Headcanon where Steve’s parents are shit, but they aren’t /terrible/ people.
Like, they check in regularly, and Steve is often scolded for missing his mothers calls when he’s caught up fighting otherworldly demons, but they aren’t around enough to realise he’s fighting otherworldly demons.
He gets cards and kisses on his birthdays, but the sneakers they bought him are two sizes too small, and he hates sponge cake. They forget, it’s okay.
His dad doesn’t comment on his job or his college applications. He isn’t nasty. He just doesn’t comment. Ever.
“How’s Riley?” Robin. He stopped correcting them a while back, but they ask after her every time they talk.
It comes to a head after Vecna, after the town is torn apart by hellfire and the otherworldly demons they haven’t noticed. They rush home, grabbing Steve and ushering him home. His mother grabs his cheeks and smooths his hair down, silent shame filling her eyes as she looks over the boy she doesn’t really know.
They pack him a bag and tell him all about the lovely townhouse they’ve rented in The City (he doesn’t know which). It isn’t until they pause to breathe that they realise Steve isn’t moving. He isn’t packing or pacing or moving at all.
“I’m not going with you. I can’t leave my family. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t use the F word to hurt them, but he can see the sting on his parents faces nonetheless. They talk. For a while. And then Joyce and Hopper pull up outside, asking for a moment alone with the grown ups.
“Wait in the truck, kid. El’s out there.”
Steve kisses his mothers cheek and pats his father on the shoulder. Then he does as he’s told. Gets in the truck, sits beside El, but they don’t say anything. He can hear his mother cry, and then he can hear his mother ask Joyce to take care of her boy. As if she ever had to ask. Hopper and his father shake hands.
He watches his parents drive away, an odd feeling settling into his bones. He loves his parents. But he loves his family more.
Summary: A hug and kiss from Bucky can do wonders.
Word Count: Over 1k
Warnings: Established relationship, term of endearment (sweetheart), rough day, being tired, fluff, tenderness, protective vibes, Bucky's trauma referenced, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: I still don't have a lot of time to write, but I managed a little something. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Your life had been busy lately, but manageable. You wouldn’t say you were thriving, but you were surviving and that was enough for now. But today? It was a rough one. Nothing seemed to go your way. Not to mention, the weariness in your bones reminded you that you had to stop running on fumes.
You barely made it to the couch before you collapsed, groaning as you buried your face in the cushion. You only lifted your head to breathe and check your phone when it went off. A smile touched your lips when you sat that Bucky texted you.
No matter how rough the days were, your boyfriend was a bright spot.
“Barely heard from you today, sweetheart. You okay?”
Your heart sank when you scrolled through the chat. You usually sent him memes or gifs that you knew would make him laugh, along with sweet messages to let him know you were thinking of him. Today you hardly sent a thing with everything going on.
It was touching that he noticed something was off.
“Rough day. Sorry I worried you.”
You curled up with a yawn, the phone resting beside you.
“Just resting my eyes,” you mumbled.
You weren’t sure how much time had passed when the familiar rumble of a motorcycle engine cut through the quiet of your apartment, making you sit up slowly. Your heart fluttered, not needing to look out the window because you knew exactly who was there. One of your favorite people.
Bucky.
Your Bucky.
The sudden knock at the door sounded impatient as you stood up and stretched. You almost laughed when the knock continued, louder and more persistent. Maybe it was time to give him a key.
You barely got the door open before Bucky pushed his way inside, forcing you to step back as he kicked the door shut without taking his eyes off you. Your breath rushed out of your lungs when you looked him over. The sight of him in a leather jacket always did something to you.
But the crease between his brows pushed the excitement away.
“Bucky?” you asked.
A small sound left your mouth when he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you against him. His other hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his hold protective and tender. It felt like your feet weren’t on the ground.
“I’m here,” he answered, his voice rough and low. “I’ve got you.”
You felt his heart beat against you steadily, grounding you as your fingers curled in his jacket. The scent of leather and cologne filled your nostrils as you took a deep breath. Your eyes burned suddenly when he held you tighter, almost like he was giving you permission to fall apart if you wanted to. It wasn’t just a hug.
It was exactly what you needed without realizing it.
“I’ve got you,” he said again, his lips touching your temple.
You didn’t break down, but you did sniffle.
“Today sucked,” you said, proud of yourself for not pouting.
It sounded ridiculous. Bucky had lived through years of torture, brainwashing and more. You hadn’t experienced even a tenth of the pain he endured and you were whining about-
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said sincerely, rubbing your back soothingly. He never invalidated your feelings. “I’ll listen if you wanna talk about it, or I can punch something or someone if it makes you feel better.”
You let out a watery laugh. “No punching,” you said, pulling back far enough to look at him. “Did you really speed all the way here because I said I had a rough day? I know you sped.”
“I may have.” The small smile on his face made you smile. “You tell me something like that and you think I won’t drop everything to get to you?”
Your heart skipped a beat. No other boyfriend dropped whatever they were doing to get to you in the past. But Bucky always managed to find ways to put you first. The male species could learn a thing or two from him.
“You were probably busy,” you guessed.
“Doesn’t matter. Nothing’s more important than you.”
Your eyes burned again, but you blinked the tears away. “Thank you.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “You don’t have to thank me for showing up,” he said, grasping your chin carefully. “Can I do one more thing?”
His mouth found yours before you finished nodding.
It wasn’t a rushed or hungry kiss. It was something warm and impossibly gentle, like the grip on your chin, a kind of kiss that resonated in your core. He deepened it, like he needed a reminder that you were real and safe as he comforted you.
It felt like love.
His forehead rested against yours when he broke the kiss. “Did that help at all?” he asked, his breath ghosting your lips and thumb stroking your chin.
“More than you know,” you murmured, leaning into him.
“Good.” He pressed another soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Did you eat?”
Your silence answered that question.
He sighed, not waiting for permission as he walked you backward toward your couch. “I’m ordering your favorite,” he said, pulling you onto his lap once he took a seat. His jacket was still on. “And I’m gonna hold you until it gets here, feed you if you let me, and do whatever you want for the rest of the night.”
You settled into him, your body truly relaxing this time. “Even watch a bad romcom?” you asked, still in awe of how much he wanted to take care of you.
He rested his chin on your shoulder. “If that’s what helps.”
“Getting a hug and kiss from you did wonders,” you said honestly.
Knowing that someone saw you made a world of difference.
“Wonders, huh? Didn’t know I was that powerful,” he teased, taking out his phone to order.
You giggled and titled your head a bit. “You didn’t tell me about your day.”
“I got to see you,” he said, smiling gently. “So it’s a good day.”
And being in Bucky’s arms made your day much better.
I know a hug and kiss from Bucky would help me, okay? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
in dreams, i meet you in warm conversation (part one)
part two
pairing: peter parker x fem!reader
word count: 2k
warnings: brand new day spoilers (but it's genuinely the smallest one you ever did see)
summary: you're avoiding the party that mj and ned wanted to throw, but that doesn't stop you from being found by a stranger. why can't you shake the feeling that he's familiar?
a/n: umm it's been eight years since i posted on this account? we're so back? saw brand new day in theaters (twice) and felt teenage me gnawing on the bars of her enclosure this one is for her (and for y'all). potential for a part two...
You didn’t know exactly what it was. You didn’t mind the music or the alcohol; even being around so many people was fun sometimes. Before everyone got drunk and started spilling things and yelling, obviously. But every single party you’d been to at MIT had felt…wrong. Like you were missing something. Like someone was supposed to be there with you, and they weren’t.
Which didn’t make sense. Ned and MJ had gone to a majority of the parties you’d gone to throughout college, and they were your closest friends. How could you feel like something important was missing when everything important was already there with you?
Either way, you’d started trying to avoid that gnawing feeling in your chest. Besides, you were growing out of the phase where going to every party and meeting every person you could fascinated you. Maybe one day that deep, dreadful sinking would go away. Maybe it would stop appearing at parties, on every birthday you turned a year older, on the small amount of dates you’d gone on where the feeling got so strong it made you nauseous.
Today, though, was an exception. You’d graduated this past summer and moved back to New York with MJ and Ned, and they were determined to throw one last party with all the college friends that had wound up back in the city, too.
Well, Ned was determined. You and MJ were lukewarm about the whole thing.
Which is why you were in your—abysmally small—bedroom, working through this line of code that you were pretty sure was going to get you fired from your shiny new job if you didn’t figure out why it wasn’t working, with your door open to the noise beyond. It was to keep an eye on MJ and Ned, you told yourself, even as you eyed all the swaying people around the TV you’d just spent fifty dollars on from Facebook Marketplace. Ugh, you should have moved it before. If they broke it, you were totally making Ned buy you takeout for a week.
You went back to work, thankful everyone seemed to be too preoccupied with the party to worry about the weird girl staring at her computer screen on her bedroom floor. You couldn’t figure this out. It was driving you crazy. You were sure it had worked yesterday evening, and then when you’d come into work this morning it was all wrong and every single test you did didn’t fix it and you were going to throw your computer—
A knock on your open door. A cleared throat. “Um, hey.”
You looked up.
A guy around your age stood in your doorway. The first thing you noticed about him were his eyes, wide and expressive, looking at you as if you were the one who’d shown up in his bedroom. But…reverent too, almost in disbelief. He was looking at you like he’d never seen a girl before.
But he was cute. And something about him…
He seemed familiar.
“Are you okay?” he asks you. His gaze starts to bounce around the room the second you meet it, avoiding your eyes. “You looked, um, mad?”
“Oh!” You laugh a little at yourself. “I’m just doing some work. I’ve been told I look mad when I can’t figure something out. I don’t even realize it.” But who had told you that? It wasn’t your family, or Ned or MJ. But someone had told you. Who had it been?
The guy shifts on his feet. You realize he’s holding a bouquet of flowers, which is a weird thing to bring to a party, but you find it charming. He squints his eyes at you, but the corner of his mouth is lifting like he wants to smile. It makes something in your chest flutter. “You’re doing work during a party?”
He’s teasing you. You feel yourself smiling back. “Yes, I am. Super important work, I might add.”
“Oh, yeah?” He leans a shoulder against your doorframe, eyes on yours now.
You can’t look away.
“Yep. Keep an eye out because I’m gonna dethrone Spider-Man from the first page of the Daily Bugle tomorrow with my amazing work on debugging this finance app that only has three hundred downloads. Really groundbreaking stuff.”
He smiles fully, now. It makes you feel triumphant, nervous, and warm. “That’s awesome because I love—What’s the name of the app?”
“Financipply” Stupid name. From the doubtful look he sends you, he agrees.
“That’s perfect because I love Finacnipply. Can’t wait to see you on the front page.” You roll your eyes, but you laugh. You both do, his shy and small, as if he hasn’t done it in a long, long time. As if he shouldn’t be laughing at all. But his eyes are bright. They turn towards the floor as your laughter dies, shy. “So what can’t you figure out?”
And you just can’t stop looking at him. You motion towards your computer screen vaguely. “Just this code. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It’s just not working.”
He takes a small step forward. “Do you think…Can I…look at it?”
“For real? You code?”
He shrugs, one hand in his pocket. Adorable. “I…dabble?”
“Are you sure about that?”
Another flash of a smile. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Alright then. Knock yourself out.”
