Warnings: slightly more mature themes but nothing R rated. Peter and the reader are also older. Age 20/21
A/N: Special thanks goes out to @rileywrites-parker and my dear friend Jessica (that sadly doesn’t have a Tumblr). Without them, I probably wouldn’t have had the inspiration or guts to even post this.
No, he didn’t want you. He didn’t want to keep doing this to you. It was torture, unfair and inconsiderate. But here he was, stumbling his way through your window with all the remaining energy he could muster.
He shouldn’t be here. He had left you already. He had left you high and dry. Without a word, without a warning, without a final goodbye. He’d just left. He had left, even after you had given him everything you had to offer. He was a horrible, disgusting man. Maybe even a monster.
He was shocked to still find your window unlocked, after all this time. Maybe it was a nasty habit of yours that you grew into as you waited each night for him to return. Maybe it just gave you hope that he would come back, someday, after he left you. He didn’t know.
He wished he could have prevented it; falling in love with you. Prevented himself from falling for you and your (e/c) eyes that always smiled truly from your heart. It was unpredictable, unconditional, pure and blinding, you and your love. He didn’t see it coming at all.
He wished he could have prevented you from falling for him, saving you from the heartbreak you didn’t deserve. You were too good for him, too good for this crumbling world.
God, what he would give to turn back the clock, prevent himself from spending endless nights of loving you wholly. He could take back those kisses that marked every inch of your body, in which he tried to instill every ounce of his love into. He could never utter those sweet, hot whispers worshipping you like a goddess, or wreak those delicate touches that raised goosebumps along your skin and set you ablaze like an internal fire.
If he could turn the clock back, he’d take back the days where he held you close and told you stupid puns, earning him both a smile and that cute snort he adored so much. The days of stupid bickering that often resulted in both of you holding each other and kissing deeply, so sure of the love that held you together. He’d take back the day he crawled through your window for the first time when you both were so young and new to love. He’d take back the moment you slowly peeled off his mask only to reveal his earthy brown eyes and toffee tousled curls. He would take back the first “I love you”.
He’d take it all back if it saved you from the pain he inflicted. It hurt. It was agony waking up every morning to see the other side of his bed empty and cold. But he could suffer in silence, for all he cared.
He just didn’t want you to hurt anymore.
That’s why, right now, he didn’t understand why he was crawling (limping) into your apartment in the middle of the night. When he clambered inside, he noticed that not much had changed. Your calming, intoxicating aroma, reminded him of home, filled his nostrils and circulated through his veins like a drug. Heat radiated from his skin like a brewing fever.
He took the time to survey the place that used to be his home. All traces of him were gone, everything he owned had been removed. His heart twisted tightly at that, but, sadly, it wasn’t unexpected.
He let out a sigh, stumbling slightly over his own two feet as he reached out to lean against something– anything so he wouldn’t fall on his face. He limped around the room, one of his arms wrapped protectively around his waist, almost as if he were trying to stop the inevitable. It was as if he never lived here. Maybe that was a good thing.
Then, inevitably, sinister thoughts clouded his mind. The thought of you moving on, you being with someone other than him haunted him, infuriated him, broke his heart. But he left you, he reminded himself. He could deal with a broken heart if you could find someone who was better than him (which wasn’t too hard, in his opinion).
He only found one thing in the darkroom, lit by the single silver ray of moonlight that spilled in through the window that he crawled in through. In what used to be the room you both shared was a picture frame. It seemed to have been slammed down into the ground, the front-glass smashed into a web of fragmented pieces. It was a picture of the two of you together. Your favorite picture. He sighed and slowly lifted it up, small shards of glass falling off onto the nightstand it had once resided on as he replaced it there sitting up properly. He was careful that the cracked glass didn’t completely fall out of place.
Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, you walked in. His head drifted slowly to meet your gaze, the white, bug-like eyes of his suit adjusting as he took in every part of your body. You seemed shocked, at first, but then your expression shuttered into an unreadable expression that he couldn’t decipher.
He stumbled again. “Hey.” It came out weak and exhausted, his voice thin. Then he saw your face stretch almost comically with realization, and you came running, hooking your arms under his before he could fall.
