, his tongue working almost expertly, swirling around your sensitive bud with such focus, softly sucking then lapping at it. Over and over. 

You feel his fingers push inside you again, your mouth falling open with a pitiful cry. His mouth works meticulously with his fingers, feeling your orgasm creeping closer, the spindle in your core tightening with each passing second. 

“My fucking g-god, you’re… you’re doing so good,” you breathe between your words, your chest rising and falling rapidly as he laps at your messy cunt like a little puppy. He whimpers against you, his fingers curling each time he sucks around your bud. The friction he's created, rutting his cock against the mattress, he's already fucking close.

So are you. It shocks you, really. You’ve never had someone get you so close so quickly. It’s like he was made for this.

“Shitshit, I’m— fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you squeak softly, whimpering when you feel his free hand on your waist, his fingers squeezing your soft, plushy skin. He keeps the same pace, not wanting to ruin this for you. He can feel you squeezing around his fingers that are expertly pumping inside you, curling deliciously to graze your sweet spot. “F-fuck!”

Your thighs squeeze together, trapping his face against your messy cunt as you start to cum, your eyes blowing wide. You’re shaking, and not just because of the force of his fingers ramming into you, working you through your orgasm. Peter can feel how hard you’re breathing, his thumb rising and falling on your stomach as he keeps his grip on your waist firm, holding you.

Just as you start to reach down for his head to pull it closer, he pulls away from you, the filthy pop of his lips disconnecting from your clit echoing between you. 

"Shit, what's wrong?"

"Nothings wrong," he responds a little too quickly.

You can hear the rustling of him pulling his mask back down, your heart jumping in your chest. 

“You can look now,” he breathes, moving to hover above you, his cock throbbing against your thigh within the confines of his briefs. You’re still panting as you move your arm away to see him hovered above you, your eyes searching his through the mask. “Did I do a good job?”

“Such a good job,” you huff, a smile pulling at the corner of your lips. Your hand instantly moves down to his clothed cock, your fingers curling around him. You feel the definition, and how much he’s throbbing. 

Nearly instantly, he’s whimpering. You feel his two fingers, still wet and messy from you, pushing against your lips. You were hoping to taste yourself on his tongue, but this’ll do. You part them, sucking them as soon as they touch your tongue.

Peter didn’t expect it to feel so good, the way your tongue wraps around his fingers makes his head spin. You hadn’t even really touched him yet and he’s a leaking, moaning mess. 

Taking him by surprise, you slip your hand into his briefs, your soft fingers wrapping around him to slowly stroke him as you continue sucking on his fingers. His eyes roll, his head tilting back slightly as he relishes in the feeling. It’s just like how he imagined it. 

Despite being unable to see his face, you can tell he’s falling apart. You swear it’s like he knows what he’s doing, but has never been touched before. Maybe he really is just that pathetic. 

You start to fasten the pace of your hand, but just as you start, he’s just as quick to stop you.

“S-stop,” he whimpers, pulling his fingers from your mouth and lifting his hips. You retract your hand, and before you can ask what happened, he’s quick to continue, “I’m already getting close.”

What?

He pushes his briefs down the rest of the way, kicking them off. You see the way his cock springs free, aching red and already leaking precum at the tip. In an instant, he's hovering over you again, his cock just mere inches from you. From where you want him the most.

“You poor thing-” your teasing is cut short when you feel his arms wrap around your thighs, pulling them closer to him. You gasp, eyebrows raising as he softly grinds his tip against your slit free-handed. He’s rushing and he knows it. He can’t fucking help it. 

You wanted to degrade him, to remind him of his rules, but he's just so desperate. So needy. It's a pretty sight.

“J-Just tell me when I can, please,” he huffs, his tip rubbing between your folds causing a filthy squelching sound. His eyes are focused on your pretty cunt, at the way his tip fits perfectly against your slit before he starts to push in, “Oh my god, fuck, please. Tell me. Tell me I can—“

"Of course you can, baby. Touch me," you purr teasingly, your hands move to his hips, gently tugging to pull him even closer. The pet name nearly makes him rut, but he's hanging on to the last thread of control he has left. He pushes in slowly, the pitiful sound he makes nearly making you gush.

"O-oh my, fuck. Thank you. Shit, you're so tight," he whines, pushing into you slowly, watching your pussy take him, sucking him in inch by inch. Your hands tighten on his hips, your nails sinking into his taut skin.

“Feels so good, doesn’t it?” you purr, intently watching the way his movements stutter at your teasing. He can't take it. He can't fucking take it anymore.

"Yes, yes. Feels so fucking good," he whimpers, pushing in the rest of the way before bottoming out completely with his hips snug against yours. The feeling makes your eyes roll slightly, your head tilting back against the pillow.

When you move to roll your hips against his, his hands fly from your thighs to your waist, pushing you slightly up the bed with such ease, stopping your movements, "S-stop, stop."

You look up at him, naturally searching for his eyes through the mask, "It's okay, we can stop."

"No, I just," he grunts, his hips shaking slightly as he fights to control himself. "I need a second."

“Okay,” you nod softly, lifting a hand from his hips to wrap it around the side of his throat, your thumb gently caressing his adam’s apple. He swallows thickly, and you feel it bob under your touch. 

With the remnants of your orgasm still rippling through you, you can’t control the way your cunt flutters around him. Fuck, is he gonna have to cum before he can keep going? He wants this to last. 

Slowly, his hips start rolling against yours, “I-I’m okay, sorry, m’sorry,” he whispers, looking back down at where you’re connected before rambling on. 

"You have no idea-" he grunts, eyes locked onto the way his cock is fully stuffed inside you, your pussy taking him so good. So wet and eager. He pulls his hips back until his cock slips out halfway, glistening with your juices before he slowly pushes back in, listening to the filthy sound it makes, "-how much I've thought about this."

His hands are still tightly gripping your waist as his hips work to keep a steady pace. He doesn't want to go too fast, he can’t. This is so embarrassing. 

Your eyes light up at the admission, hand still gently wrapped around the side of his neck, “Shit. I’m- me too.”

His ears perk, his hips never faltering. His thrusts are slow and deliberate, your response making him whimper. 

“I want to see you,” you whisper, your fingers slipping down to the edge of his mask at the base of his neck. “Let me kiss you.”

He stills. Is it too risky? At this point, how would a kiss be more ridiculous than him literally eating you out?

Well, it’s not, but it’s too much risk. 

“You can’t.”

“Why? You don’t have to tell me your name.”

“That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

How is he supposed to answer that? 

His hands leave your waist, leaving your skin cold. He slips a hand underneath you, between your back and the mattress, lifting you enough to press your chest against his. Your face rests just above his shoulder as his hips continue thrusting against yours, deep and slow. His arm stays there, tightly holding you against him, your eyes struggling to stay focused. That’s when you hear it. 

With his free hand, he pulls the mask off, but purposely holding you close enough that he could hide his face over your shoulder. 

“Y-You really don’t trust me?” you manage with a moan, feeling his bare chest tighten against yours at the accusation.  

“That’s not it,” he groans softly against the side of your neck, his lips finally touching the skin of it, warm and wet. You feel his cock twitch inside you, your eyes hooded with the inability to focus. 

“Mmh, then what is it?”

“I trust you. I don’t trust what might happen.”

“Please.”

“I can’t, f-fuck,” he whimpers against your skin, his hips starting to fasten in pace at the sound of your plea. The filthy fucking sounds your pussy is making is driving him insane, his cock easing in and out effortlessly. You know there’s no winning this. 

You wrap your arms above his shoulders and around his back, holding him as you tuck your chin into the crevice between his neck and shoulder. You feel him breathing into your neck, his breath shaky and weak. That oh-so familiar scent has Peter’s head spinning. 

“You smell so good. I fucking dream about this, about you,” he pathetically admits, voice weak and breath hot against your neck. “Y-You- fuck, you make me fucking cum in my sleep. Make me- agh, wake up all messy.”

He’s losing it. He’s so vulgar.

He hears your gasp, so close and soft beside his ear, it sends a chill down his spine. 

“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” he whimpers, his voice barely audible when all you can focus on is how much of a loud fucking mess he’s making of your poor cunt. “I dream about fucking you, just like this, making you cum around me, s-shit.”

The thought has his hips stuttering before he picks up the pace even more, his hips smacking yours with a force that causes your body to jolt with each thrust. His grip is tight as he holds you, feeling you jolt against him all while he whimpers in your ear, struggling to not look at you. His other hand remains on your waist, helping to stabilize you as he fucks into you. The filthy squelching of your cunt grows even louder, and you feel the vibrations of a low growl against your neck, “F-Fucking god, do you hear it?” 

“Mh-m, yes,” you moan, your nails digging into the skin of his back. Peter wouldn’t be able to explain the sudden confidence boost, particularly with his words. 