He comes to sit next to you on the rug you found at the thrift store a couple blocks away, rubbing his palms over his jeans and looking intently at your computer screen. He smells like clean laundry and the rain the city had earlier in the day, and he’s looking at your code like he actually understands it. “Oh wow. Cool.” He scrolls through it a couple times, up, down. You’re entranced by his profile, so close. He stops to type. “Did you try this?”
You blink. Look at the screen. “Oh my gosh, no.” A simple line edit. You know when you see it that it’ll work. “Holy shit. You did it. Holy crap. Thank you. You’re, like, awesome.”
“It was nothing.” But he's ducking his head with a blush. “Seriously.”
“What’s your name, anyway? Since you saved me from getting fired.”
“Um, May..nard.”
“Maynard.” It sounds wrong. You’ve never had that thought before—that someone’s name is wrong. But it’s a sure feeling in your chest. The one you have when you know your code tests are going to work, and when you decided you wanted to move back to the city. It’s really the only feeling you trust anymore.
“Yep.” He leans back on his palms, and your eyes run down his arms unconsciously, tracking muscles and veins. You have a brief, overwhelming urge to curl closer to him, to run your hands down his biceps, to take his hands into yours and trace the lines of his palms. And it feels normal, to have that feeling. So normal, your body almost starts moving on its own accord. But his voice breaks you out of it. “So, is this what you want to do? Program apps?”
You tell him that your dream is to work on developing video games, and he nods like it makes complete sense and gets you to tell him that you’d love to make a game based off of Star Wars, which makes his eyes light up in a way that has your breath catching.
And that’s how you end up talking to a cute boy on the floor of your bedroom for an hour, about Star Wars and your favorite video games and what got you into them in the first place. He makes you laugh, and talking to him is so easy. It’s hard to believe you just met him now and not in high school. He would fit right in with MJ and Ned. You can almost see it for a moment; the four of you hanging around the diner MJ used to work at before college, laughing and teasing and studying. The image is so visceral that for a moment it feels real.
You’re just about to invite him over sometime because you’re so sure that they’d love him and that you want to get to know him better, when there’s a crash from the living room.
Both of you turn, and your face immediately drops. That better not have been your TV.
You sigh. “I need to go make sure nothing important is broken.” You almost add on a desperate wait for me, but he’s already standing up and holding out a hand for you.
That would have been too weird to ask for, anyway. Right?
You let him pull you up. When your hands touch, it’s almost as if the warmth radiates from his calloused fingers, grips your heart, and drags it all the way down to your toes. He lets go quickly, as soon as you’re on your feet, but you stand there for a moment, disoriented. Feeling like…feeling like you’re right where you need to be. But also like you’ve forgotten to do something. It pulls at your brain like a grocery item list you know you were thinking about five minutes ago, but no matter how far you reach, you can never remember what it was.
It shouldn’t bother you this much—you’ve been feeling it since you went to college. It hung over you during orientation, and move-in day, and every visit home. It reaches you in dreams, and weirdly, whenever Ned shows you the thousands of videos he gets of Spider-Man swinging across the city.
But you’d never felt this close to grasping it before. You can almost see an image in your brain, faded around the edges like an old photograph, a word floating just on the edge of your consciousness.
“You okay?” He’s asking you. Maynard. God, why does that name sound so wrong to think?
He looks about a second away from grabbing your hand again.
You want to let him.
But you hear MJ’s voice from the living room, firm in the way she only uses when she’s annoyed, and you know that your TV is probably done for. Maynard seems to be able to sense it too, because he urges you to go.
And your TV is broken, thanks to some idiot and his friend who decided to start play-fighting for no reason. He gives you a twenty from his pocket, but you can’t even focus. Your mind is too busy playing back your night. Warm brown eyes, messy curls, soft smiles. You end up just waving it off—but you keep that twenty—and rushing back to your room to find Maynard.
Only, he’s not there when you return.
Your laptop is closed and placed at the foot of your bed. On top, the bouquet he showed up with.
You stand there, in the middle of your tiny room, touching your fingertips to the carnations and grieving.
Grieving for what? You keep asking yourself. Why do I feel this way?
But you can’t figure it out. It stays, stays, stays.
Later that night, his face comes to you in your dreams. It’s younger, unburdened with the sadness you’d seen lying underneath. He’s laughing, bright and beautiful, and he’s looking at you. You’re on a rooftop somewhere, both of you golden in the sun, and he’s saying your name with a fondness that notches into your spine.
I love you, he says, and he means it. It’s in his eyes, in the way his expression melts into softness, in the way he traces his fingers across your shoulder and pulls you into him.
Peter, your voice sounds just as yours does now, weighed down by adulthood. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and there’s a peacefulness in your body that you know you haven’t felt in years, even through the haze of the dream. I’ll always love you.
You feel the press of his lips to your hair, the curve of them as he smiles.
You wake up. Gasping, gripping the thin sheets of your bed, sweat gleaming on your collarbone.
Peter, your mind whispers to you in the dark.
“Peter.” You murmur it into the moonlight shining across your floor, to your heart beating against your ribcage, to the knot in your stomach that finally releases.
“Peter.” You say again. Taste it on your tongue, certain you’ve said it a thousand times, in a million different ways.
SUMMARY: You’ve been seeing some mystery guy as of late so when he shows up to your apartment for a party, Ned and MJ are excited to meet him. To get away from the noise, he takes you back to his apartment where you make a horrific discovery. Not only is he Spider-Man, but you were allegedly in love with him.
WARNINGS: Mentions of Peter lightweight stalking the reader, suggestive dialogue, make out scene :) , angst, angst, more angst, happy ending!
WC: 4.7K
Main Masterlist!
He didn’t mean to make it weird, but he had made it so painfully weird.
While out, Peter found Ned and may or may not have followed him onto the subway and to his extremely crowded apartment. The bouquet of flowers crinkled in his hands as he pushed through the sea of bodies, music bumping so loud he felt the rhythm in his chest.
A red solo cup made its way from the kitchen to the crowd, all the way to his hand, being filled with the most putrid alcohol his tongue had ever tasted. He gagged, discarding the cup and searching for the guy who used to be his best friend.
Somehow, he ended up in a bedroom. The door was cracked open and his curiosity got the better of him. He opened it slowly and carefully made his way inside.
He glanced around the room and almost immediately realized whose room he was in.
It was yours.
You had met Peter a few months back after he ‘coincidentally’ bumped into you on the busy streets of Queens. Truth be told he was following you like a total creep because he had saved you just a few weeks ago from the Scorpion who didn’t care who got in his way. After that, he was on high alert for your safety, because clearly stalking you through Ned’s Instagram wasn’t enough.
But that wasn’t actually the first time you met.
The first time you met was way back in high school in your chemistry class. You were reeled into his dorky personality. He was the only guy whose intelligence was on par with that of your own and was the only one who made you laugh at the stupidest of jokes.
Peter glanced around your bedroom, intrigued by the layout that heavily resembled the one you had in high school, but something about it felt more mature, like your own furniture had grown with you.
While you had been seeing him for a while, grabbing coffee, heading to the movie theater, or even spending hours in the record store, you had yet to bring him to your own place and he had yet to bring you to his.
Your old place wasn’t the best given you lived on your own, but now with two roommates, you had truly stepped it up.
Peter’s eyes scanned around your room. Your desk was full of postgrad documents, monitor left on where you had a tab open looking to transfer to Empire State.
Above that, little polaroids clung to the wall.
Pictures of you, Ned, and MJ on your high school trip, the three of you at high school graduation, you and MJ in your freshman dorm, college graduation, and most importantly the newest edition.
The polaroid Peter took of you just a few weeks ago.
Peter’s expression softened with a soft smile. Even though he had been practically erased from your life, he still managed to make his way back into your heart again.
He was growing extremely conflicted.
Many years ago, he promised you that he’d come back and remind you of your relationship with him. When that fell through because of Aunt May’s death, he promised to leave you alone because he couldn’t bear the thought of being the reason he lost another person he held so close to his heart.
But then when Spider-Man swooped in to save you, things changed.
He told himself that he needed to look after you even closer. So, he started following you. Just to class to make sure you got there safely. Then it was to work. Then it was to hangout with friends. Then it was practically every time you left the house.
On one particular day, you were rushing for an internship interview. You tried to get some coffee, but it was taking forever. When you finally got it, you rushed out, walking as fast as you could.
That’s when Peter accidentally ended up in your way, bumping into you, spilling the drink all over your clothes.
He expected you to be angry, but you weren’t.
He recognized the look in your eyes.
You clearly thought he was attractive and that small gleam in your eyes boosted his ego.
He couldn’t restrain himself from staying uninvolved in your life anymore. Not when you flashed him a crooked smile. Not when you asked for his name. And definitely not when you told him he was lucky he was cute.
Naturally, you both exchanged numbers. The poor boy was apologizing profusely and somehow you still managed to be on time and land the internship.
Thank goodness your coat wasn’t soaked.
And thank goodness after Peter turned the corner, Spider-Man showed up and swung you to your interview.
Now, after having been seeing you for a few months, he didn’t know what to do. You were clearly falling back in love with him, and he was just falling even deeper to the point that it felt like drowning.
He didn’t know if he should tell you, or just act like none of it ever happened.
When would even be the right time to tell you? How would he tell you when he was supposed to years ago?
He didn’t want to ruin what you two were already building again.
Peter turned around and saw the stuffed animals you had scattered on your bed. Even in your early twenties, you couldn’t seem to get rid of them.
He smiled to himself and walked over, grabbing the one of your favorite animal he had given you back in high school. He wondered now if it had any sort of meaning to you because it definitely did years ago.
Suddenly, Peter was pulled from his thoughts when the bathroom door creaked open.
He jumped, eyes wide like he had been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
You walked out of the bathroom, eyes glancing up at him in horror, until you realized it was only him.
“Peter?” you asked, caught off guard, completely unaware that he would be attending your house warming party.
Peter nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to intrude or anything, sorry,” he apologized.
You gave him a warm smile as you walked over to him, eyeing the flowers. “It’s no big deal,” you reassured him, catching his gaze. “Nice flowers.”
Peter shifted awkwardly. “Oh, yeah. They’re for you, actually,” he said, holding them out to you.
Your face flushed a shade of pink as you took them. “Thank you,” you said softly. “They’re beautiful.”
Peter smiled, eyeing you up and down briefly, which didn’t go unnoticed by you.
You looked gorgeous.
“You look really pretty,” he complimented you nervously, his own cheeks burning pink.
You tried to conceal your smile, but failed miserably. “Thank you. You clean up quite nicely, Parker.”
It was suddenly quiet between the two of you, the only sound being the music infiltrating your room.
Peter wondered if he should make a move, or better yet, maybe now he should tell you about the spell.
Wait, no! Now would be a terrible time!
Maybe he could make plans with you for another date and tell you then, or he could-
“I see you found my stuffed animals,” you said, trying to break the tension.
Peter snapped out of his thoughts and glanced down at the stuffed animal that he was still holding. “Oh, yeah, it’s cute,” he laughed to himself. “Where’d you get this one?” he asked, praying that a part of you would remember.
You scratched the back of your neck with your brows pressed together. “I don’t know, actually…” you trailed off, your mind filling with an intense fog. “It’s really weird,” you laughed awkwardly. “Sometimes I try to remember certain things and it’s like someone jumbled up my brain and I just can’t. My mom says it’s because of my phone, but I don’t know.”