“Peter, hun, you’re heavy,” you grunted softly, the sound of your voice making his soul quiver. Oh, how he’s longed, how he’s dreamed of hearing your voice again. “Work with me.” And so he did, until you could place him down on your bed.
He was already saying “sorry” like it was a prayer when you pulled away. This is why he left you. This is why. When you looked down at your shirt, you seemed mortified at first. Your eyes went wide, horrifically wide, and then began burning with hot tears on the verge of falling. Your body froze, probably unable to grasp the situation at hand as you just… stared.
“Peter,” your sudden choking cry broke his heart as you looked down, his blood smeared across your hands and staining your shirt with thick, wet crimson. He knew you hated seeing him like this. He hated seeing you like this.
He didn’t have the strength to stop you when you slipped off his mask, seeing the discolored and swollen skin. You then pressed the release button in the center of his chest. His suit went slack and loose as you worked to slip it off of him. You stared, a few tears finally escaping from your eyes as he laid there on your bed, eyes squeezed shut in pain as cold air brushed against his sweating, bleeding body. “Peter.” He turned his head, wincing, some of his tousled curls falling in front of his eyes. “I-I can’t- you need to go to a hospital-”
“I can’t,” he mustered, the pain finally setting in, blinding. “You know that.”
You stared for a few seconds. “I don’t even think I have the supplies-”
“Then find something,” he swallowed thickly. “It doesn’t need to be perfect. Just enough to get me back up on my feet.” His breaths were slowly beginning to become more shallow. “You’re the only one,” he wheezed.
After a moment, you nodded at that. That night was dreadful, for both of you. It was endless, with grunts, groans, and hisses every time you stitched up his wound with an unsteady hand. It was a long and painful process. The light had dimmed in his eyes numerous times when slumber nearly consumed him. You’d cry and scream frantically, pleading for him to come back, to stay. Your cries were enough for him to fight through, to stay with you.
Sleep did eventually consume both of you, exhausted from what that horrifying night had brought. But a good night’s rest was not on your mind. Not after that. Your night was consumed with nightmares and heartache. You so desperately wanted to go and scrub the blood from your hands, your face, your shirt, but couldn’t bring yourself to leave his side.
What if he left you again?
That night was consumed with the fear of him leaving you. Whether he just jumped out the window and headed back to save the city or his lungs gave out. Both were petrifying.
When the sun hung so low in the sky that not even the rest of New York was awake yet; that was when he stirred for the first time in hours. Your mind was instantly put at ease when you jolted up at the sudden subtle movement. He was okay. You didn’t care for the blood that stained your sheets, your face, or shirt, or the horrid, pungent smell of iron that consumed your room. He was here. For the first time in a long time, he was laying in your bed with you, where he belonged.
You watched him, the way his chest slowly moved up in down in sleep-heavy breaths. You reached over and ran your fingertips delicately down his chest like a feather, admiring every curve, every scar, every detail like you had when you spent countless other nights with him by your side. You noticed that his wounds had healed significantly throughout the night as your fingertips danced, ghostly, over the nearly-healed wounds.
Suddenly, blonde hairs on his arms stood straight up, but that didn’t stop you from moving your hand across his toned chest again. He sucked in a slow breath at the familiarity of your delicate touch. You knew he was awake, now.
“Peter.” You drew closer to his form. “I need you to get up for me.” You brushed back some of his curls as his eyes slowly fluttered open. He wanted to smile as you massaged his head. You were the first thing he opened his eyes up to as you ran your hands through his hair that was longer than you remembered. He wanted to cry, knowing that his blood was stained all over you and your bed. He wanted to cry knowing he had caused you pain; knowing that you were alone. But he left despite knowing that, and that is probably what hurt him the most.
Slowly, he swung both legs over the side of the bed. I shouldn’t be here, he thought. You deserved better, his heart cried. While you worked your way around the bed, he leaned over, resting his elbows upon his knees, just thinking. Maybe a little too much.
You grabbed his bare arm, muttering, “C’mon,” as you began to pull him up to his feet. He was still weak despite how much his body healed through the night, stumbling over his own feet and unable to support himself on his own. It was a struggle to get him to the bathroom, but you got him there eventually. You made it to the toilet seat, nearly falling as you sat him down. Still, he said nothing. He didn’t even make eye contact.