“S’fucking messy,” he whimpers, your wetness splashing on his thighs after each deep thrust, dribbling down his skin. You feel his lips connect with the side of your neck, sucking a harsh love mark into your skin before softly licking it to soothe it. He does it again, over and over, his pitiful noises vibrating against your throat.

Your eyes roll at the feeling, your senses overloading. You feel your core tightening, your second orgasm growing dangerously close. 

“I’m gonna… mmph, fuck, I-I’m close,” you moan into his ear, your pussy milking him with each jolt he causes. With the arm wrapped around your back, he pulls you closer. With his other, he releases your waist, his free hand moving to grab your arm and guide your hand down to your stomach. Pressing his hand on top of yours, he forces you to feel your lower stomach.

You feel it immediately, your stomach bulging slightly with each pump of his cock. He’s in your fucking guts.

“Y’feel it? Feel me in your tummy?” he moans softly in you ear, his pathetic expression one that he’d be embarrassed for you to see. There’s no way you don’t feel it, even he can as he holds your hand down against your rapidly bulging skin. “Feel me filling y’up.”

That was a statement. A demand. Your eyes roll back again, your body growing weak in his hold as he takes complete control. You don’t have any fight left in you to tease him. You’re so fucking close, facing an internal conflict with the need to cum and the desire to keep going. 

“Fill me up,” you whimper, rolling your hips against his, purposely squeezing your pussy around him, wanting to milk every last drop. “I wanna feel you cum.” 

“O-oh my, haah, g-god, aaagh,” Peter instantly whines, his mouth parting open as he starts driving into you faster, pounding his hips into yours. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

He was being so good, now he’s rushing just because you told him to fill your pretty cunt with his cum? 

How pathetic can he get?

“You’re doing so fucking good,” you praise softly, feeling him fuck into you even deeper with your hand still prisoned between his and your stomach. That’s all he needed. 

“S-shit, t-thank you,” he whines louder, his voice cracking in your ear as his chest tightens against yours, his breath growing shallow. He doesn’t have time to warn you before he’s cumming. “Thankyouthankyou, fuck!”

His cock twitches with each spurt of thick, warm ropes of cum stuffing inside you. The pathetic sounds he’s making and the feeling of his cum filling you up is enough for you to break, your pussy spasming around him uncontrollably. Your body goes slack against him, thighs trembling as you gasp like all the air in your lungs was violently knocked out.

What’s shocking is he doesn’t stop. His hips keep moving, pistoning relentlessly as he keeps cumming. Your pussy can only contain so much, the leftovers of cum leaking out of you, bubbling around your slit and making a filthy mess each time he pulls his hips back and thrusts back in. It’s like he purposely wants to overfill it, to stuff you full and keep fucking it back into you, not wanting to waste it. 

With your limbs weak and achy, you’re completely limp, but that doesn’t mean you want to stop. You lift your hand from your stomach, lacing your fingers with his before he plants your hand back down against your plushy skin, not letting up. You move your other hand from his back to the nape of his neck, barely grazing his hair as your fingers unintentionally landing on his inhibitor.

Oh dear. 

“F-fuck, don’t. Don’t touch that,” he struggles, a whiny moan escaping him as he feels your pussy squeezing him so fucking tight. He pulls his hand from yours on your stomach, quickly moving to grab your wrist, but it's already too late.

He feels it detach from his skin.

You didn’t mean to, only wanting to grab onto him, but it catches onto your fingers and slides out of place. 

“Shit!” he grunts, his free hand moving to cover your eyes. He sits up, still inside you as he looks around for the inhibitor that’s now fallen and out of sight.

“W-what! What was that?”

“Just- don’t move,” he pleads, his head twisting as his eyes search the bunched up sheets. “Fuck, where did it go?”

“Please, just let me see you,” you beg, your hand moving to grab onto his that’s blocking your vision. 

“N-no! Just hold on a second—“

“Peter.”

Oh, no.

He stills completely, eyes widening as he takes in hearing his name coming from your mouth. His ears start ringing. 

“Peter, I know it’s you.”

“What? That’s… not my name,” he lies, eyes still wide, his cheeks flushing rosy red. 

“Inhibitor complete. Trial number forty-seven on standby.”

This can't be happening.

“What did you say?”

Peter gasps, his back shooting up from his bed. Eyes wide, heart pounding. He’s in his room. Peter’s hand quickly moves up to graze the back of his neck. His skin is damp, a cold chill creeping through him at the realization he never had the inhibitor on.

No, no, no. It felt so real.

Whipping his head in the direction of his monitor, he sees the notification that the inhibitor is complete, blinking across the screen. The same notification he swore he already saw.

How did he possibly wake up from a nap, put the inhibitor on, and go see you, all within one dream? It made sense, considering how fast things escalated and how he knows what your bedroom looks now, but…

Something is wrong. It felt too fucking real.

He glances over at his nightstand, the clock blinking 6:26am. Beside his alarm clock, there was nothing. He could've sworn he put your necklace down, carefully laying it on the stained wood before he fell asleep.

What is going on?

That’s when he feels it. The dampness in his briefs, warm and sticky. His hands fly to his face, a frustrated groan bellowing from him.

“Fuck!”

a/n: phew… this was a big one. forgive me for the sloppy sex, i wanted it to feel natural & unnatural at the same time since he was ‘dreaming’ about it. did you catch on?? (feel free to send in requests <3)

[cherriesofall]

[goslinggf]

um...exsqueak me ?

[overclassy]

[wearewatcher]

how else are you supposed to channel the energies?!

[jessekingman-deactivated2020092]

if i see a group of men laughing i just know its not funny

[playg0d]

a/n: oh boy never underestimate what carmy can accomplish when he decides to take a very specific kind of mid-shift break.

the dining table was meant to be a workstation, but today it was just an excuse to indulge in the perks of working from home. laptop open, you sit half-focused on the spreadsheet that was meant to keep you productive, wearing nothing but a soft, grossly oversized shirt—a small luxury of skipping the office.

working from home was meant to guarantee quiet. efficiency.

instead, your mind keeps drifting back to how carmy left this morning—the lingering heat where he kissed the side of your neck, muttering something about service today and how he’d “be back when he could.”

you're still sitting there, tracing the edge of the trackpad and replaying his voice in your head, when the sudden click of the key in the front door lock cuts through the silence.

the door opens hard. steps on hardwood. the familiar sound of a jacket hitting the hook. 

then he’s standing right there in the doorway. his blue gaze lands on you and stays there, dark and hungry.

carmen breaks the quiet shock of the room by calling out your name, his voice low and rough. “been thinkin’ about you the whole fucking time.”

you barely get the chance to close the laptop before he’s crossing the room. strong hands slide under your thighs and he lifts you in one smooth motion, like you weigh nothing. your legs wrap around his waist on instinct. the table edge digs into the backs of your knees for half a second before he hitches you up, turning to carry you right into the center of the living room. he doesn't bother taking you to the bedroom, or even to a wall. he just holds you there in the open space, not giving a single thought to the open curtains or the fact that the neighbors could look right in.

his tattooed arms flex hard around you—thick, corded, the ink shifting as his muscles work to hold you up. you can feel the heat of him through the fabric of his classic white tee, the solid press of his chest, the way his breath already comes a little faster just from having you in his arms.

“couldn’t wait,” he mutters against your lips, kissing you deep and messy. “needed this. needed you.” 

one hand stays locked under your ass, keeping you pinned high off the floor in the middle of the room, while the other shoves your shirt up so he can get his mouth on your tits. “fuck, look at you. sitting here like this... drivin’ me out of my fucking mind.”

you feel how hard he already is, grinding up against you through his pants. 

he doesn’t bother setting you down. instead he shifts his grip, both strong arms banding under your thighs now, holding you open as he works his pants open with one hand. 

the head of his cock drags against you—slick, and so ready—and then he’s pushing in, slow but relentless, filling you in one long thrust while you’re still suspended in the air.

the stretch makes your breath catch. “unnghh… c-carm.” 

he groans into your neck, forehead pressed to yours, arms trembling just slightly from the effort of keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“there it is,” he breathes. “fucking perfect. take it, baby.”

he starts moving. deep, controlled thrusts that use the full strength of those tattooed arms to lift and drop you onto him. every time he pulls you down he sinks that much deeper, the angle ruthless and perfect. you can feel every flex of muscle in his forearms as he holds your weight like it’s nothing, and your eyes track the dark ink as it tightens and shifts with the strain. 

his hips snap up to meet yours, and the wet sound of it fills the quiet apartment.

“been thinkin’ about this all morning,” he says, voice wrecked. “you sittin’ here working, no one else getting to touch you. just me. only me.” he kisses you again, harder, like he’s trying to crawl inside your mouth the same way he’s already buried inside your body. “you feel how hard i am for you, r-right? how fucking addicted i am to this?”

you do. you feel every thick inch of him dragging deep on every stroke, the way his arms never shake under your weight, the way he keeps adjusting his grip just to get deeper. you’re completely at the mercy of those strong arms, and he uses them without mercy—lifting you higher so he can slam up into you, holding you still so he can grind against the spot that makes your thighs shake.