Peter snorted at your last sentence, but then his heart started to ache because now due to him, you felt like you were losing your mind.
“Dude, there are so many people in our apartment right now,” a voice spoke, growing louder as it got closer and closer until the person speaking was in your room.
Ned halted at the center of your room, glancing between you and Peter. Then his eyes landed on the flowers and his lips parted, brows raising. “Oh my gosh, is this coffee guy?!”
You didn’t even get to respond because he turned on his heel and rushed out, yelling for MJ. “MJ! Coffee guy is here!”
You sighed and dropped your head into the palm of your hand.
Peter smirked at your embarrassment.
A few seconds later, MJ and Ned came rushing in, shocked expressions on their faces.
“Coffee guy?” MJ asked, staring at Peter.
“It’s actually Peter,” he corrected with a laugh.
“So coffee guy,” she said, turning to you.
You nodded. “Coffee guy.”
Ned walked up to Peter and stuck his hand out. “Well, nice to meet you coffee guy, aka Pater, I’m Ned and that’s our friend MJ.”
MJ saluted Peter as Ned shook his hand.
“Nice to meet you guys,” Peter said, as if he hadn’t known who they were. “She talks a lot about you,” he said, motioning to you.
“Good,” MJ said. “Because she won’t stop talking about you.”
Your face went hot. “MJ-”
“Yeah, it’s really bad,” Ned added. “It’s always ‘coffee guy this’ and ‘coffee guy that’,” he said, mocking you.
“With how often you claim I talk about him, you’d think you would know that his name is Peter by now and not coffee guy,” you said.
“I honestly stopped listening a long time ago,” MJ teased, making your lips part in shock.
“Okay fine, I’ll just never speak again.”
“We all know that’s not true,” MJ said.
Ned chuckled. “We all know you can’t stop talking about Peter even if your life depended on it.” You shifted awkwardly, avoiding Peter’s cocky gaze that was glued to you. Ned waved at Peter. “Well, it was nice meeting you coffee guy, I gotta check in on the party.”
Peter waved at Ned and MJ walked over to you. “Want me to put your flowers in a vase?” she offered.
You nodded and thanked her, handing them off. She waved at Peter as she walked backwards. “Nice meeting you coffee guy- or, what was it? Peter? Peter! Yeah.”
Both of your friends left, and Ned had the courtesy of closing the door, only after flashing Peter a wink.
You let out an embarrassed sigh, to which Peter took advantage of.
“So,” he said, drawing out the word. “You talk a lot about me?” he asked, taking slow, deliberate, steps towards you.
You rolled your eyes playfully. “No. That’s why they only know you as coffee guy.”
Peter hummed with an amused smirk on his face. His hands carefully made their way to your hips, which made your heart flutter. “Is that why you’re so nervous?”
You laughed awkwardly, arms snaking around his neck. “I’m not nervous.”
Peter glanced down at your lips, then back up at your eyes and you thought you’d pass out right there. His amplified senses were going haywire and he could feel how fast your heart was racing in anticipation. “No?”
“No.”
“Then why’s your heart beating so fast?”
You rolled your eyes. “Wanna stop talking and just kiss me already?”
Peter’s smile grew. “If you insist.”
Peter tilted his head slightly, dipping his head to kiss you.
His lips met yours in a soft kiss, almost to test the waters.
You sighed against his lips, kissing him back immediately. You thought you’d have to spend some time learning how he made out, but your lips moved together in perfect harmony, as if it was second nature to do so.
As if you had done it before.
Peter felt like his skin was on fire because for years, he dreamed about that moment.
The moment he’d finally get back with you. The moment he could kiss you again. The moment he could love you again.
“Okay, I- Oh, my God!”
You and Peter pulled apart, faces flushed, lips wet, and now at least six feet away from one another.
“MJ!” you yelled at her.
In one hand she was holding the vase of flowers, the other was covering her eyes.
“I didn’t see anything! I swear!” Her arm shot out, sticking the vase towards you. “Sorry! Here!”
You snatched the vase and put it on your desk and MJ used her other hand to cover her eyes some more.
“Sorry!” she apologized again. “I totally just cock blocked you!”
“What?!” you exclaimed. “Don’t say that!”
“It’s true!” she replied, already walking backwards to get out. “Remember to be safe! And update me tonight!”
“MJ!”
“I lied, I’m totally into your stories,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to be an aunt anytime soon so-”
“Get out!”
MJ flashed you a thumbs up before scrambling out and slamming the door shut.
You groaned and turned to Peter. “I’m so sorry about that.”
Peter was smiling like an idiot completely amused by the entire interaction. “We could go back to my place,” he suggested with a shrug.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
The night streets of New York were cool as you and Peter made your way to his apartment. When you left your own place, MJ apologized again and Ned simply winked at Peter once again.
You were never going to hear the end of it when you came back home…
But none of that mattered once you got to his apartment building.
As soon as the doors shut in the elevator, his hands were on you again and his lips followed.
You laughed against his lips as he pulled you in close, the intoxicating scent of his cologne clouding your senses.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened onto his floor. You almost tripped as he walked you backwards, lips never leaving your own.
Your arms wrapped around his for support as he led you down the empty hallway.
Normally, you would’ve been paranoid about someone walking out and seeing you two down one another’s throats, but you didn’t care.
Not when he was kissing you like a man starved for none other than your taste.
You both made it to his door, mouths still connected like your lives depended on it. Your back gently brushed against the door as his free hand unlocked the door with such ease.
As soon as it was unlocked, he pushed you inside, making you stagger back, his teeth grazing your bottom lip. He kicked the door shut behind him, hands finding your hips and moving your body, your back slamming against the door as a gasp escaped you.
Peter pulled away and buried his nose into your neck, kissing you just as passionately in the spot he knew drove you crazy.
“Peter,” you breathed out, your hand raking through his hair and pulling on it gently.
He groaned against your skin, the vibration sending shivers down your spine.
“Fuck, I missed you,” he said softly.
Your brows pressed together slightly, not knowing exactly why he’d miss you when he just saw you a couple of days ago.
You didn’t have much time to dwell on the matter because he nipped your skin, a soft moan escaping you.
Peter picked you up with such insane ease as if you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around him.
His lips found yours again and he walked you over to his bed, laying you down gently and climbing on top of you, one hand holding his weight up beside your head and the other grabbing your phone that slipped out of your pocket onto the sheets. He set your phone down on the nightstand beside an empty cup of coffee, lips never leaving yours, and moved his hand to cup your face.
You hummed against him, only spurring him on even more.
One of your hands found their way to the hem of his shirt. Your fingers snaked their way up, trailing along the prominent outline of his abs. He sighed in content, melting in your touch.
Peter shifted his weight and you moaned into his mouth feeling him against you.
Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.
Peter wasn’t sure what it was, maybe it was the way your tongue entered his mouth, maybe it was the way you kept pulling his hair, maybe it was the way your nails started to dig into his back. Whatever it was, something snapped inside of him.
A wave of immense guilt washed over him.
The kiss grew sloppy, less needy on his side and replaced by regret.
The moment of his lips slowed, he took his hand away from your skin, and now you felt completely empty.
You whined, kissing him deeper, arching your back. “Peter, please.”
His senses were going crazy again, feeling just how much you wanted him and he wanted nothing more but to give it to you.
However, his heart suddenly sank.
What the hell was he doing?
How could he bring you back to his place and make out with you without having told you the truth?
He felt so incredibly guilty. His chest tightened as he pulled away, nerves coursing through his veins.
“I- I’m sorry,” he apologized quickly, climbing off of you.
You immediately sat up, a pit forming in your stomach. “Did I do something?” you asked, already panicking.
“No,” Peter reassured you as soon as the words left your lips. “I just-” he said, cutting himself off, scrambling to get off of the bed, almost tripping over his feet. “Sorry, just- just give me a sec. I’m sorry, one second, okay?”
Peter rushed off into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and leaving you on his bed extremely confused and feeling sick to your stomach.
You kicked your legs off of the bed, sitting on the edge and biting your lower lip. Your eyes darted around the room as your mind started to worry, convincing yourself that you had just ruined everything.
Everything from that night replayed in your mind and you tried to figure out where your actions could’ve made everything go wrong.
You sighed and reached for your phone on the nightstand, accidentally knocking the empty coffee cup onto the ground. It landed with a soft thud and a piece of folded paper fell out.
“Oops,” you mumbled to yourself, sitting on the edge of the bed and picking up the cup and paper.
You went to put the paper back into the cup when something caught your eye.
Your own name.
Your brows furrowed as you unfolded it completely, seeing a letter directly addressed to you.
Scrappy writing in black pen filled the lined paper. It was handwritten from none other than Peter.
The further you read, the more tears began to fill your eyes to the point that you couldn’t even read it, your vision going completely blurry.
At first, you read the part where he admitted to being Spider-Man, and suddenly certain things started to click, like his strength, his seemingly sixth sense, and the way he’d disappear and the masked hero would show up.
But then he admitted to loving you, because at some point you had loved him too.
Not recently.
A long time ago.
He voiced all the things you experienced together. All your firsts and all your lasts. The lasts you didn’t know were the final ones.
Peter poured his heart out to you in nothing but writing. Writing on a crumbled, folded, sheet of lined paper cast away in a plastic, empty coffee cup.
The bathroom door creaked open and when Peter returned to the room that now carried such intensity, his heart sank.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed, the coffee cup on the floor, lid a few inches away from it, the letter in your hand, tears in your eyes.
Peter said your name softly, taking a step towards you.
You slowly lifted your gaze onto him. His heart shattered seeing the hurt in your glossy eyes.
“So, you just weren’t ever going to tell me?” you asked, voice just barely above a whisper.
Peter shifted, swallowing hard. “No, I…” his voice trailed off, nothing else coming out.
You rose to your feet, holding up the letter and walking up to Peter. “My whole life, I’ve felt like my mind was a mess, like something was missing, and it was you,” you said.
Peter’s expression softened, thinking you were about to say something along the lines of how you loved him.
But that couldn’t have been further from the truth.
You shook your head, grip tightening around the paper. “You were the reason nothing ever made sense and then you don’t even tell me,” you said, hurt and anger in your tone. “You just find me again years later and drag me back to your apartment.”
“It’s not like that,” Peter said almost immediately, hating that your words were insinuating that he was using you, because that wasn’t the case. He loved you and he’d never do anything to hurt you.
Unless of course it was shielding the truth from you because he thought it would protect you.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” you asked. “Because I think I deserved to know the truth,” you said, voice breaking with every word.
Peter’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
You scoffed, nodding your head. “You don’t know.”
Peter’s bottom lip twitched as he blinked by his tears. “I was going to tell you, that’s why I wrote the note, but…I don’t know. After I lost Aunt May because of that mask, I thought you’d be better off without me in your life. I thought everyone would be so that’s why I never told anyone else either. But then a few months ago when you were in the line of fire of Scorpion and I saw you again, I realized that I didn’t want to live the rest of my life without you in it. I couldn’t live my life without you in it.”
Your expression softened, heart aching. You were angry that he kept something like that from you, because had he told you all those years ago, maybe things would be different today. But your chest tightened at the thought of him being completely alone because of his fear of losing anyone else. “Just because you wear the mask doesn’t mean you have to be alone,” you said quietly.
Peter swallowed, looking down. He didn’t want to be alone, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be without you. “I’m sorry for not telling you.”