You stared at him, your lips slightly parted. What happened to him? Eventually, he did look up, brown eyes meeting your own, and making your heartache. He had changed in your absence. His tousled hair was longer than you remembered, and he had let it grow into wild, untamed curls. His once-innocent, young eyes seemed heavier, darker, bearing more burdens and holding more secrets of the world, than any man should have to carry. More scars you didn’t know the stories of scattered his body. Bags resided under his eyes, exhausted and tired of a world that had been nothing but cruel to him.
That certain spark in his eyes, the one filled with life and love was only dimly lit now, threatening to die out. He was drowning. Silently and slowly. However, in a way you couldn’t quite decipher, he was screaming for help, crying to be noticed, crying to be saved. To be saved by you.
You smiled softly, reassuringly, just for him. You didn’t know if it would do much, but hopefully, it would do something. You let out a breath, reaching over to the bathtub faucet and running hot water, letting it fill the tub. The second the water began filling up, his ice-cold hand was gripping your warm one tightly. You turned slowly, taking in his solemn, pale expression.
His touch was cold, but somehow, after all these years, it still set you on fire.
His hand, so much larger than your own, left your wrist and unexpectedly moved to your hips, turning you and pulling you close in between his legs. You inhaled slowly, savoring the way he made you feel.
You were his one and only. He was your one and only. You were the only women that could bring him to his knees, and the only woman that could bring him to his feet. You knew that, and he knew that. You didn’t know why it took you so long to realize it.
His thumbs moved in circles on your hips, advancing under the fabric of your shirt. Dreadfully slow, wonderfully slow, his rough hands followed. His lips met the skin of your stomach and lingered there gently. His hands held you firmly, afraid to let go. Your eyes fluttered shut as you inhaled, air filling your lungs slowly but wholly. Your heart felt full again. Your hands traveled up, gripped at his hair, and ran over his muscular shoulders like a whisper as you held him.
You didn’t care where he had gone, or what had happened. He was here right now with you; holding you, loving you even if it hurt.
“I’m sorry,” he began preaching those words again, his face burrowed in the soft skin of your stomach as you held him. The room was suddenly filled not only with the rippling of water as it filled the tub, but his cries. It began with his strong shoulders shaking, muffled sobs that he tried to resist, and his grip tightening on your waist. His strong, protective demeanor was faltering, shattering as he fell apart in your arms. Once a few tears broke free, an endless stream followed. He pulled you closer and you didn’t care that his tears stained your stomach as he cried with the force of a hurricane. Heartbreak was an understatement.
It was painful to see him fall apart like this. Holding him didn’t feel enough. Could you ever do anything for this man to amend everything he’s done for you? After all the years you’ve shared together? You didn’t think so.
In reality, he just needed to be held by you. Be reminded that he is important. That he is more than just Spider-Man. You ran your hands through his messy umber curls over and over again, hushing him softly in an attempt to stop the silent war he fought with bottomless thoughts in his mind.
He may be a hero in the eyes of the world, but in his eyes, you were his hero. The one who held him every night he came home, the one who brought air to his lungs when he was drowning, the one who helped him stand when he fell.
When his cries slowly subsided and you dried the tears that streamed down your own cheeks, you reached over to shut the water off. “Peter,” you murmured gently.
He didn’t move, but you knew he was listening as he silently held you. “C’mon.” You patted his shoulder. “You need to take a bath.” You squatted down, his glistening wet eyes meeting your own. “You smell,” you sniffed. “Like, really bad.” He didn’t laugh, but you felt the atmosphere lighten slightly.
You helped him undress, taking your time as he struggled with his sore and aching body. You didn’t want to push him; the last thing you wanted to do was hurt him again. When you got him in the tub (which wasn’t an easy task), you collapsed on the cold tile floor beside him. You hadn’t even done much, but you were exhausted. You couldn’t imagine how tired he must feel.
You watched him, no words spoken between you as he adjusted in the tub, leaning back with closed eyes as he soaked in the warm water. He sighed in contentedness, finally able to relax. It was probably the first time he was able to since he left you. It didn’t go unnoticed by Peter when you left the room momentarily, coming back with a white towel and a thick plastic cup. You got on your knees on the side of the tub, putting the towel on the toilet seat.