“that’s it,” he growls when you clench around him. “take it. let me feel you.” 

his mouth finds the side of your throat, teeth scraping, then sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “love how you look when i’m holding you up like this. like you were made for it.”

he doesn’t slow down. if anything he fucks you harder. corded muscle strain in his forearms as he holds you suspended, leaving you completely exposed and open for him. sweat starts to shine at his temples. his breath is ragged against your ear. every thrust forces a soft, but sinful sound out of you that only seems to feed him more.

“you’re mine on my break,” he says, almost desperate. “come home just to bury myself in you and then go straight back with my cock still dripping from how wet you are… fff-fuck—” his hips stutter. he presses his forehead harder to yours, eyes locked on yours, still holding you up. “gonna fill you up and leave you dripping while i go finish service. that okay with you?”

you nod, or maybe you just moan, and he takes it as permission. 

his arms tighten, hauling you down onto him as he drives up one last time and comes hard, pulsing deep inside you while his forearms stay locked around your thighs. he keeps thrusting through it, slower now, milking every last drop into you, kissing your mouth like he can’t stand to stop touching you even for a second.

when carmen finally eases you down onto the couch, he doesn’t let go completely. one strong arm stays around your waist, keeping you close while his free hand cups the back of your neck. he’s still breathing hard, eyes dark and soft at the same time.

“best break i’ve ever taken,” he murmurs against your lips. “gonna think about this the whole rest of the day.” he pecks you once more, slower, almost sweet, then smirks. “think you’ll be ready for round two when i get home later?”

cocky motherfucker, you want to curse at him, but your lungs refuse to cooperate, still breathless.

he adjusts his clothes, presses one last lingering kiss to your mouth, then heads back out the door—already counting the minutes until he can walk through it again.

you sink further into the couch, shirt still rumpled and shoved up, trying to process what just happened. your thighs won’t stop shaking. every breath pulls a fresh ache through you, deep and satisfying, the wet heat of him still slick between your legs. 

arousal keeps rolling through you in slow waves even with him gone—sharp little aftershocks that make your fingers curl into the cushions. your whole body is still humming for him, leaving you with the quiet realization that any hope of a productive workday just went entirely up in flames.

[lovebugism]

PEAR MILLE-FEUILLE ─── carmy berzatto

summary: the evolution of you and carmy's relationship, as told by the layers of the dessert that brought you together in the first place, and almost ruined your life. or: the four times carmy caught himself falling in love with you, and the one time he actually let himself. (10k)

characters: carmy berzatto / fem!reader, mentions of claire / carmy, luca, richie jerimovich, sydney adamu, chef terry

contents: slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, idiots in love, angst (hurt/comfort), jealousy, so much yearning, reheating sydcarmy nachos, canon divergent (i kinda mish-mash the events of season 2 and 3 together here for funsies), cw for mentions of grief, talks of depression and anxiety, smut 18+ (carmy's touch-starved and cries during sex, you heard it here first guys!)

( NAVIGATION ) | ( AO3 )

pear mille-feuille, a classic parisian dessert, meaning "a thousand layers" in french, pronounced: pair-meel-fwee.

—

I. BURNT CARAMEL

Carmy rushed out of the restaurant with his pulse thrumming in his throat and the word of David Fields bouncing around in his pounding skull. “I don’t think about you at all,” he’d said. “I don’t think about you at all. I don’t think about you at all—” Carmy shoved the metal door open with a too-aggressive hand, so hard it hit the brick wall on the other side with a resounding bang.

He waited for the cool Chicago night air to smack him in the face, to remind him how to breathe again. He got a heavy whiff of warm caramel and sweet pear instead. 

With his tattooed knuckles running hard along his tight chest, he turned his head to find a strange woman he only vaguely recognized sitting on the curb a few feet away — dressed for a funeral, wearing a wrinkled black dress and a run in her tights along the knee. A plate of something sweet rested in her lap.

“Uh… Hi,” Carmy greeted shakily, half-strangled from the leftover panic still clutching him hard by the throat.

“Hi,” you responded quietly, as if choked by some strange emotion of your own.

The man’s wet, ocean eyes flit between your face and the food in your lap. A rogue brown curl fell over his forehead as he nodded down towards you. “What’s, uh… What’s that?”

“My mortal enemy,” you answered gravelly, before turning away. “It’s a Pear Mille-Feuille… I thought maybe I could finally get it right before we closed…”

Carmy blinked owlishly at your profile. “…Well, did you?”

“Nope…” you answered through a heavy sigh, popping your lips together. “The pastry’s too soft. But somehow the pears are still overdone, so… I can’t win.”

Carmy looked it over with an inquisitive eye — the thin gold layers of puff pastry, all stacked neatly atop one another; pears poached to the perfect amber color; thick cream piped with a near impossible precision. It looked like something straight out of a magazine. And, if Carmy had to guess by how hard you were on yourself about the whole thing, it’s entirely likely you’d been published in one before.

“Well, it looks good, at least.”

“That’s only ‘cause you’re standing six feet away.”

Carmy scoffed a quiet laugh and found his breath coming more easily to him. “Here,” he offered, shoes scraping the worn pavement as he approached you. “Let me try it.”

Your head snapped in his direction. Your wide eyes raised to follow his form as he loomed suddenly over you, black blazer rippling in the cool, late-summer breeze. The night air filled suddenly with the scent of him — deep cologne, cigarette smoke, and nicotine gum.

“Wh…What?” you stammered.

“Sometimes you just need a fresh perspective, is all. Like, uh… A new pallet, you know?”

Carmy reached a tattooed hand in your direction, leaving little room for argument. You got the feeling that he must run a restaurant of his own as you passed him the ceramic plate, fingers trembling. You watched anxiously as he took the fork in his large hand and cut himself a slice of the pastry.

He shoveled it into his mouth — an explosion of butter, vanilla, pear, and caramel — the near-perfect balance of elegant and comforting. Just refined enough not to impose too much on itself. 

His cheek jut softly out as he chewed. He nodded to himself until the words caught up to him. “Yeah, this is… incredible, Chef,” he said through the mouthful, laughing slightly through his nose. The sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

You didn’t believe him, not entirely, but the line in your taut shoulders relaxed slightly at his praise anyway. Sometimes, feeding others felt like a leap of faith. Sometimes, feeding someone felt like handing over a piece of yourself to them, and hoping they found something worth keeping.

—

Months later, Carmy realizes that there are only two kinds of things a person holds onto in this world — things they can’t bear to lose, and things they never meant to keep.

Mikey belongs perpetually in the first category. And, ever since you started working here, he’s begun to realize that you belong in the second. Maybe that’s why he felt himself on the verge of a panic attack for the third time today, ‘cause he was spending his evening excavating his brother’s office like an archeological dig, and found himself surrounded by both at once.

This office had belonged to Mikey, and would be the last thing that ever truly did.

Carmy thinks, knows, that’s why he put off cleaning it out for so long — like keeping it exactly the way his brother left it would preserve his ghost there in some way. This place was practically his tomb, made of four concrete walls faded to the color of old dishwater, an ancient desk so cluttered you can barely see its surface, and a bunch of dented filing cabinets that haven’t been organized in at least three presidential administrations.

They’re all half empty now, organized in boxes with Mikey’s frantic scrawl left on every crumpled receipt, invoice, and payroll record. Soon this office would match the rest of the place — clean, sleek, erased — and what’s left of his brother would be gone.

Carmy slouches against the cool brick with his arms propped on his bent knees, holding the last of Mikey’s things in a tattooed hand. A prescription pill bottle with the label scratched off, which he found while grave-digging through the cabinet drawers. He clutches it tight in his fist, holding the remnants of addiction as if it were his brother’s hand.

The grey, mildew-and-coffee-scented abyss of his grief is abated only by the sound of your laughter, which bounces off the concrete walls and finds him like the rays of milky-orange sunlight filtering through the stained window above his head, which turns his wild curls a more golden shade of brown.

His heavy ocean eyes lift and find you instantly — the way they always seemed to do — and his features flood with horror when he finds you with his sketchbook in your hands.

“What’s all this?” you wonder with a quiet laugh, beneath the subtle thwipping of the pages as you flick through them with your thumb.

Inside are random lists, phone numbers, and mock-ups for the restaurant, all in Carmy’s scrawled handwriting. Then you stumble upon a series of sloppy portraits — some of them of the others in the kitchen; most of them of you, like he was trying to capture you just right.

They feel like memories in some way, moments stolen when no one else was looking. They’re slightly messy, as if drawn by a loose and absentminded hand. It’s quite strange, looking at yourself from another person’s perspective. But even still, you don’t think you’ve ever looked so pretty, so alive, than on these pages of smudged ink.