“It’s okay,” you said softly. “But…Peter.”
Peter glanced up at you, worry creeping up on his skin at what you’d say next. “Yeah?”
You handed him the letter, his fingers grazing yours as he took it. “All this stuff that you’re saying in here, about what we were…” you trailed off. “The spell worked. I don’t have those memories anymore.”
Peter stiffened, jaw tightening, the paper crumpling in his hands.
“I…” you began, trying to find the right words. “You’ve been in love with someone for years, someone who just now started falling for you. I don’t-” you cut yourself off, adjusting your tone to something softer to cushion the inevitable harshness of your words. “I don’t love you. I barely know you, Peter.”
Peter’s heart shattered, the paper tightly clenched in his hand.
You took a step closer to him, closing the space between you two. You cupped his face and he shut his eyes, a quiet sob escaping him as tears fell down his face.
All he ever wanted was you and now you were telling him that you didn’t love him.
It was like a knife to the chest.
You wiped away his tears with your thumbs. “Please don’t cry,” you said, voice cracking.
Your heart ached watching the boy you used to love unconditionally. You just now started to know him, just now started falling for him.
You didn’t love him.
You were interested in him, liked his smile, his curls, the sweetness of everything he did.
You didn’t love him.
It was hard to love someone you had known and saw every so often for almost three months.
“Peter, look at me please,” you said.
He let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering open as he looked at you through his tears.
“I like you,” you admitted, hands still cupping his face. “I like you a lot and I’d love more than anything to create new memories with you. You’re the sweetest boy I’ve ever known and I’m willing to try to make this work if you are.”
The situation was nothing anyone could ever relate to and it was rather unfortunate.
It wasn’t ideal, but you wanted to try.
Peter nodded, hand holding onto one of yours that were cupping his face. “I’d like that,” he whispered.
You gave him a soft smile, pecking his lips, resting your forehead on his afterwards.
You wished you could know what you and Peter were like before the spell stripped you of your love for him. You could only imagine what it was like and just the thought of it made you sick, because you wanted to know.
You wanted the memories back.
You wanted to love him again.
“I bet we were fun,” you said.
“Like, you wouldn’t believe it.”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
And so, Peter spent the rest of the night, telling you stories all about you and him.
His window was cracked open, the cool breeze hitting your exposed skin.
You were lying on your stomach in his bed as he sat beside you, leaning against the headboard with his legs crossed.
Your shirt was lifted slightly, exposing the small of your back. Peter’s gentle fingers grazed against your skin, filling it with goosebumps.
“And then after that, we got ice cream,” he said, mid story. “You had this weird funfetti flavor with a bunch of rainbow sprinkles,” he laughed to himself.
“Rainbow sprinkles?” you asked, not believing him.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “But then you dropped it and that was the last five bucks you spent and I had also spent the last of my money so you shared with me.”
You hummed. “And then what?”
“I swung you to my place and when we got into my room, you screamed because Mr. Stark was sitting on my bed.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Yup. He was making fun of me for weeks for ‘sneaking some girl around’,” he said, smiling at the memory. “It was terrible. “And then when he found out we weren’t dating yet he was giving me all kinds of advice and kept trying to set us up.”
You giggled. “Must’ve worked, huh?”
“Yeah. Imagine my shock when we were coming come from school and the goddamn clouds spelled out your name, followed by, ‘will you be my girlfriend?’”
Your jaw dropped. “No freaking way! What?!”
“Yes,” Peter laughed. “I was so embarrassed, but you liked it and kissed me on the busiest street ever. Everyone was watching and the whole school wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks.”
You laughed again. “Okay, well, please don’t do that this time, that’s incredibly corny.”
“For us now, yeah, it’s extremely corny,” Peter agreed. “But your little high school freshman self liked it.”
You rolled your eyes, a small smile on your lips. It slowly fell away a few seconds later because you realized he was telling you things you had no memory of.
You had no idea what he was talking about.
You weren’t reminiscing with your boyfriend on your relationship.
He was reminding you of a love you’d never remember.
Peter glanced down at you. “What’s wrong?”
You pulled your lips into a tight line, trying to avoid his gaze. “Just kinda wish I would remember all this stuff you’re talking about.”
Peter’s lips tugged downward. “Yeah, me too…”
It was quiet for a long beat, the buzz of the city filling your ears as you zoned out.
“Maybe one day they’ll come back,” Peter said optimistically. “But for now, let’s make new ones, yeah?”
You smiled, looking up at him. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
“And…” he trailed off, leaning down and brushing his nose against yours. “Let me make you fall in love with me again,” he murmured.
You smirked, titling your head slightly. “I’d like that."
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: johnny storm x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: mdni, smut with comic relief
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Johnny's work life is starting to interfere with his sex life, and that just won't do.
: ̗̀➛ [𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧] [𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱]
𝐚/𝐧: Here's another thing I made (also I was stoned when I edited this, so there's that)
“Fucking finally,” he mutters against your lips, kicking the door shut behind you both with enough force to rattle the frame. His body crowds you against the wall, heat rolling off him in waves, his thigh sliding between yours with deliberate, maddening pressure. The friction draws a whine from your throat, and his grin sharpens, wild and wicked.
“Yeah? You like that?” he teases, voice already rough, breath uneven. His hands skate down your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise—not that you’d complain. Not when you’ve spent the last two weeks aching for exactly this.
You don’t answer with words. Instead, you drop to your knees, and the way his breath stutters is its own reward. His fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling—yet—but holding on like he’s already fighting the urge to fuck into your mouth. His free hand braces against the wall, muscles taut under sweat-slick skin as you take him deep, his hips jerking forward on instinct.
“Shit— just like that—” His voice is ragged, head thudding back against the wall. “Keep goin’ and I swear I’ll—”
Then, the blare of his mission alert slices through the room like a particularly sadistic punchline.
“Priority one. Latverian drones spotted in Manhattan. Suit up.”
Johnny doesn’t just groan—he growls, a sound so genuinely feral you’d laugh if not for the way his grip on your hair gentles, his forehead dropping to yours in sheer, agonized frustration.
“No. No. Absolutely not,” he hisses, yanking you up to kiss you again, sloppy and desperate, his hips grinding against you in a way that makes your thighs tremble. “Ignore it. Five minutes. Four. I’ll be fast—”
You can feel the way his body wars with itself—the tension in his muscles, the way his fingers flex against your scalp. But then the alert blares again, more insistent this time, and he lets out a noise that’s half-snarl, half-whine.
“I hate Doom,” he grits out, pressing one last searing kiss to your mouth before wrenching himself away. His hands linger on you, though—trailing down your arms, squeezing your hips like he can’t bear to let go, and you’re left slumped against the wall, flushed and frustrated, watching as he yanks his suit on with aggravated precision.. “This isn’t over,” he promises, voice dark with intent. “The second I get back, you’re mine.”
You arch a brow, still breathless, still aching. “Better make it quick, hotshot.”
Then he’s gone in a blaze of fire—leaving you aching, unsatisfied, and absolutely counting down the minutes until he returns.
The second he’s got you beneath him again, Johnny’s hands map every inch of you like he’s trying to prove a point—like he’s spent every second since the last time relearning you, rehearsing the exact ways you fall apart for him. His mouth is relentless, tongue dragging slow, filthy circles that leave you gasping, your thighs trembling around his head as if they might never remember how to close again.
And the bastard savors it.
His grip on your hips is ironclad, fingers pressing into your skin, holding you down as you writhe. His own arousal strains against the confines of his pants, every stifled groan against your skin betraying just how much he’s aching too. But he won’t rush—not when he’s spent weeks starving, not when the taste of you is finally on his tongue again.
“Johnny—” Your voice cracks, fingers twisting in his hair as he hums against you, the vibrations shooting straight to your core, sparking white-hot behind your eyelids.
He grins, sharp and smug, flicking his tongue just to hear you moan louder. “Yeah?” he rasps, breath hot and uneven against your soaked skin. “Missed this, didn’t you? Missed me.” His teeth graze your thigh—not quite a bite, but a promise—before his mouth is on you again, licking into you like he’s chasing the last embers of a fire.
You tug at his hair, hips jerking, but he doesn’t let up. If anything, he doubles down, fingers digging in harder, his free hand sliding up to palm your breast, thumb circling your nipple just to feel you arch off the bed.
“Fuck— Johnny, please—”
"Yeah, that’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit in a way that makes you scream out his name again, your nails scraping down his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. His grin is pure sin against your skin. "Gonna make you cum so hard you forget your own name—"
Bzzzt.
The comm unit on his nightstand crackles to life, Sue’s voice slicing through the haze of pleasure.
"Johnny, the charity gala started twenty minutes ago!"
He groans—deep, guttural—and the sound vibrates against your core, sending a jolt of white-hot need straight to your already throbbing cunt. You whine, hips jerking helplessly, torn between grinding down on his tongue and launching the damn comm unit into the nearest wall.
"Tell them I’m dead," Johnny shoots back, voice wrecked, before diving back in with renewed determination. His tongue flattens against you in one long, lewd stroke, and you choke on a sob, thighs shaking as he sucks your clit between his lips, just right—
But Sue is unrelenting. "Ben’s already covering for you, and he’s running out of excuses. Get. Down. Here."
Johnny pulls away with a filthy curse, resting his forehead against your thigh as his breath comes in ragged bursts. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s physically restraining himself from saying screw it and finishing what he started.
"Fuck," he mutters, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh—one last promise—before dragging himself up. His pupils are blown wide, lips slick with you, and the sight alone makes your stomach clench, your core pulsing with need.
"This isn’t over," he growls, voice low and dangerous as he grabs his jacket, throwing a glare at the comm unit like it’s personally betrayed him.
You collapse back onto the bed, still trembling, still aching, and watch as he stalks toward the door—every inch of him radiating frustration and unspent want.
"Better not be," you call after him, breathless.
Johnny pauses, glances back at you over his shoulder, and the smirk he shoots you is pure, wicked temptation.
"Oh, sweetheart," he says, voice dripping with intent. "I was just getting started."
By the time he finally stumbles back into the room, the gala’s champagne-bright chatter still ringing in his ears, the space is bathed in the amber glow of the bedside lamp you’d left on for him. The light spills like honey across the sheets, gilding the curve of your shoulder, the loose strands of your hair fanned out over his pillow.
His side of the bed.
Not that he minds. Not when the sight of you—curled into the space he usually occupies, cheek smushed against the fabric like you’d tried (and failed) to wait up for him—steals the breath from his lungs. The faintest impression of your face lingers on the pillowcase, and something in his chest twists, too big and too fragile to name.
For a heartbeat, he hesitates. The part of him that’s spent all night itching to get back here, to pick up exactly where you left off, wars with the exhaustion dragging at his limbs. He could wake you. Should wake you, maybe—press his mouth to the sleep-soft slope of your shoulder, murmur half-drunk apologies into your skin, let his hands relearn every inch of you until you’re both gasping.
But then you sigh in your sleep, nuzzling deeper into the pillow, and the fight drains out of him all at once.
So he moves quietly, toeing off his shoes, shrugging out of his suit jacket with none of his usual dramatic flair. The mattress dips under his weight as he eases onto the bed, careful not to jostle you—
—he shouldn’t have bothered.
The second the sheets shift, you turn toward him instinctively, drawn to his warmth like a magnet. Your arm drapes over his waist, fingers curling into the rumpled fabric of his dress shirt with a quiet, possessive urgency, even in sleep. A sigh escapes you, warm against his collarbone, your body molding against his like it was made to fit there.