You dipped the cup in the water, filling it completely. “Close your eyes,” you said softly, pouring the water on top of his head when he did so. The water cascaded down his upper body. You saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed, and when his eyes fluttered open, you smiled. Your fingertips grazed his forehead, brushing back wet curls.
Then you worked on scrubbing the blood from the skin on his upper body, gentle and caring as you grazed his scars and discolored marks and bumps. You kissed the wet skin of his cheek and felt the muscles in his jaw flex at your touch. You heard him shift in the water when you began to pull away. Then, a wet hand gripped your forearm, stopping you from pulling further away.
Your eyes met his pleading ones. Dreadfully slow, his hand traced up your arm, goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch. He cupped your cheek and you leaned into his warmth with your eyes closed. Yet again, he never failed to light a fire in you. He pulled you closer to him, connecting your lips in a wet kiss. It was hungry and painfully slow, your lips moving perfectly in synchronization. You both savored the kiss you’d both been longing for since the day he left.
It hurt, kissing you when he shouldn’t be. When he left, he left with the intention of never coming back. If felt so wrong, everything he sacrificed for you going to waste. All the heartache he caused you in his absence, only come running back to you like a lost puppy. But it felt so right being in your arms that he swore it was sinful. Kissing you, loving you, holding you; his home was in your arms. A home he could never run from. One he never wanted to lose. A home that made him feel whole, and that, for once in his life, made him feel like he was finally enough.
His warmth spread through your veins like a poison as he murmured against your lips unexpectedly, “Get in.” Slowly a smile crossed your lips as you pulled away. You wasted no time undressing yourself and settling down in the tub with him.
His touch was soothing, full of love, and always gave you a sense of security and safety. But, you were hesitant at first, too scared to hurt him or press against the wounds that were still healing. His strong arms moved in the water, wrapping around your midsection, holding you close in a gentle embrace. Your back pressed against his strong chest and your eyes fluttered shut.
It felt so good to have him back home again. It felt amazing to be back in his arms. All of the anger, loneliness, confusion, and heartbreak you endured when woke up one day to see your bed empty and cold of his presence was gone, vanished forever. You could speak of those things another day, when your skies and stormy minds were clear. Right now, he just needed you to hold him. Tell him everything was going to be okay, tell him you loved him, whisper to him that he was needed in this world that he was too good for. And so you did.
When you felt warm water poured on top your head, it was startling at first, but sent pleasant shivers down your spine. You gave a startled giggle at that and felt your wet hair pulled back to the side, revealing the skin of your neck. You tilted your head to the side, granting him enough room to rest his head in the crook of your neck. Your hands found his hands beneath the water, still wrapped around your body in a warm and loving hug.
You peeled his hands from your sides, his palms facing up. He let you trace the crevices of his large, calloused hands as you felt his lips press against the delicate skin of your neck multiple times, slowly. With another wet kiss as he pushed out the words, “I love you,” his hot breath meeting the wet skin of your neck, causing a knot without fail to form in your heart and abdomen.
You let yourself relax against him fully, now, your head resting on his shoulder. “I love you, Peter.” It was his turn to grab a hold of your hands, his thumbs working to scrub the flakes of dried blood from them. The blood fell off of your hands like black ink erased from pure white paper, seeping into the water you both sat in until it bled a deep, misty pink. He rubbed your knuckles gingerly, massaging them. Eventually, he slid one of his hands away, sliding it back under the water to wrap it around your waist, his grip on you tightening at your words.
You both sat there in tender silence, your bodies molding together perfectly.
He wasn’t a broken man. He was damn close to it, but he wasn’t. You had stopped the cracking of his heart and mind before it shattered. You had picked up and patched all of the crumbling pieces back into place until they scarred over and healed.
It would never be perfect. There would always be fights, and there would never stop being conflict. It would be painful. It would hurt. Some days, it might seem easier to give up.
But together, you were somehow whole. And maybe that was enough. If anything, your love was always worth fighting for.
And if this all was a lie, if the wind blew so cold the ashes of their love flowed away with the rhythm of the wind, he decided it would be the most beautiful lie ever told. All because he had the privilege of loving you. And that was enough.
Because, while the wind still blows, his love would never burn out.