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

Carmy shrugs lazily with his pink mouth softly jutted, feigning an air of indifference despite the red tint speckling across his cheeks.

“I can’t,” he mumbles through a huff as he stands to full height again, bracing himself on the cleared-out desk beside him. He tucks the pill bottle into the front pocket of his slacks and clears his throat when he feels his pulse skipping there. “N-Not really.”

“Well, I beg to differ,” you scoff and turn another page.

Another scribbled portrait of you sits in the center, drawn in blue ink this time. You’ve got the eraser end of a pencil in your mouth and another sitting behind your ear, concentrating on coming up with a new dessert menu. You were captured quite beautifully, even in your subtle frustration. “I didn’t think I was capable of looking this good until now.”

“You look good all the time,” he dismisses quietly, curls swaying when he shakes his head at you.

He grimaces at himself right after the words spill from his lips, face flaring hotter when the expression on your face shifts slightly in response to them. He lacks the courage to meet your eyes as he looms before you, smelling of stale cologne and sweat from days of renovation.

“What do you, uh— What do you usually draw?” you stammer and pass the sketchbook back to him.

“I don’t know…” Carmy mutters. “Whatever’s, you know, on my mind, I guess—”

Your heart lurches in your chest, both at his words and at the office door slamming suddenly open across the room. Your heads snap to the side in tandem to find Richie towering in the narrow doorway. “Cousin, I swear to god, I’m about to fuckin’ lose it, man—”

“You’re so dramatic, Richie, jeez…” Sydney sighs as she walks past him and further into the newly renovated kitchen, to busy herself with actual work.

Carmy hangs his head and closes his eyes, digging his thumb and forefinger into the sockets in a quiet frustration. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t come to me with any problems while I was in here—”

“I know that,” Richie shrugs. “It’s not a problem.

“—I don’t have time for this shit right now, Rich.”

“Well, it’s not a fuckin’ problem, Carm! What do you want me to say?” the older man repeats, louder now.

“It’s literally a problem,” Syd monotones from somewhere further inside the kitchen.

“Well, Ms. Know-It-All over here wants less tables in the dining room— says it’ll fuckin’… make it more systematic or whatever, I don’t know,” Richie rambles, gesturing wildly with his hands. “But I told her we’re opening a restaurant here. Not a library. More seats means more customers, which means more money— Which we’re slowly running out of, might I add!”

He turns over his shoulder to yell into the kitchen. You wince when his voice bounces off the bare concrete walls.

“Yeah, Syd’s right,” Carmy nods.

“Thank you!” the girl calls distantly.

Richie blinks slowly in offense. “…What?”

“Syd’s right—”

“No, I heard you—”

“Then why’d you say what—?”

“‘Cause you’re fucking with me,” Richie scoffs an emotionless, half-delirious laugh.

“I’m trying to be efficient here, Rich—”

“You’re all fucking with me—”

“We can turn over tables quicker if there’s less of them,” Carmy explains, much more calmly in response, though there’s a sudden bite behind his words that you don’t miss. He keeps one hand propped on his waist while his other gestures with the sketchbook between his fingers. “Which means more customers, which means more money, which… we are running out of…”

Richie laughs like it’s funny. “Well, that’s real funny, Carm, ‘cause I bet if I brought Claire-Bear in here, and she agreed with me — which she would, by the way — you’d change your mind like that—”

Carmy flinches when the man lifts his hand to snap in his face. He swats him away with a little more aggression than probably necessary. “Get your hand out of my face— What are you twelve?”

“Yeah, you’re mad ‘cause you know I’m right.”

Your head tilts to the side like an intrigued puppy at the foreign name, which you haven’t yet become acquainted with in your weeks working here. Your wide eyes dart between the two men in front of you. Your smile trembles slightly at the edges.

“Who’s… Who’s Claire-Bear?”

Carmy’s head snaps in your direction. His mouth parts, but nothing comes out for an embarrassing fraction of a second, as if he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. Bringing her up in front of you feels wrong in a way he can’t explain.

“She’s uh… She’s— She’s no one,” Carmy stammers.

“Oh, please,” Richie scoffs, dark blue eyes flitting in your direction. “She’s his girlfriend.”

Your stomach sinks, even despite Carmy’s arguing.

“For the last time, she’s not my fucking girlfriend. Richie—”

“Well, not for lack of tryin’, cousin—”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Carmy repeats, this time only to you. There’s a solemn look in his light eyes, like he’s trying to make sure you really hear him. “She’s, you know, an old friend. A family friend. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Richie laughs. “I bet Claire-Bear would love to hear that.”

“Fuck off, Richie,” Carmy spits.

“Oh, there you are.” A softer, deeper, more foreign voice breaks through the boyish bickering in an instant. Luca appears in the doorway behind Richie — golden locks pushed over his forehead, physically built beneath his white undershirt, looking a lot less plagued by the chaos of the kitchen than the rest of them. His pink lips quirk into a smile at the sight of you. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you— I need an expert opinion on this lemon-blueberry trifle I’m trying out.”

“Yeah, put this girl out of her misery. Please,” Richie scoffs drily, then turns back to you with a warm, sympathetic hand on your shoulder. “I apologize for my cousin, Sunshine. I did warn you he could be a bit of an asshole—”

“Richie.”

“It’s… okay,” you murmur with a sheepish laugh, before glancing over at Carmy beneath your lashes in a sheepish look. “Are you… okay in here?”

Carmy’s expression shifts slightly, like he’s about to say the exact opposite of what he really means. He feels his chest stinging with a pinch of misplaced jealousy — because he knows you spent time in Copenhagen with Luca some years back, and the idea of someone knowing parts of you that he doesn’t feels a little like a punch to the stomach.

“Yeah,” he nods anyway, slightly strangled, like his body’s trying to keep him from saying the words. “Yeah, I got the rest of it. Go ahead.”

You flash the boy a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes as you go. Carmy watches you trail behind Luca out of the office and back towards the dessert station. Richie watches Carmy watch you.

“So about the tables—”

“Enough about the fucking tables, Richie!”

II. ORANGE BLOSSOM HONEY.

There were only two times in your entire life that you swore you’d never bake again: first, when you got your first scathing review that sent you on a downward spiral for longer than you’d like to admit, and second, when Ever closed down for good.

There was still joy in it, somewhere deep down, you just couldn’t find it anymore. Honestly, you had trouble finding it most days in most anything. Which is probably why Luca told you to give The Bear a shot in the first place.

“I’ll tell him you’re stopping by, alright?” he’d told you over the phone that evening. “Just talk to Carmy. See the place out. And if you hate it, I will personally fly myself across the Atlantic so you can say ‘I told you so’ to my face.”

“That sounds very expensive, Lu.”

“Well, it’d be worth every penny.”

So there you were, weaving through a restaurant that seemed more abandoned than not — as though someone had taken a perfectly good kitchen and detonated a small explosive in the center of it. Walls had been torn down. Floors were covered in sawdust. Extension cords snaked across the room like vines. The smell of drywall and fresh paint grew stronger the further you went.

For a moment, you worried that no one was inside waiting for you, and that you had accidentally committed a breaking and entering — until you spotted a curly-haired stranger hunched over a metal counter in the not-quite kitchen, scribbling at a notepad with his pen.

He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, dark curls hanging over his eyes. A mixture of surprise and confusion flashed in his gaze, brows raising and lowering again.

You lifted a hand in an awkward wave. “Hi…”

“Hey…”

“I’m sorry. I let myself in— I… I tried to knock, but I guess you couldn’t… hear me…” You trailed off with a wavering smile, scratching anxiously at the back of your neck. “Uh, Luca was supposed to call you, I think...”

Realization flooded the sharp edges of Carmy’s face.

“Oh. Right,” he nodded. “Yeah, for the, uh...”

“Yeah…”

Carmy swallowed hard, tapping his pen along his palm, no more anxious than you are now. “Well, uh, I— I hope he warned you that we don’t have much of a kitchen yet...”

“Yeah…” you answered with a breathless laugh, eyes wandering across the spray-painted tarps hanging as makeshift walls as you strolled further inside. “I just… I thought he was exaggerating a little bit.”

A short laugh escaped him then as he rounded the counter in front of him. “Yeah, this is— basically a construction zone more than a kitchen at this point, so… Sorry in advance.”

“Well, if we’re sharing apologies, I’m sorry for not bringing a résumé,” you confessed sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s gaze when he stood before you. The scent of paint and sawdust clung heavily to his navy sweatshirt. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want me working here.”

“C’mon. I know your résumé,” Carmy scoffed. “I’ve actually eaten your food before, remember?”

“The desert I was crying over at Ever, you mean?”

His lip twitched into a soft smile before he turned away, too shy to say this to your face:“Well, in my opinion, something that perfect is worth crying over.”