Johnny huffs a laugh, soft and wondering, and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Missed you too,” he murmurs, though you’re too far under to hear it.
It doesn’t take long for the rhythm of your breathing to lull him under, his own limbs going heavy.
After three more agonizing days of obligations—press conferences, team briefings, and a fundraiser where Johnny spent half the night staring at you from across the room like he wanted to devour you whole—you finally manage to slip away.
The Baxter Building’s rarely used guest bathroom is a sanctuary of marble and muted gold, all cool surfaces and pristine lighting—thank you, Sue, for insisting on “luxury accommodations”—but Johnny doesn’t give you any time to appreciate it.
The door locks behind you with a click, and then his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent, swallowing your gasp as he spins you toward the counter. His kiss is all teeth and tongue, the kind that leaves your lips throbbing and your head spinning.
His fingers dig into your hips, pressing hard enough to leave bruises, and the thought alone has you shuddering—yes, let me remember this tomorrow.
Then he’s gripping your ass, hiking your skirt up in one impatient tug, and the noise he makes when he sees you’re already desperate for him is downright feral.
“Christ, you’re killin’ me,” he growls against your neck, lips dragging over your pulse as his fingers tease the soaked lace clinging to you. A rough jerk—rip—fabric tearing (he’s never been patient), and then his palm slaps against your bare skin, the sharp crack of it echoing off the tiles before the sting blooms, making you cry out.
His free hand fists in your hair, tipping your head back as he nips at your jaw, his other hand working you open with filthy, slick strokes. “Love you so fucking much,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, before sinking into you in one slow, devastating thrust.
The stretch burns, perfect, and you choke on a moan, fingers scrambling against the marble counter for purchase. Johnny groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he stills, trembling with the effort not to lose it right then and there.
“Fuck, fuck—shoulda known you’d feel this good,” he grits out, hips rolling just to hear you whine. His hands tighten on you, possessive, like he’s trying to fuse you together.
And then he moves—no patience, no finesse, just raw, relentless need—each snap of his hips driving you harder against the counter, the mirror rattling. Every ragged breath, every bitten-off curse, every time his grip on you tightens like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—it all coils tighter and tighter until you’re both hurtling toward the edge, too far gone to care who hears.
“What do you want, baby?” he teases, lips brushing your ear as he drags his cock out agonizingly slow, just to watch you squirm. His breath is ragged, his voice all rough-edged amusement—like he’s savoring every second of your desperation. “Use your words.”
You’re right there—teetering on the edge, ready to beg, demand, scream if that’s what it takes to push you both over—when—
BWEEEEEEEEEEP.
The alarm doesn’t just sound—it attacks, a deafening, soul-crushing shriek that rattles the walls and the very foundation of your patience. The Baxter Building’s safety system cuts in with infuriating serenity:
Johnny goes statue-still behind you for one glorious, suspended second—silence.
Then—
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
His voice is a frayed wire, sparking with barely restrained fury. When he lifts his head, his eyes are molten, his entire body radiating enough heat that the air shimmers around him. He looks like he’s about to burn a hole straight through the floor.
With a snarl, he wrenches himself away, hands raking through his hair like he might actually light himself on fire out of sheer frustration. “It was one time!” he roars at the ceiling, as if the universe itself is conspiring against him. “One time I got a little carried away and maybe set the couch on fire—”
The alarm blares louder, as if in protest.
Down the hall, Ben’s thunderous laughter shakes the walls, followed by Reed’s long-suffering sigh. “Johnny, we talked about this.”
Johnny whirls toward the door, finger jabbing at it like he’s about to shoot a flare straight through the wood. “I hate this family.”
You can’t help it—you’re laughing, breathless and giddy, even as your body still thrums with unfinished need. Johnny turns back to you, and the look on his face—all wild-eyed desperation and hunger—sends a fresh pulse of heat between your legs.
“Oh, you think this is funny?” His voice drops, rough and dangerous, his hands caging you in before you can so much as squeak. “You’re laughing while I’m out here suffering?”
He leans in, his mouth hovering just above yours, his body burning against you. “You know what this means, right?” His grin is pure, unrepentant mischief. “Now I owe you. And I always pay my debts.”
The alarm wails again.
Johnny exhales, long-suffering, and presses his forehead to yours. “...After we evacuate.”
Right now is apparently his last straw.
You’re stretched out beneath him on the living room couch, his mouth searing a path down your neck, his hips grinding against yours in a rhythm that’s just shy of mean. Your nails scrape red lines down his back, and he hisses in gratitude, like he’s been starving for the sting.
You’ve both been too patient for too long, and now? Now, there’s no room left for restraint—just skin and heat and the desperate, aching need that’s been building for too long. His teeth catch your pulse point, and you arch into him with a whimper that goes straight to his dick, your thighs tightening around his hips in a silent plea for more, faster, now—
Then the door whooshes open.
"Johnny, have you seen the—oh."
Reed’s voice slides into the room like an unwelcome algorithm, smooth and utterly oblivious.
Johnny doesn’t even look up. His entire body locks tight—not with embarrassment, not with shame, but with sheer, unbridled rage.
"No," he snaps, voice lethally calm. "Nope. Absolutely not. Get the fuck out."
His hand flings toward the door in a wild, dismissive gesture, like he’s banishing Reed from the planet.
A beat of silence.
Then, Reed—because he’s Reed—clears his throat. "Right. Well, if you do find the quantum stabilizer—"
"REED." Johnny’s voice cracks like a whip. "I swear to God, if you finish that sentence, I’m setting all your lab notes on fire."
Another pause. The door starts to slide shut—then stops. Reed’s head pokes back in. "Actually, you do realize this is a common area, right? If you two wanted privacy—"
Johnny moves.
One second, he’s pinning you to the couch. The next, he’s halfway across the room, fingers sparking, eyes literally glowing with fury. "OUT. NOW."
Reed finally—finally—gets the hint. The door shuts.
Johnny exhales, long and slow, like he’s counting to ten in his head. Then he turns back to you, his expression shifting from murderous to hungry in half a second flat.
"Now," he growls, stalking toward you like a man on a mission, "where were we?"
You and Peter decided it was best to separate ways after your heated argument. The discourse was evident in the media, with gossip outlets asking the burning question, “Spider-man’s Love Life: Decorated Journalist & Ex Lover?”
Thanks hyping up the first part. Low-key didn't expect you guys to like it so much. Click here to read the first part.
Months had passed since you last spoke to Peter Parker. Nowadays, you wrote articles on other pressing matters of the country. Your Spider-man articles completely ceased after you last saw him.
Peter kept on doing what he swore to do and fought crime everyday. After mastering his new heightened abilities, his job got far more easier. Much more routine. But there was a gaping emptiness where you once held a place in.
At first, he wasn’t sure if he missed you or just got used to your company. For years, Peter was always able to have someone to talk about the troubles of being a hero who hid behind a mask everyday.
You developed the understanding for his woes. This was something Peter appreciated about you.
Peter started looking for you in the other people he let into his life. But no one was the soft spoken cheerleader that was always in his corner. No one to anchor him or give him a reason to not be reckless at times.
Talk shows and gossip blogs yapped about it for weeks. Insisting that there was something romantic between you and Spider-man. But you both kept your noses down and never addressed it.
"Ma'am, your ten o'clock just checked in," your assistant announced as she skittered into your office.
"Alright," you nod, tearing your eyes away from the drafts you were proof-reading. "Send her in," you say and she gave you a quick smile before she left the room.
You shoved the stack of papers into your desk as someone rhythmically knocked on the open door. Valentina stood in the door way, with an all too jolly expression on her face.
"Ms. De Fontaine," you announced, rising to your feet to greet her. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" you ask as you shook hands.
"I came to drop this off for you," Val replied as you both took a seat across from each other. She slid a white envelope across your desk which had a fancy wax seal of the New Avengers logo.
"An invitation?" you wondered aloud as you took it into your hands.
"To our Supers' Gala intended for America's superheroes." She announced proudly as you opened the invitation. Taking in a minute to appreciate all the fancy details on the expensive piece of paper.
"Val, you really shouldn't have," you sighed, giving her a knowing look.
"Yeah, I know you hate these kinds of things. But you'll also be a presenter for our surprise guest speaker," Val pitched.
"Is this because you want me to write about your new toys?" you asked her, getting right to the point.
Valentina went thin lipped before confirming your suspicions with a heavy nod. "Yes and it's because the public is still kinda on the fence about the New Avengers." she admits. "But if you show face and write a nice article about it, then the world will come around to it too." she sighs, practically begging for your influence.
"Well, what's in it for me?" you replied, and Valentina simply smirked at your words.
You were used to your name being on newspapers and articles, specifically in the bylines. But the events that one would have to get all dressed up for was not your forte. Valentina promised you something you in return for a column in your next issue. Something your inner fan girl couldn't deny.
The SUV that was sent to your apartment just rolled up to Avengers tower. A red carpet was rolled out with countless news outlets taking photos before you even stepped out of the vehicle.
As the driver rounded the front of the car and opened your door, everyone began shouting your name. You gave them all a wave while walking towards the front entrance.
"Look this way!"
"Give us a smile!"
The paparazzi spouted different orders all at once, while simultaneously begging to interview you. But you didn't cave in and made your way inside. You found it much more bearable, leaving behind all the ruckus outside.
A waiter offered you a flute of champagne, which you gratefully accepted. You gulped it down quickly, praying that it would settle the nerves.
"I assume that you're the date Valentina set up for me?" someone asked in a low voice. The husky voice belonged to James Buchanan Barnes.
A shiver trickled down your spine as he said your name. His hair combed back and beard neatly trimmed. You gave him a smile before setting your empty glass on a nearby surface.
"Mr. Barnes," you nodded as he offered you his arm, which you gladly looped with your own
"Please, call me Bucky." he insisted, "You're stuck with me all night so might as well get comfortable." he chuckled while you both slowly circled the lobby area.
"Well it's nice to finally meet you, Bucky." you replied, practicing the way his name rolled off your tongue.
"The pleasures all mine," Bucky assured as he gave you a wink. "I don't think I've seen you at these kind of events before," he pointed out as your eyes took in the a-list superheroes that were in attendance.
"I despise them, that's why." you chimed.
"Then why'd you show up tonight?" he quizzed as you both grabbed another glass of champagne.
"Who could say no to being the Winter Soldier's arm candy?" you scoffed, causing Bucky to blush at your confession.
"I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit," Bucky replied, eyeing your outfit.
The floor length gown you wore tonight was surely eye catching. It was classy with a little bit of cleavage. Bucky's eyes drifted down the small gap between the fabric and your breasts more times than he would like to admit.
"But I don't like all the fancy fuss either," Bucky admitted.
The two of you ended getting along swimmingly over the course of the night. Even as you entered the event hall of the building, Bucky stuck by your side like he said and introduced you to the team. Exchanging flirty whispers while everyone else was lost in conversation.
You nearly choked on the piece of steak you were chewing as Valentina called you up to present the guest speaker. Dabbing the corners of your mouth with your napkin, you stood up from your seat. Everyone applauded as you walked up to the stage. Bucky clapped his hands together and whistled while Val handed you the microphone.
The teleprompter counted you down as you introduced yourself to the room. "Our surprise guest speaker is a hero who's been keeping the streets of New York clean." you began reading off the screen. "He has brought down crime rates one web at a time." you continued, realizing the trap you walked into. "Help me give a warm welcome to...Spider-man!"
You were frozen in place as the masked hero joined you on stage. He waved to the crowd before giving your a side hug. The physical closeness stopped your brain from going into overdrive. But a big fake smile was still plastered on your face.
"Thank you so much for having me everyone!" Peter spoke after you wordlessly handed him the mic.
You stepped off to the side of the stage, giving him his moment as you tried to mentally recollect yourself. Everything he talked about went in one ear and out the other. After he finished speaking, Valentina thanked him for his bravery and hard work before the band resumed playing.
"What the fuck Val?" you whisper shouted into her ear as you both walked off the stage and everyone returned to enjoying their dinners.
"So the rumors are true?" she gasped before her face rested into a mischievous look. "I had no idea," she insisted but you saw through her bullshit.
"Well I'm not writing jack-shit about tonight," you say, a satisfied smile appearing on your lips at your quick thinking.
You turned on your heel and headed back to your seat. Valentina was left speechless. Bucky watched as an exasperated groan left your lips. He chuckled at this while he continued to cut through his steak.
"Tired already?" he joked.
"Valentina is just something else," you sighed.
"Tell me about it," Bucky grumbled in agreement.
Peter was at a loss of words. He didn't expect to see you tonight, let alone present him. The other attendees were buzzing about your awkward interaction on stage.
He wanted to go find you but his plans were temporarily thwarted. People were begging for pictures and autographs with Spider-man.
When he was finally free from his social responsibilities, Peter finally found you. He identified you by your laugh, one he was once so familiar with. Bucky made you laugh over something he muttered your ear.
"Hey, I didn't know you knew my old co-worker." Peter said as he wormed himself into whatever you and Bucky were talking about.
"Yeah, he's actually my date for tonight," you replied proudly, Peter watched as the winter soldier nodded at your words.
"T-that's great," he stammered out.
“Mhm,” you nodded, looking to Bucky.
“I’ll let you guys catch up,” Bucky said as he got up. “I’m gonna head to the restroom.” He announced, giving your hand a squeeze before walking off.
Peter slipped into the vacant seat beside you. “How’ve you been?” He said.
You turned your body to face him and smiled, “Great. And you?” you replied.
“Oh ya know, still locking up bad guys,” Peter shrugged. "I've never really seen you get all dressed up." Peter noted, your gown twinkling as it caught the light. “You don’t really like these things.” he mentioned.
"Well, you have seen me in far less so..." you recalled before raising your glass to your lips. Attempting to mask the blush that rose to your cheeks at your own boldness.
Peter choked on the air he breathed after comprehending what you said. You smiled at the way you could still fluster him.
“Are you and the winter soldier dating?” Peter asked.
“I’m starting to wonder if you’re the journalist or if I am,” you joked before responding with, “No. It was Valentina’s idea.”
“And the presenter thing was her idea too?” He questioned.
“Yep,” you sighed. “And now everyone’s gonna talk about it and overreact.” you groaned in annoyance.
“They are pretty on the nose about us,” Peter shrugged.
“Whatever we were,” you shook your head with a small laugh but Peter didn't join in. You flashed him a confused look before saying, "Don't tell me that you finally decided to like me back," you joked further, hoping he'd crack.
"I did some thinking-" Peter began
"-No, don't do that"
"And I know I left you hanging-"
"-Stop."
"But just listen to me-"
You yanked him close by the shoulder, cutting him off from reeling you back in. "I'm not something you can pick up and play with whenever you feel like, Peter. We're not the same people we were before." you said firmly with your lips hovering close to his ear. "I've healed and gotten over the way you treated me over the years. But I'm not about to open my heart up again just for you to test the waters." you stated.
Peter pulled away from your touch, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly at your words. “Well, I hope you know that I am happy to see you,” Peter admitted. "And I won't mention it ever again," he promised.
“Yeah,” you gave him a small smile. “Me too.”
“Can I have my date back now?” Bucky asked as he appeared behind the two of you.
“Yeah man, of course.” Peter nodded, getting of Bucky’s seat.
“Thanks for keeping my seat warm,” Bucky joked but his words hit Peter harder than intended.
“Good seeing you guys,” Peter nodded, his voice cracking slightly before walking away.
As the night came to a close, Bucky walked you out of the tower like he didn't want his time with you to end. But neither did you. You grew fond of the older gentleman. His forwardness was refreshing.
"Thanks for being my date," Bucky smiled as he held the SUV door open for you.
"Don't let it be the last time we have dinner together." you smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
The winter soldier's blush was almost as pigmented as the red lipstick residue on his face. He offered you a hand as you stepped into the backseat of the vehicle.
"Text me," Bucky said, holding out a business card.
You took it into your hands and saw that it was once of his old congressman cards from his short-lived time as a politician.
"I will," you nodded before pulling the door closed.
Bucky's smile never wavered, even as your ride pulled away from the curb. Just then, his phone rang and he answered immediately.
"Hi Bucky," he could hear the smile in your voice.
"Hey doll," he replied. "Let's go out soon, yeah?"
"I'd love that."
TAGLIST for those who asked for a pt. 2:
@mialovessv @auriuswolve @hyyhnubes @idyllicsam
A/N - reupload because i did nottt like the draft. Anyway how r we feeling about a frank castle fic teehee 🫣
Before the world forgot Peter Parker, he was the center of yours.
He was the warmth pressed against your back on freezing mornings, the tired laugh against your neck after a long day, the soft voice whispering promises into the dark of an apartment that felt like home. You loved him with your whole heart, and he loved you enough to erase himself from your mind to keep you breathing.
Now, he was just a shadow in your life. One standing on rooftops, watching you pull your coat tight against the snowy wind.
He wasn’t stalking you per se, no. He was watching. Mindfully. That was what he told himself.
He knew your new coffee order. He knew you still took the long way home past the bakery because you liked the smell of fresh bread at dusk. He knew you locked your door twice every night.
He watched over you from the edges, starving for a glimpse of the girl who still held his heart in her hands.
Until the night he couldn't just watch.
You were two blocks from your apartment when a man stepped out of the shadow of an alleyway, shoving you back hard against the brick wall. Your purse was yanked violently from your shoulder, the strap snapping with a crack that echoed in the street. You gasped, stumbling, your back hitting the cold brick as the man turned to run.
Then Peter was there.
Not in the suit. Just Peter. Wearing his old hoodie and a look of pure panic that had nothing to do with fear for himself.
“Hey!” Peter shouted, stepping directly into the mugger’s path.
The man swung wide, a wild punch aimed straight at Peter’s jaw. Peter could have caught his fist easily. He could have broken his wrist with a twitch of his fingers or webbed him to the nearest streetlamp before the guy even blinked. But he didn’t. Not with you standing there, eyes wide with terror. He had to be normal. He had to be small.
So Peter let the fist land. The force cracked against his cheekbone, splitting his upper lip against his teeth, but Peter barely flinched. He grabbed the guy’s jacket, slammed him back against a metal dumpster with just enough force to knock the wind out of him, and snatched your purse back.
“What the fuck, man!” the mugger scrambled to his feet, cursing loudly before running away.
Peter stood there, breathing heavily, the metallic taste of blood pooling on his tongue. He turned around, holding your purse out to you with a hand that was shaking—not from the hit, but from the terrifying proximity to you.
You were staring at him with wide eyes, clutching your coat around yourself as you stumbled forward. Your hands trembling as you took the bag from him. “Oh my god,” you breathed, stepping right next to him before he could even think about retreating back. “Are you–are you okay?”
It was the first time in two years your voice had been directed at him. Peter froze, his lungs seizing up as your hands hovered over his shoulders.
“I’m fine, I’m totally fine,” Peter stammered, scrambling to sit up, his voice cracking slightly. He pressed the back of his hand to his cut lip, tasting copper. “Did he hurt you? Did he touch you?”
“No, no, I’m okay,” you said softly, taking the purse, your eyes never leaving his face.
Your hand dove into your coat pocket, instinctively pulling out a crumpled packet of tissues. Before Peter could take a step back, before he could put up a single guard, your fingers gently reached up. The soft paper brushed against the corner of his jaw, dabbing softly at the fresh blood running down his lip.
Peter stopped breathing entirely. The touch was so familiar, so frighteningly close to the way you used to tend to his battle scars, that he felt a lump form in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird, every nerve ending screaming at the familiarity of your touch. It took every ounce of his restraint not to lean his face into your palm, not to grab your hand and press your knuckles against his chest, not to let out a broken exhale and whisper your name into the freezing air.
You didn't know him. He had to keep reminding himself. To you, he was just a guy who chased a mugger away.
“That was crazy. You were crazy,” you murmured, a small chuckle escaping you as you doused his cut. “You could have gotten really hurt over a bag.”
Peter stared at you, his brown eyes shining under the streetlights. “It was yours,” he blurted out simply, the truth slipping out before he could stop it. “I mean—you were in trouble. I couldn’t just stand there.”
You smiled, warm and genuine, setting off a quiet explosion inside his chest. “Well, thank you, hero. Honestly…” You looked up at the sky, where the distant red blur of spiderman usually swung, then back to the guy sitting on the pavement in front of you. “Who needs spiderman when you’re here?”
The words hit Peter like a physical blow, slicing clean through his ribs and carving into his heart. The irony was suffocating. Here you were, thanking the man in front of you, completely unaware that the hero you were offhandedly dismissing was the exact reason you were alive, breathing, and safe—and the exact reason you had no idea who he was.
He swallowed hard, the taste of copper thick on his tongue, his chest aching so deeply he thought his ribs might snap under the pressure.
“Yeah,” Peter swallowed hard, his voice barely audible over the noise of city traffic. He managed a bittersweet smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah… who even needs spiderman?”
You frowned slightly at the sudden shadow that fell over his face, sensing a shift in the air even if you couldn't put a name to it.
“Well, I’m glad you were here,” you paused, giving him time to introduce himself, but when the silence stretched between you, you let out a soft huff of amusement. “I’m guessing you have a name? Or…?”
A knife twisted in his gut. My name is Peter Parker. You used to scream it when I swung us over the Brooklyn Bridge. You used to whisper it against my neck at three in the morning when I couldn’t sleep.
“Peter,” he forced out, the syllable fragile, almost sharp as it left his mouth. “It’s... it’s Peter.”
“Peter,” you repeated, testing the weight of it.
“Well, Peter,” you started, offering a firmer smile as you motioned down the sidewalk. “You just took a fist to the face for my purse. The least I can do is… I don't know, buy you a coffee? some food?”
Peter's instant impulse was to say no. To retreat into his shell and never speak to you ever again. But as he looked at you, at the way you were looking at him with genuine curiosity—the selfish, starving part of him won.
“Food sounds... really good, actually.”
“Good.” you turned to walk beside him, keeping a slow pace. “Lead the way, Peter.”
That night opened a door Peter knew he should have kept locked, bolted, and buried. But he was weak. God, he was so weak when it came to you.
He tried his best to stay away. He really did.
But then a week passed. And then two.
It started with “accidental” run-ins. A brief wave as you left for work, a cup of coffee from the cart when he just so happened to be standing in line behind you. Then walks home after your evening shifts. Then, sitting on the steps of your brownstone at midnight, sharing a single umbrella against the rain while you talked about everything and nothing.