You grinned at the back of him, wider than you realized. “You’re still sparing my feelings after all this time…”

Carmy planted himself on the right wing end of the soon-to-be kitchen and turned to face you again. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but… This is gonna be our dessert station. Hopefully. If this entire place doesn’t cave in—”

‘Ours,’ he said, as if it were already yours in some way, too.

“—That’s a joke. Sorta,” he said, scratching at the back of his wild curls. He glanced up at you once more. “Have you tried making it again since we met?” he wondered suddenly. “You know that… pear… mill-fill thing?”

A giggle sputtered from your lips before you could stop it. Your hand flew to your mouth, as if you were trying to put it inside.

Carmy grinned shyly at having earned the pretty sound, despite his mild embarrassment. He fidgeted with the pen in his tattooed hands and gave you a sheepish look in response. “Help me out here…”

“It’s French,” you told him. “It’s mee-fwee.”

His brows lowered with a visible hesitation. “Mee… foy…”

“Close enough,” you laughed with a shake of your head. “And, to answer your question, no. I haven’t made it again. And I probably never will— I’m too fragile for another defeat.”

The grin that tugged at the corner of Carmy’s mouth then was brief, but no less genuine. “You will,” he said, like some kind of an oath, with so much conviction you couldn’t help but believe him.

—

“You seem happier here.”

Luca’s observation comes suddenly. His English-deep voice cuts through the soft quiet of the empty restaurant, renovated to near completion now. The two of you lie supine on the cool hardwood, the tops of your heads nearly brushing, as you put together Carmy’s newest splurge — which his uncle called “expensive, ergonomic, fuckin’ hippie tables.” You screw each bolt in by hand. You can feel your fingers threatening to cramp around the screwdriver clutched between them.

“Happier than Copenhagen, I mean,” he continues.

You scoff. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure any version of me is happier than I was in Copenhagen…”

“Oh, c’mon…” Luca lilts lowly. “I wasn’t that bad company, was I?”

“You know it wasn’t about you…” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I know…”

It was the fault of that goddamn critic, and the devastating review he left that seemed to compliment everything but your work alone.“The pear mille-feuille reads less like a dessert and more like a young chef begging for validation,” the publication read. “For all its technical accomplishment, the pastry never once feels human. It is difficult to imagine, dear reader, a pastry with so much insecurity baked into each of its layers.”

Your world seemed to shrink after that. The singular paragraph of disapproval lodged itself somewhere deep within your psyche, along with all the cynicism and sorrow that built a home inside you, too. Every other failed recipe somehow led back to it, and every success thereafter felt purely accidental — until, eventually, baking stopped being fun and started being the one thing most capable of hurting you.

It hollowed you from the inside out. You worked the kitchen like a ghost returning to its haunt. You wanted to quit, in virtually every sense of the word, and it was Chef Andrea who convinced you to stay — by sending you four thousand miles away to Copenhagen, that is, to remember a world without critics and service and non-stop perfection; to remember what it felt like to exist without constantly needing to prove yourself.

It was there that you met Luca, who taught you what it meant to approach food with curiosity again. And it was here now, in the bones of The Bear, that reminded you how to love the work again — the simple joy of making something with your bare hands and sharing it with the people who mattered most.

“I’m just glad you didn’t stop cooking…” Luca continues with a quiet grunt in the back of his throat as he slides out from under the table. “And I’m glad Chef Andrea sent you over to my neck of the woods.”

“Let me?” you scoff, tilting your head back against the floor to look at the boy upside down. “She practically forced me on that plane.”

“Best thing she ever did,” the boy croons with an air of sarcasm to mask his sincerity. He rises to full height and dusts his palms off on his slacks. “I’m headed out for the night… Need a ride?”

“I think I’m gonna stay here for a while…” you sigh.

“Suit yourself,” he huffs and walks away. “Just don’t overdo it.”

“Or what?”

“Or I will be very upset with you,” he deadpans with faux-solemnity.

“Oh, the horror!” you call to his disappearing figure, right before the door shuts behind him.

Silence returns when he’s gone. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh, a held breath you didn’t know you were keeping, as you return to your work — twisting the screwdriver in your fist and reveling in the burn in your wrist, the only thing keeping you from thinking.

About that critic. About Copenhagen. About Carmy’s sketchbook, about Carmy and the girl called Claire-Bear.

You rise onto your elbows with a huff when you’re done, stretching out the aching tendons in your neck. You vaguely hear the kitchen door swishing open and shut again before a sudden voice calls out. “Oh, hey—”

The sound of Carmy’s voice startles you for a reason you can’t name. You sit further up on instinct and slam your head against the table with a whack that jostles one of the screws.

“Ow...” you whimper.

“Shit—” Carmy rushes to your side, catching the wooden top when it wavers. His long, tattooed fingers curl around the edge of it to keep its weight from falling back on you. He ducks his head to look at you, features twisting with a sympathetic grimace as you rub at your aching forehead. “Sorry… Didn’t mean to scare you…”

“You didn’t scare me…” you assure him weakly.

His mouth lifts into an amused half-smile. “No?”

You shrug, lips jutted in feigned apathy despite the newfound pounding in your skull. “Not even a little bit...”

Carmy’s grin widens, but he makes no further argument. He just crouches down in front of you and keeps the tabletop steady while you lie back to realign its leg. You spend the next minute or so screwing the loose bolts back into the blanched oak, hands going clammy around the screwdriver at the proximity between you now. The air grows considerably warmer accordingly, filled with the familiar scent of him — of cologne, garlic, and cigarette smoke. You have to keep reminding yourself to breathe.

“You, uh— You never told me,” Carmy starts suddenly, as if he’d been sitting on the words for some time and only now got the courage to say them. He swipes at his nose with the back of his free hand and mumbles shyly behind his fingers.“About, you know, why you almost didn’t come here… Why you went to Copenhagen...”

Your breath hitches faintly in throat. You hope he doesn’t notice. The screw twisting itself back into the pale wood above you becomes the most interesting thing in the room. “It never came up…” you answer quietly. “It was stupid anyway…”

“No, what the asshole critic said was stupid.”

You turn your head against the floor to flash him a playful look, hiding behind the veil of your sarcasm. “There you go again…”

“There I go again?” he echoes.

“Sparing my feelings.”

“No, I— I’m serious.” Carmy stammers with a breathless laugh. “And I know I’m right because I’ve had your stuff before.”

“Yeah,” you scoff and turn away again. “That stupid fucking pear dish that I still can’t get right.”

“No, it was, uh…” Carmy trails off and shakes his head, going distant with recollection. He rests the elbow of his free arm on his bent knee and drops his wild head into his palm. He digs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes as he struggles to recall the name. “It was, uh… It was the— the Bordeaux, I think?”

He lifts his head to glance down at you once more. Your arms fall to your lap, eyes narrowing in confusion as your lip twitches into a shock half-smile. “The Canalé de Bordeaux?” you repeat with much more ease.

“Yeah,” Carmy nods, brown curls swaying. “It was right before I took over here— when I was, you know, eating everywhere I could, trying to learn as much as I could, and I…” His mouth lifts into a distant smile; his eyes glaze over at the memory. “I didn’t even place it until you made it for the kitchen the other day… Don’t think I would’ve noticed otherwise…”

“That was… God, that was forever ago,” you say with a laugh of disbelief, rising back up onto your eblows. “I’m surprised you remember it now.”

“I remember everything,” Carmy shrugs.

“That sounds… terrifying,” you scoff.

“It is. Sometimes,” he jokes with a breathy chuckle. “But, I don’t know… Now I’m starting to think it’s not so bad…”

His light eyes lock with yours. You lose your breath almost instantly, chest aching as your lungs struggle to find it again. You feel like the distance between you has vanished in a blink; each of your breaths feels like inhaling him in some way. You feel like you can taste him, almost, and your mouth waters at the thought alone, parting for his on instinct.

With your heavy eyes settled on his glassy ones, you catch the soft blue of his irises flick down to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You want so desperately for him to kiss you. And you hate how badly you need it.

“I-I don’t think this is a good idea,” you hear yourself blurt.

Carmy’s brows lower in confusion as you scramble suddenly out from under the table. You rise to full height on shaky legs and place several feet of distance between the two of you, crossing your arms over your chest in a feeble attempt to soothe your racing heart.

Carmy rises slowly from his crouched position, blinking the lingering haze from his eyes. “Wha… What are you talking about?” he stammers with his hands splayed in front of him, approaching you again the way someone would a stray puppy.

“Because of, you know… Because of… Claire.” You whisper the name like it’s a curse of some kind.

The confusion etched on his features only deepens further. “Claire?” he echoes, face screwed. “Wh—What does Claire have to do with this? Claire is— Claire is nobody—”

“Does she know that?” you press, brows raised.