You found out he was alone. No family, no close friends to keep in touch with, nothing. Yet the more you learnt, the more you wanted to pull him into your warmth.
“You don’t have to do it alone, you know.”
He looked up at you then, eyes so filled with longing that it made your throat close for a second.
“I don’t think I have a choice.” His voice cracked slightly toward the end.
“Everyone has a choice,” you reassured back, closing the distance between you. Your hand reached out, hovering for a split second before gently resting against his jaw—the same place you had touched him the night you reconciled. “Let someone in, peter. Let me in.”
The touch did it for him.
Peter let out a shuddering exhale, closing his eyes as his head naturally inclined into the cradle of your palm. He was drowning, and you were the air he had been denied for years. He knew he was playing a dangerous game. He knew that every laugh you shared, every soft glance, every time you reached for his hand while crossing the street was a lie built off a life he had been forced to erase.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he mumbled against your skin. “You have no idea how much I don’t want to hurt you.”
You shook your head almost immediately. “You won’t. I trust you, Peter.”
That single phrase broke whatever was left of his resistance.
And for the next five months, he gave in to his desires.
He let himself become someone to you.
Holding your hand on the crowded subway, walking you to your apartment after your shift, taking your bag off your shoulder without asking, sitting on the floor of his living room eating pizza while you laughed at a stupid rerun.
To you, it was a sweet, organic romance with a ridiculously attentive guy who looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
To Peter, every single day was a miracle waiting to be destroyed.
He was constantly walking a tightrope between absolute bliss and terror. And yet, the thing that broke his heart the most—the thing that proved just how deeply you cared for him—was the way you handled his routines.
He would disappear for hours at a time. His phone going straight to voicemail in the middle of the afternoon, or he would have to suddenly bolt out of the apartment at midnight with a vague excuse about “work.”
He would return carrying fresh injuries, and you never once interrogated him.
You would simply sigh, take his trembling shoulders in and guide him to the edge of his bed.
You would press a soft kiss to the top of his head while you wrapped a bandage around his ribs, resting your cheek against his shoulder as he exhaled into your neck.
The trust you had in him was so complete. So complete that it killed him. You gave him a safe place in a world that constantly demanded he be bruised and bleeding.
Every night you spent pressing ice to his skin without question was a reminder of what a monster he felt like for lying to you every second he was in your arms.
“You’re doing that thing again.” You laced your fingers through his as you both leaned on the railing of his fire escape.
Peter blinked, pulling his eyes away from the neon lights reflecting in the distance. “What thing?”
“You get this look in your eyes,” you explain, turning your body to face him, resting your chin on his chest. “Like you’re standing right here… but then you’re also really far away.”
His grip on your hand tightened, his heart flipping painfully. He forced a reassuring smile, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your shampoo.
“I’m right here.” He lied straight through his teeth because it was the only way to keep you safe from the truth. “I’m not going anywhere.”
By the fifth month, his sneakers lived by your front door. His spare hoodie sat folded on the back of your armchair. You were a couple in every sense of the word—except for the bedroom door that Peter kept carefully closed.
He had been so careful. Every time things got too heavy, every time your kisses turned breathless and his hands started dragging your shirt up your torso, Peter would gently pull back, resting his forehead against yours. He told himself it was respect. He told himself it was pacing.
But deep down he knew he was terrified of taking the next step. Of letting you in completely.
Which made the night it all collapsed hit like a train.
It was a friday when a torrential downpour had caught you both a few steps from your building, leaving you two drenched to the bone by the time you burst through the apartment door, laughing and shivering.
You kicked off your soaked shoes, your hair clinging to your neck, water dripping off the hem of your sweater. Peter stood by the entryway, his curls plastered to his forehead.
When he looked at you all flushed, laughing, breathless… something in him snapped. The supposed pacing he had insisted himself on over the months crumbled to dust.
He didn’t pull back this time.
Peter crossed the entryway, framing your face in his cold hands, kissing you like a man starved. You let out a light gasp against his lips, arms instantly flying around his neck, pulling him as close as humanly possible.
The heat between you detonated.
By the time you reached the bedroom, your sweater was pulled over your head and tossed onto a chair. Your back hit the mattress as Peter hovered over you, his own chest heaving, his dark eyes burning with need as he looked down at you. “You’re so beautiful…”
His mouth trailed down your jaw, tracing a path down the side of your neck, pulling soft, needy whimpers from your throat.
His hands slid down your waist, fingers digging gently into your skin. You arched into his touch, your legs tangling with his, your fingers pulling at his damp shirt until he effortlessly tore it off.
Skin on skin. The weight of his body on yours was suffocating in the best way possible.
“Peter.” your nails pressed into the firm muscles of his bare back, pulling him down so his chest was pressed flush against yours. “Peter, look at me…”
He lifted his head, pausing the kisses he was leaving all over your collarbone. He was drowning in you, in the smell of your skin. He slid his hand down to the button of your jeans, his thumb brushing your hip, his knee nudging your thighs apart.
He lowered his head to capture your lips, his lips grazing yours in a teasing manner.
But the urge to speak your thoughts took over.
You cupped his face in your hands, thumbs gently tracing his cheekbones, his eyes locking onto yours with so much love.
Or so you thought.
“I love you.” The words came out of your lips before you could stop.
Peter froze. His hand stopped dead on the denim. His pupils contracted into tiny pinpricks of horror.
I love you.
The sentence echoed through his head, multiplying, morphing instantly into memories that haunted his nightmares—your voice as you bled on the scaffolding, Aunt May’s voice fading in the air of Happy’s apartment.
Every single person who loved Peter Parker ended up broken.
Panic doused the heat in his blood in an instant. He looked down at you, your bare shoulder, the outline of your skin, your parted lips waiting for him to say it back.
A voice screamed inside his head, sharp, brutal, unforgiving.
He had brought you right back to the edge of the cliff he had sacrificed his life to drag you away from. If somebody with ill intentions found out about him, about this—if his life as spiderman spilled over this tiny, warm room, you would be the one to pay the price.
“Peter?” you whispered, your sweet smile faltering as you felt the rigidity in his body. “Peter, what’s wrong?”
Peter yanked his hands back as if your bare skin had turned into scorching iron.
He scrambled off you so fast he nearly fell, his knees hitting the floor beside the bed. He dragged himself backward, his back slamming against the wall, hands shoving into his hair as a hyperventilating breath tore from his throat.
“No,” he choked out. “No. Please, no–”
“Peter,” you sat up instantly, clutching the bedsheet around you, your heart dropping straight to your stomach. Your skin was still warm from his touch, your chest rising in confusion and fear. “W..what happened? Did I push too fast? I’m sorry, I tho–”
“Stop! Don’t apologise!” peter choked once more, refusing to look at you. He wouldn’t, no, could not bear to look at the devastating confusion written all over your face. If he did, he’d shatter completely. “Don’t say that. Don’t apologise to me, please.”
“Peter, you’re having a panic attack, please, sit down–” you swing your legs off the bed, reaching out to touch his arm.
“No, no,” he muttered. You pulled your hand back, sitting half dressed on the edge of the mattress, trembling as tears instantly filled your eyes.
“I don’t understand,” you stammered, voice shaky. “We’ve been together for five months, Peter. We were just… what did I do wrong?”
“No! No, it’s–it’s not you.” he almost yells as he grabs his shirt off the floor. “It’s all me. It’s–I can’t do this. I shouldn’t be here.”
“What? What are you talking about?” a tear spilled over your lashes as you pleaded. “Just talk to me, please! Tell me what’s going through your head–”
“I’m sorry.” His brows drew together as he backed toward the window. “I can’t be what you need… I’m so sorry.”
“Peter, wait–!”
He didn’t. Swiftly unlatching the window, he stepped out onto the freezing fire escape, and faded into the dark.
The icy wind whipped through the open window, snapping the curtains back, filling the warm bedroom with freezing rain.
He left you standing in the center of the room, staring at the window frame while tears streamed down your face, your heart squeezing violently.
A week passed. Seven endless days.
Peter returned to his routine. The suit felt like knives pressing into his skin, but the lenses served one vital purpose. They hid the bloodshot wreckage of his eyes.
He spent every night crouched on the brick across from your building, watching your window.
You hadn’t left the apartment. Not once.
Your friends came, only to be sent away in under three minutes.
From his view, Peter watched the fallout of what he had done. He saw the way your lights stayed off almost all day. He saw you call in sick to work, your shadow pacing back and forth in front of the glow of your phone before you gave up and collapsed back onto the bed.
The only sign of life was the single delivery bag a courier left outside your door. A bag Peter watched sit in the hallway for hours before you finally opened the door to drag it inside, untouched.
You were rotting in your own grief, paralysed by a heartbreak that made no sense.
Every night, he watched through the slit in your curtains as you sat on the edge of the mattress—the exact same spot where he had abandoned you.
You would wrap his faded hoodie around your shoulders, burying your nose into the fabric to hunt for a scent that was rapidly fading, and just stare at the open window.
Waiting for a boy who was never coming back. Searching for an explanation that didn’t exist.
The realisation tore through Peter’s soul with unrelenting force. He had erased your memories to save you from the damage of his life. He had sacrificed his own existence so you wouldn’t have to bleed for him.
And yet, here you were, bleeding anyway.
A ragged sob caught in his throat beneath the fabric of his mask. He raised a hand, pressing his palm onto the wall, desperately trying to regain his composure.
He wanted so desperately to swing across the narrow street, to unlatch that window, to pull off the mask, and to drop to his knees beside your bed. He wanted to kiss your tear stained cheeks, hold you until your breathing evened out, and scream the truth until his vocal cords gave out.
But he couldn’t. He had already ruined you twice. Touching you again would be destruction.
So Peter Parker stayed on his rooftop, high above the pavement, condemned to watch you struggle. He watched as you turned off the bedside lamp, wrapping yourself in his hoodie in the dark, while he sat in the freezing rain, keeping watch over you.
As the last light in your apartment clicked off, the lenses of his mask zoomed in slightly through the slit in your curtains, catching a tiny detail on the chair beside your bed.
Sitting right there, illuminated only by the streetlamps outside, was the leather purse from the night you re-entered his life. The strap—snapped clean in two during the mugging—had been meticulously hand stitched back together by you.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut behind his mask, a fresh wave of agony tearing through his chest. He had given you back your stolen purse that night, only to end up stealing your heart and breaking it into pieces you couldn't stitch back together.
Summary: the morning after a long night of being a super hero with Peter, or Peter’s love language of acts of service
The first thing you felt when you woke up was pain. Your bruised ribs ached as you breathed which was not uncommon after a night protecting the city. When you stretched you let out an elongated “fuck” as you felt every sore muscle and bruise.
The next thing you felt was the bed dipping near your feet. You opened your eyes to find a shirtless Peter, sitting at the end of your bed in Spiderman PJ pants and holding your mug, presumably filled with coffee or chai.
You sat up slightly and groaned some more.
“I know” he says softly.
He hands you your mug and places two Tylenol in your other hand. You accept both gratefully. He rubs your knee with his thumb while you wash down the tablets, then leans forward to kiss your forehead.
“Morning, hon.”
He taps your knee twice before standing and making his way out. He reaches up to scratch at the nape of his neck, you see big scratches stretching from his lower back up to his shoulder blade.