“Yes!” he answers without missing a beat. “Because nothing ever happened between us! Because nothing will ever happen between us! Because I— I’m not into her that way!”

“That… way?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, tattooed biceps straining against the sleeves of his undershirt as he rests his hands on his hips. “You know, the— The way I’m into…”

He trails off when he catches himself. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. His unwavering stare bores into yours as he weighs the words in his head, wondering briefly if he should say them aloud. His wild curls sway as he shakes his head to himself. “You know what. Fuck it. The way I’m— The way I’m into you.”

Your chest warms at his words. So furiously, it feels someone has taken a white-hot blade and pierced your sternum with it. You can feel the heart flaring in your face, too, as your mouth curls into a wide, slightly apprehensive smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Carmy nods firmly, though something in his gaze seems distantly surprised by his own forwardness. He scratches at the back of his curls and looks down at the table just beside you. “Are you, uh— Are we you good here?”

You nod rapidly until the words to speak catch up to you. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Good,” he hums. “Do you… Do you need a ride, or…?”

You hesitate on instinct, nose scrunching sheepishly. “If it’s not too far out of your way…”

Carmy scoffs like it’s funny. “You’re never too far out of my way,” he says and turns on the heel of his sneaker to walk away, as if he hadn’t just taken all the breath from your lungs right with him.

III. ALMOND PRALINE.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You pressed your back hard into the rough brick behind you, letting it snag against your chef whites in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. You tipped your head back for further assistance, and fought every instinct that told you to beat your skull against the concrete as your heart thrummed wildly in your throat — as though it were trying to burst through the delicate tendon there altogether.

Adrenaline soared through your veins. The starry night air refused to pierce through your burning skin, face burning red-hot while your fingers turned to ice.

You had survived a million dinner services much harder than this one, The Bear’s very first. You had survived Carmy’s anger, Richie’s shouting, and the entire kitchen learning how to operate itself. But it was the food critic that nearly killed you — the man who came in older than you remembered, greyer, and a little skinnier than you recall.

It took you a long moment to remember to breathe as you watched Fak seat him through the kitchen window. “I need you back at your station, Chef,” you heard Carmy telling you from the expo, though his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. “Back at your station, Chef! Now!”

You listened, but your body seemed to work on autopilot. You broke out the baking sheet, the jelly roll pan, and the perforated pastry tray without thinking. You patted out the puff pastry and fired the pears like it was muscle memory to you. You had Richie deliver it to the man, on the house, and tried to expel the rest of it from your mind.

You forgot how to be human thereafter, hardly more useful than a fumbling ball of panic. Carmy told you to get out of the kitchen when you dropped a bowl of sourdough starter you’d been tending to for nearly two months. And now there you were, post-shift, with all the anxiety of a prey animal being hunted for sport.

And the worst part was, you couldn’t tell if you were terrified or exhilarated. Or both.

The heavy metal door beside you squeaked slowly open. A familiar voice broke through the memory. “There you are…” Carmy hummed as he walked out, chef coat hanging open, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tattooed arms.

His wild curls were still damp from sweat and steam, glowing a more golden shade beneath the amber streetlights. The exhaustion of the shift seemed to carve into all the chiseled edges of his face. But his eyes were heavy with relief at finally being alone with you all the same.

You grew sheepish as he stood before you, struggling to meet his gaze like a scolded child. “I’m sorry, by the way. For… all that.”

Carmy shrugged and cupped his palm around the cigarette he pinched into his mouth. His lighter clicked a few times before it lit, basking his features in a flicker orange hue. “It happens,” he mumbled before inhaling the nicotine into his lungs. The grey smoke left through his nostrils a few seconds later as he flashed you a sterner look. “Just don’t let it happen again, Chef.”

You nodded once. “Heard, Chef…”

Carmy flicked the orange filter with his thumb. His eyes fell to your lap, where you wrung your hands together in a feeble attempt to keep them from trembling. Concern surged through his chest instantly.

“Jeez,” he mumbled.

Your eyes followed his form as he crouched to set the newly-lit cig to the sidewalk, leaving it burning there as he rose to full height again.

“What?”

“Your hands… You’re shaking…” He closed the brief distance between you and took your hands in his warmer, larger ones. The contact stole the breath from your lungs. You’re still getting used to touching him so freely. “God, you’re ice cold.”

You laughed breathlessly. “Because my nervous system is shot.”

Carmy began to rub the warmth back into your fingertips. His palms felt like velvet, calloused from years of burns and knives and hard labor. The gesture was so gentle that it made you feel the crying. Again.

“He liked it, you know,” he told you. “The critic, I mean.”

Your stomach fell as anxiety flooded your veins once more. “I appreciate the sentiment, Carm, but… You can’t know that…”

“No, he said it. Cousin cornered him on the way out— asked him about it,” Carmy confessed. “And after he answered, Richie defended you. Said the guy was an asshole, and that he was a pretty shit critic if he didn’t know what good food tasted like.”

Another startled laugh sputtered from your lips. “That means we’re definitely getting a bad review outta him, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “But it’ll be worth it.”

Quiet settled between you. The city grew louder on either side of you in its wake — wind whipping warmly down the alley, cars passing distantly, a train rattling against the tracks somewhere further away. Carmy still hadn’t let go of your hands; he just kept holding you there as his eyes flicked down to your mouth.

He spent a long moment just staring, as if silently trying to will some courage into his body.

Your lips curled slowly into a sheepish smile. “You gonna kiss me, Bear?” you wondered lowly, almost inaudibly.

He nodded for a moment, then pinched his brows to ask. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

“I always want you to kiss me,” you laughed.

His mouth twitched shyly. “Then get over here then.”

Your chest swelled when he urged you forward with a gentle tug at your hands. You pressed yourself to his chest as his mouth ducked down to yours, tasting of nicotine and garlic and boy. You moaned at the feeling of him against you, fingers twisting in his silky brown curls. His larger, tattooed hands splayed along your waist, a little less confident in comparison.

The metal door shrieked open once more with little warning. The droning of ten different conversations filled the air as the rest of the kitchen staff spilled out all at once. You and Carmy sprang apart quickly, losing any and all ability to play it off.

The conversation quietened in an instant. You turned away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and refusing to meet their eyes. The three or more seconds of silence that went by felt like a lifetime, until—

“Pay up, assholes!” Richie shouted, fist pumping triumphantly in the air. He continued gloating through the chorus of laughter and groans of failure. “I knew you idiots were dating, and everyone acted like I was losing my mind! But the house always wins, baby!”

—

Carmy sat along the top of the booth with a plate of Canalé de Bordeaux in his lap. Family was your turn tonight, and you’d opted to make the first dish of yours that Carmy had ever tried for the rest of the kitchen. No one knows just how much tenderness is cooked into the caramelized crust and soft custard. No one, perhaps, other than Carmy.

His sneakers dig into the smooth pleather booth below as he props his back against the wall behind him. The rum-vanilla dish melts in his mouth as he surveys the bustling dining area, filled with his family and friends, some of whom were halfway strangers to him a few years ago. His eyes fall to you without trying as you deliver an alcohol-free dessert to a heavily pregnant Sugar. A distant smile tugs at his mouth as he watches your lips move with a conversation he can’t hear from here.

The soul music playing on the radio drowns out your conversation, but not the sound of Richie’s voice as he slides into the booth next to Carmy. His long, graceless limbs bump against the table as he goes, trying to cut a bite of dessert to shovel into his mouth at the same time.

Annoyance twists in the younger boy’s features on instinct. “I’m not cleaning that up if you spill it—”

“I’m not gonna spill it!” Richie argues boyishly, with his mouth full of food, as he settles into the booth a few inches from Carmy’s sneakers. He nudges the boy’s leg with his elbow. “And get your feet off my booth, you fuckin’ animal... Jeez, I don’t know what that girl sees in you…”

“You’re a fuckin’ asshole…”

“No, I’m serious!” the older man laughs with amusement glittering in his dark blue eyes. He shovels another too-big bite into his cheek and talks through the yellow custard clinging to the sides of his mouth. “I don’t know how you managed to pull that off, cousin— There’s no way you even know what to do with all that.”

Richie turns away, still laughing through his nose at his own stupid joke. He cuts himself another bite, already calculating a retort to Carmy’s inevitable argument on the matter — only one never comes.

The younger boy just stabs absentmindedly at his plate, distracting himself from the topic under the guise of forming the perfect bite.

Richie pauses with his own fork to his mouth. He turns slowly over his shoulder, brows raising to his hairline until four wrinkles line his forehead. “Oh, shit,” he scoffs after a few moments. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

“Shut up…” Carmy murmurs under his breath, taking another aggressive bite.

“Oh, c’mon! Don’t tell me you’re not gettin’ your dick wet, Carm—”

“Keep your voice down, fuck-o!” he spits through his mouthful, eyes darting anxiously to make sure no one else had heard him — that you hadn’t somehow heard him, from your spot all the way across the room, laughing with Sugar and Tina. Carmy turns away with a lazy shrug. “We’re just… We’re taking things slow. Not that it concerns you, FYI.”

“Well, FYI, you guys have been dating for months—”

“Oh, thanks for keeping track. I had no idea.”

“—And if she isn’t getting it with you, she’s gotta be getting it from someone else,” Richie rambles absentmindedly as he turns back to his plate. “I mean, I don’t even swing this way, obviously, but if I were a chick, I’d be all over that Luca guy—”

Carmy’s chest stings with a misplaced jealousy. He shouldn’t listen to Richie; he trusts you far too much for any of that. But maybe it’s his own lingering insecurity coming through — the cynicism that always lingers in the back of his head like a shadow, telling him that he’s unworthy of touching you, and then berating him for not being man enough to try.

He huffs. “Well, this is making me feel a whole lot better, cousin. Thank you.”

“I’m just sayin’!” Richie says, muffled through the dessert wadded in his cheek. “She’s obviously crazy about you, man— She looks at you like you hung the fuckin’ moon! I’m just sayin’, you know, trust your instincts. That’s all.”

“…Trust my instincts?” Carmy monotones.

“Yeah,” the older man shrugs. “You’re a chef. Isn’t that supposed to be, like, your whole thing?”

Carmy just blinks at him. “Your point?”

“My point is… She likes you. And you like her— I’m pretty sure half of Chicago knows that by now. So just… Stop getting in your own damn way before you ruin somethin’ good, alright? She picked you, cousin—”

Carmy leans back when Richie gestures too closely with his fork.

“So if you can’t trust your own judgment, at least trust hers.”

Richie’s words pierce him almost physically, giving him that surge of courage he’d been lacking these past few months with you. It makes him want to stop dissecting each of his feelings, for once, until they’re just lying there ahead of him, dead and useless.

Carmy’s light eyes narrow suspiciously. “You know… You’ve gotten, like, really good at giving advice since becoming house manager. You know that?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s freaking me out, too,” Richie deadpans, stabbing at his plate. “Sometimes I hear myself talk and I’m like, who the fuck said that?”

IV. PUFF PASTRY.

The first time you spent the night at his place, Carmy had a panic attack.

It started as a dream, or a nightmare, or maybe a memory. It played through static like an old film — Christmas Eve at the Berzatto house, beneath glowing Christmas lights and smoke from his mother’s cigarettes and something she burnt on the stove. He could smell the nicotine hanging in the hair, and the thick smell of tomato sauce, and Cicero’s expensive nose-stinging cologne.

Carmy was sitting at the head of the table, unable to move from his chair. The rest around him were empty, save for the one at the opposite end. Mikey’s seat. The ghost of his brother was laughing one moment, then screaming at him, then crying the next. Carmy was terrified — the kind of terrified he got as a kid when his mother got in another one of her moods — but he was comforted, at the very least, that his brother was here.

Alive.

Then the lights went out, for only a fraction of a second. And the Christmas lights were glowing again, but his brother’s seat was empty. And the silence was worse than the screaming.

Carmy woke with a sharp breath to a bedroom filled with a navy blue darkness. He rose to his elbows, chest aching as he waited, for a fleeting moment, for the Christmas lights to come back on. Then he realized that he was back in his bedroom, and his brother’s still dead; but you were beside him now, and that was enough.

As his eyes adjusted, he found you lying beside him, bathed in the dim glow of the muted streetlamp outside his window. You’d kicked off the sheets, revealing the expanse of your bare legs and the softness of your stomach from where your shirt had ridden up — one of his, which you wore with a plain pair of cotton underwear. Your mouth was softly parted; your breathing was even and slow.

He tried to match each of your exhales, but the panic dug deeper into his chest. His lungs refused to fill properly. His skin felt too tight. The air was too hot, but his teeth were still chattering. He couldn’t ask you for help if he tried.

The walls spun around him as he rushed immediately to the kitchen. He bent over the sink, gripping the counter hard enough to blanch his knuckles with one hand, while his other scooped handfuls of freezing water into his mouth. He was not sure how much it was helping.

The muscles in his back tensed when a warm hand settled suddenly between his shoulder blades. Carmy didn’t realize you’d followed him out until then; until he heard your voice in his ear, cutting through the wild pounding of his heartbeat.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “Just keep breathing. You’re okay. It’ll pass.”

His breath came easier to him after that. The kitchen soon filled with the sound of his trembling pants and the loud hissing of the kitchen sink. Carmy’s shoulders loosened slowly under your hand.

“Do you need me to do something?” you wondered quietly.

He shook his head, curls hanging over his eyes from where he was still hunched over. “No, I— I got it— I’m… I’m good now.”

He waved you off with a trembling hand. You couldn’t help but notice the way he avoided your gaze; the way he fought every instinct to tense again when you rubbed along his spine. You wondered if you were only making it worse.

“Do you want me to go—?”

“No,” Carmy blurted instantly. His head snapped in your direction. He blinked back at you with wet ocean eyes. “Please. D-Don’t go. I just— I had a bad dream. I’m okay, I swear.”

You didn’t look convinced, and, honestly, neither did he.

“No, you’re not, Bear…” you murmured gently, with a sleepy smile that bordered on sympathetic. But you didn’t ask him to explain the feelings he didn’t have the words for. You just stood beside him and asked if he wanted breakfast.

—

Carmy’s apartment always smelled different when you were in it. Less like an ashtray and more like warm sugar, and your fruit-sweet perfume, and whatever sweet treat you’d spent the service dreaming about. Tonight, it was homemade churros.

Carmy can smell it down the hall when he exits the bathroom. The shower steam mixes with that sweet cinnamon wafting from the kitchen — where he finds you standing at the stove, tapping a socked foot to the synth pop on the radio, and stirring a pot of glossy chocolate syrup with a wooden spoon.

“Only a psychopath spends all night cooking just to come home and cook some more,” he says to announce his presence as he leans against the doorway, replacing his uniform with a sweatshirt and a pair of plaid boxers. “You know that, right?”

“What can I say?” you grin as you glance over your shoulder at him. “You’re rubbing off on me, Bear.”

Carmy exhales a quiet laugh and spends a long moment just watching you, with all the attentiveness of someone who watched sunsets come or go or mapped constellations in the starry sky. You occupied his kitchen as if you’d been there this whole time, in a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed to your elbows, big enough to hide the less-than-flattering underwear you’re wearing beneath it. You look like home, in every sense of the word.

“You know…” Carmy starts lowly, swiping at the tip of his nose with his thumb. “For a while there… I kinda thought I was done with all this…”

Your spoon slows as it slides along the bottom of the pan. “…What do you mean?”

“Cooking,” he answers. “There was a stretch where I couldn’t even look at a stove without… hoping it would blow up.”

He laughs at himself, though, admittedly, the words sound slightly more concerning leaving his lips than they did in his head. He swallows hard, grateful when you don’t press him on the matter. You just eye him with a carefulness that makes him shift his weight on his bare feet — uncomfortable at being so foreignly vulnerable.

He crosses his arms over his chest in a childlike attempt to hide, scratching along the expanse of his bicep. “Yeah, I, uh… I just— didn’t enjoy it anymore. I didn’t enjoy anything anymore.”

“What changed?” you press gently.

“You came around,” he confesses. “And I watched you learn to love it again— have fun again, and it made… realize why I loved doing what I do.”

Your mouth lifts in a sheepish half-smile. You turn away, grinning wide at the pot of dark chocolate below as it ripples beneath the spoon.

“Well, I probably wouldn’t have learned to have fun again if I didn’t start working at The Bear…” you tell him. “It’s very likely I would’ve stopped baking altogether. I mean, Copenhagen was great and all, but… you, and Syd, and Richie— watching all of you work… I feel like I could do this forever…”

Carmy’s eyes soften as he watches you. A strange emotion surges warmly through his chest and up into his throat. He feels like he could cry.

“Yeah,” he hums, half-strangled. “Me too…”

Your smile turns shy when you look back at him, nodding your head to beckon him over. “C’mere. Come try this.”

Carmy obeys instantly, as if every muscle and bone in his body was made to be under your command. You twist the spoon to gather the liquid chocolate and hold it out toward him, cupping your free hand beneath it to catch any rogue drizzles. Carmy’s pink mouth parts for a taste — the syrup is warm on his tongue, silky and rich as it coats his mouth.

A low sound of approval sounds in the back of his throat. His damp curls sway as he nods.

Your smile widens instantly, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Yeah?”

“Mm,” he hums. “Hell yeah.”

His smile falters slightly when your free hand reaches suddenly towards him. Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, gathering the bit of chocolate lingering on the corner there. You press the pad of it to his lips without thinking, and Carmy drags his tongue against it just the same.

The motion was more instinctive than not. He didn’t realize how charged the moment was until your eyes flickered with it — going glassy and heavy in an instant. Even still, you don’t part from his stare as you bring your hand to your mouth, licking the remnants of chocolate on your thumb that was more of Carmy’s spit than anything.

Carmy’s ocean eyes darken in a flash. The cynical, uncertain thing that lingered in him like a shadow seemed to vanish, as his racing heart lurched with an emotion that bordered on primitive. He decides not to think — to follow his instinct, as it were.

He ducks down to kiss you, hard, with the bridge of his nose smushing against the side of yours and his tongue licking into your mouth.The spoon in your hand clatters hopelessly to the tile floor when he urges you back against the counter with a pair of wide hands splayed along your waist.

Behind you, the chocolate continues to simmer.

V. SPICED PEARS.

The first time Carmy had tasted any part of you was at Ever.

It wasn’t long after Mikey died, and he was making his tour around the city to try new food — seeing what changed and what hadn’t — and trying to take his mind off all the rest. He sat alone at a small square table, finishing up his lemon chicken piccata, when another plate was slid suddenly in front of him.

“Oh, I— I didn’t order this,” he stammered.

Then his eyes lifted to find Chef Terry standing before him, with a smile much gentler than he remembered.

“This one’s on the house,” she’d told him. She did not mention the death of his brother, but Carmy knew that was likely why she came over. “Figured you might appreciate something with a wee bit of alcohol in it. I had our pastry chef whip it up for you—” Her eyes flickered with warmth at the mention of you, who Carmy had not yet met. “I’m quite proud of that one.”

She left him with a pat on the back and nothing more. Carmy eyed the dessert before him, studying it.

The burnished bronze pastry sat on the small plate ahead of him like a tiny piece of architecture. The caramel on the ridged exterior gleamed in the candlelight. The shell cracked audibly beneath his fork, a delicate snap that most chefs spend weeks trying to perfect. The inside yielded immediately — golden custard oozing from its center.

Carmy scooped a bite into his mouth, and his world stopped for a fraction of a moment.

The deeply caramelized sugar hit his palate like a memory; a taste of nostalgia accompanied by a satisfying crunch. The silken custard melted on his tongue, rich with vanilla and warm with dark rum. A brittle shell followed by an impossibly soft heart.

Carmy thought, at the time, that it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

But it wasn’t.

—

You were.

His face burns hot between your thighs, which tremble on either side of his flushed cheeks from your previous orgasm (that he gave you with two of his fingers, a lot quicker than you’re willing to admit to.)

“Can you take another?” he’d asked, right after pulling his hand out of your underwear and licking your cum off his fingers, which glistened down the knuckle. You whined at the sight of it, half-scared at the warmth still lingering in the pit of your stomach. “C’mon. Let me taste it, yeah?”

You lift your head from the pillows to watch the boy slink down your body, still wearing all of his clothes despite you lying half-naked in the center of his unmade bed. He slides your panties to the side with a pair of tattooed fingers and licks a fat stripe up your pussy, from your pulsing hole to your already sensitive clit.

Your whine fills the lamplit bedroom as your hips buck to follow him.

Carmy pulls off wearing a barely-there half-smile. “Good?” he asks, for the hundredth time or so since you started.

“Yes…” you moan, head tipped back.

And then he starts eating you. Like eats you, eats you — with his mouth wide and his broad nose smushed into your clit. He’s led by nothing more than primal emotion and pure instinct as he laps all the honey you leak for him. The lewd wet noises of his mouth are only slightly muffled by your contented sighs and his own moans, as he rocks his hips against the mattress in a feeble attempt to relieve the ache in his boxers.

Your fingers tighten in his wild curls, as though you mean to pull him off of you, though your hips chase his tongue all the same. His lips latch on your clit, sucking the delicate button, and you cum with a drawn-out sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. He pushes your knees to your chest with a pair of wide hands to milk the orgasm from your pulsing confines.

“No— No more,” you whine feebly, watching with a pained sort of look as he continues licking at you. “It’s too much, Carm—”

“Just let me taste it, baby,” he says, half-muffled against you.

He’s wearing your glittering cum down to his chin when he crawls back up your body. It’s a mess of awkward, tangled limbs as you drag his sweatshirt up his torso from the hem while he reaches into his nightstand for a condom (a feat made more difficult by the fact that the box is still wrapped in its plastic). He kneels between your thighs, open and wet, and tucks his heavy balls under the hem of his plaid boxers.

You watch him as he rips the foil open with his teeth and rolls the latex on. Your eyes trail down his tattooed torso — over the sparse brown hair along his sternum and down to where it trails along his stomach in a thin line. His cock is heavy in his fist, glowing crimson with desire at the tip and leaking drops of pearly-white.

You should tell him that it’s been a while for you — long enough that you’re not sure if you can take something so thick — but you don’t want to stop the momentum you have going, not even for a second. You just curl your arms down and over his shoulders, palms splayed along his sweat-slick back, and fall back with him when he leans down over you.

His gold chain brushes your chest as he ducks down to open his mouth against yours. He rolls his hips forward and back, gliding his cock through your velvety folds, before piercing you fully.

There’s a fleeting, burning sensation as your cunt stretches around him — which quickly floods into a warmer, fuller feeling when he’s seated fully inside you, with his tuft of coarse hair pressed mercilessly against your throbbing clit.

“Oh, fuck—”

Carmy’s words sound less pleasured and more terrified.

Your eyes snap open. You catch a mere glimpse of his profile as his lips smudge along your burning cheek. “You okay?” you ask through panted breaths.

“Y-Yeah. I just—” The words come out strangled and half-muffled against your neck. “It’s just… been a while for me. I can’t— I can’t move.”

A delirious grin tugs at your mouth. You rake your nails gently along the expanse of his spine, until he shivers on top of you. “You can move, Carm,” you tell him.

He laughs breathlessly, though it comes out more like a punched-out breath. “I can’t, babe. I— I really can’t.”

“It’s okay if you’re close,” you murmur gently, smearing your lips along his flushed cheek. “You already made me cum— twice. This is about you feeling good, too, you know?”

Carmy makes a strangled noise, as if your words had hit him physically somehow. He lets himself go at your permission to feel good and rolls his hips against you. There is little rhythm or precision to his thrusts. They’re shallow and quick and a little sloppy, never pulling all the way out, as he buries his moans into your neck. The bed creaks below you like it might break.

“Fuck,” he groans like it hurts him, like he’s half-scared of his own orgasm.

“That’s it...” you coo in his ear. “I know you’re close, Carm. It’s okay. Just cum for me—”

“Fuck!” It comes out like more of a whimper this time, because he’s trying to calculate how long it’s been — two minutes, if that — but his brain’s too fogged and his stomach is starting to cramp from how hard he’s tensing to keep the feeling going a little longer.

Carmy doesn’t warn you when he cums. Not that you need him to. His heavy body just tenses on top of you, forearms shaking beside your head. You exhale a contented sigh when you feel him pulsing inside of you. “There it is…” you whisper in his ear. “Give me all of it, bear. C’mon. Doing so good for me…”

As your hands rub soothingly along his spine, you feel his bare shoulders shaking a little harder than before. It’s like he’s laughing to himself, or crying maybe. Then you feel something warm and wet drip along your neck.

“Bear?”

“Fuck—” He clears his throat when his voice breaks, lifting one hand to wipe at the tear running down the bridge of his nose. He laughs wetly at himself. “Fuck, I’m so lame. I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you whisper, as if anything too loud might break him.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he assures you, sniffling as he pulls slightly off of you. “It was just— a lot, you know?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“I wasn’t lying when I said it’s been a while for me.”

“Wow,” you hum sarcastically. “You’re telling me the anxious-avoidant chef who keeps his jeans in his oven isn’t absolutely drowning in ass? In this… very illustrious bachelor pad?”

His laugh is more humorous this time. “Fuck you.”

“You already did,” you remind him with a cheeky grin. “Unless you’re askin’ for round two— which I’m not opposed to.”

His mouth twitches into a more sincere grin. His glassy eyes soften further as they dart across your features, memorizing the wrinkles beside your squinted eyes and how your smile sits a little crooked to the left.

He shakes his head, ocean eyes still a little wet, as he smooths his fingers over your temple to brush away an invisible strand of hair there. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

“Oh, but what a sweet, sweet way to go,” you croon as he ducks down over you again.

But if loving you is a slow death, why does kissing you taste like salvation?

if you made it this far, thank u so much! pls let me know what you think and reblogs are always appreciated! here's a virtual forehead kiss for me to you *mwah*!!!

[justsayfkit]

hey no worries lol that just hurt my feelings forever

[valtsv]

woman in a victorian novel: *develops a fever from worrying too much*

me, shivering and sweating with stress-induced anxiety: wtf that’s so unrealistic lol