You sit and sip, recounting the night. From Hells Kitchen to Queens, gang after gang, it seemed you guys couldn’t catch a break. Towards the end of the night, Peter’s web slingers jammed as he was flying down a skyscraper. Right behind him, your Spidey senses went off and he yelled out to you. You caught him in the last second but his back still skimmed the asphalt.
More awake, you pad into the living room. You find Peter hunched over the dinner table covered in your suits, fabric scraps, and micro tools. You reach out to him to scratch his head and place a kiss on his ear. He leans into you but his concentration stays on the needle weaving in and out of your suit.
“Hey, your breakfast is on the stove,”
You find a plate atop the stove top, it looks perfectly plated with care, with all the things you like. You bring the plate back with you and join Peter at the table.
You eat and watch as he patches your suit, occasionally massaging his bicep in appreciation. You don’t know how he does it, after the night you two had, to wake up early and make breakfast and repair our suits. You loved these domesticity of these mornings after a patrol. Made you feel like the Fantastic Four, Reed must do stuff like this to Sue.
When you finish you break out the medkit and position yourself behind him. You rub ointment over the injuries that paint his back and arm. Occasionally he winces or whimpers, you whisper ‘I knows,’ or ‘sorrys’ as you tend to the flesh wounds. You cover him in bandages til he looks half mummy, and kiss his shoulder blade in praise.
“I was thinking…” he starts as you pepper kisses behind his ear.
“…we could stay in and binge west wing?”
He looks to you. Your hand holds his jaw as you kiss him, not needy or hungry but tender and thankful. You inhale his scent and kiss him deeper.
summary: You only meant to step away from the noise for a second. Instead you found a stranger holding a bouquet like he’d brought it just for you, introducing himself with a name that didn’t quite fit and a smile that felt too familiar. One small conversation at a crowded party turns into a few hangouts. Then into something neither of you are supposed to want. The lying. The risk. The way it feels better because it’s wrong.
➺ tags: reader!cheater, bnd!peter parker, secret identity, forbidden, cheating, affair, desperate peter, possessive peter, grinding, humping, interrupted sex, some bnd plot but not rlly, peter!angst at the start
➺ authors note: heavily inspired by a tweet i saw where it says mj should cheat with peter behind her bf’s back but i changed it up so its reader cheating on their bf and made it smutty. i know, im a whore
word count: 3.6k
Peter followed Ned home after he entered the same corner store Peter happened to be at. Ned never looked back. Soon enough they made it to an apartment building with people hanging out outside of it. The stairwell smelled of old carpet and someone’s abandoned takeout. When Ned opened the apartment door the noise hit like a physical wave: bass thumping through the floorboards, overlapping conversations, the sharp smell of cheap beer and liquor and too many bodies packed into too little space. Peter slipped in after him and let the crowd swallow the gap. For a few seconds he lost Ned completely. Then he drifted toward the side room where it was quieter and empty, spotting a Spider Man poster that was taped crooked to the wall on a bulletin board with newspapers and red string dragged around.
The bathroom door opened.
Ned stepped out. Peter stood frozen in the doorway, holding a red plastic cup he had grabbed moving through the crowd.
“Oh,” Peter said, voice low and awkward. “I’m not weird or anything. I just want to know who Spider Man is. Not to demask him. Just to say thank you for saving me and my friends’ lives.”
Ned blinked, then grinned and it launched into a brief, easy conversation about the local Spider Man sightings. Peter answered carefully, eyes flicking to the board, the weight of everything unsaid sitting heavy in his chest.
After a while the volume from the main room got a little louder. You walked into the room looking for Ned, needing a break from the crowd, stopping at the doorway.
“There’s like fifty people in our apartment,” you said, glancing around behind you. “Statistically, at least two of them are sociopaths….which is kind of cool.”
Peter’s entire body went still. That voice. It had been so long since he’d heard it in person that the sound of it felt like a physical blow. You looked different but the same.
You looked at him, curious. Your gaze dropped to the small bouquet still clutched in his other hand.
“Nice flowers.”
He held them out before he could overthink it. “U-uh… they’re… uh, housewarming gift.”
Your smile was soft. “Really? Wow, thanks. Most people just brought beer.”
You took them and introduced yourself. Peter took a sip of whatever liquor was in the red cup and nodded.
“I’m uh… Mayn… Maynerd.” He cleared his throat.
Ned bumped in. “Oh. You two don’t know each other?”
“I’m a neighbor,” Peter replied.
“Friendly neighbor,” You said bringing the flowers closer and inhaling.
Peter choked on the next sip. A little cough, eyes watering, muttered “I’m sorry” while the drink threatened to come up his nose.
Ned broke the silence. “So… how was the interview?”
You lifted the bouquet. “I’m gonna go put these in water.” As you stepped away slowly you glanced back. “It was nice to meet you, May… nard?… Maynerd.”
Ned followed you into the kitchen. Peter stayed in the doorway, slowly walking out, watching the way you two moved around.
In the kitchen you filled a vase, trimmed the stems, arranged the flowers while Ned hovered. “Did you go? Please tell me you went.”
“Yeah, I went.”
“And?”
“I got the job.”
Ned’s face lit up, “That’s great!—” You shook your head, adjusting a stem. “And I declined it. I don’t want to work for a soulless corporation.”
“They’re not all soulless…Well…they’re all mostly soulless.”
You kept your eyes on the flowers. “I dunno. It might sound cheesy, but I feel like something’s telling me I’m supposed to be waiting for something…great.”
You looked up. Across the crowded living room, one end to the other, the mysterious guy who had brought the flowers was looking around, red cup halfway to his mouth. You admit to yourself that you found him attractive. He seemed familiar in a way you couldn’t pin down.
Ned lifted his cup. “So uhh… to uh, waiting for something great.”
You raised the vase in a mock toast. “To waiting for something great,” you echoed, smiling.
That was when a really tall guy came in on your left. He moved like it was casual for him to be there, close, proprietary. Ned accepted whatever gift the guy handed him and drifted off somewhere out of Peter’s sight.
Suddenly it was just you and a man talking.
From the far end of the room Peter watched. His spidey-sense stretched across the distance, sharp enough to catch every word now. The guy’s hand came up to your cheek, tilted your face, and kissed you.
“That’s my girl.” The words carried clear.
Peter couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His heart hammered against his ribs. He turned and started pushing through the crowd, needing air, needing distance.
Until the front door swung open as Ned and a cluster of guests hauled a huge cake inside, shouting and laughing, blocking the exit completely. Slight panic flickered through him. No way out. He had no choice but to back up into the apartment again, jaw tight, feeling as if he doesn’t belong here anymore.
You and your boyfriend stopped kissing the moment the cake arrived. You moved away from him to help Ned, but Ned already had it under control, waving you off with a grin. You took a step back and accidentally bumped into Peter.
“Oh—I’m so sorry.” You looked up at him. “You alright?”
Peter nodded too fast, voice rough as he cleared his throat from the lump he felt. “Yeah. Fine. Just…crowded.”
But you were looking at him with that interested curious look. The one he had made himself familiar with after the first year of getting to know you… five years ago.
The party didn’t end all at once. It thinned the way parties do: people drifting toward the door in pairs and small groups, the music turning quieter, the air growing cooler as windows were cracked open. Your boyfriend disappeared somewhere with a group heading downstairs for “one more smoke.” Ned was in the kitchen playfully arguing with someone about Spider Man, sounding half drunk. The living room felt larger by the minute.
Peter found you near the kitchen counter while the last stragglers were still gathering their jackets. He kept his voice casual, almost shy, the red cup long abandoned.
“Hey—uh. Would it be weird if we exchanged numbers? Just so I know when the next party is. I had so much fun.”
You hesitated only a second, then took his phone and typed yours in. “Sure. Don’t be a stranger, Maynerd.” You smiled softly at him.
Peter left with the taste of your name still unsaid on his tongue, the apartment door clicking shut behind him as the final guests filtered out.
That same night, while the city stretched out dark and glittering below, Peter sat upside down at the edge of a construction crane, mask lifted onto his forehead. His phone glowing in his hand. The first message came in just after midnight.
: Hey. It’s me from the party. Thanks again for the flowers. Nobody else brought anything that nice. Housewarming gifts like that don’t happen often. You must be good luck or something
Peter smiled small, almost blushing under the cold night air. He reread the message multiple times before answering.
Glad you liked them. They looked better with you holding them anyway
: Flattery will get you everywhere. Or at least another invitation to the next disaster Ned throws
I’ll bring better flowers next time. Or actual food. Your call.
: Food is dangerous. Ned will make you live here
I’ve survived worse
: Doubt it. You’ve never watched me try to cook pasta
Then I guess I’ll have to see it for myself.
He stayed there longer than he should have, upside down, rereading the short chain of messages like they might disappear if he looked away. For the first time in a long time the city felt a little less empty.
It started slow.
A few days later you texted again
: Ned and I are doing dinner tomorrow if you want to come. Nothing fancy. Just dumplings and whatever’s in the fridge.
Peter asked, carefully, about your boyfriend.
: He’s working late. Overtime. It’ll just be us and Ned
Peter arrived. Everyone sat by the kitchen counter while Ned and Peter talked, the conversations between everyone being so easy and funny.
He watched the way you moved around in the kitchen, offering a hand to wash dishes.
The next invitation came when Ned was at a trip with friends in Boston. The next, Ned had a late shift. Then it was just the two of you, takeout containers open on the coffee table, knees touching as you guys sat on the couch.
One night the conversation accidentally stretched past midnight.
One thing led to another and his hand found your waist by accident when you both were going to reach for the same remote, your laugh turning quieter.
When you guys would eat, he looked at your lips when you licked sauce off your thumb.
The first kiss was tentative.
The second wasn’t.
By the time you pulled him into your bedroom the door was locked and your shirt was already on the floor.
After that it became once a week. Always the same night. Always when your boyfriend was reliably elsewhere. You told him you needed the night for work and deep focus, no interruptions.
And he believed you.
Peter would text, On my way. You’d always meet him at the door. Sometimes you barely made it past the entryway of your room before he had you against the wall, mouth hungry, hands already under your clothes. Other nights it started slower with the two of you talking on the couch until the tension built and you were straddling his lap, grinding down while he moaned into your neck.
One afternoon, a month in, you walked out of the bathroom after a shower wearing his white “I Survived My Trip to NYC” shirt. It hung loose on you, soft from wear, the lettering slightly faded. Ned was in the living room and looked up, confused.
“Since when do you have that shirt?”
You shrugged, tugging the hem down. “Thrifted. Three bucks.”
Peter, who had left it the night before, almost swallowed his own tongue when you texted him the story later with a string of laughing emojis.
It had been a full month of weekly nights when his real name was finally revealed.
You knew he was holding something back by how quiet he’d been the entire night. You were both sitting on the edge of your bed, your knee against his, his hand resting high on your thigh, gently caressing. Before anything more could happen, you both spoke at the same time.
“Maynerd isn’t my real name.”
“We should stop because you’re Spider Man.”
You blinked. “Oh. I thought you were going to say you’re Spider Man…”
He huffed a short, nervous laugh. “No… no, I’m not. Why would I be—You want to stop? We could stop if you feel… uncomfortable.”
“Because every time you text you’re on your way I hear a specific sound that hits my fire escape. Because when you leave, by the time I get into my room, I see the same something of someone swinging past my window. You also show up with bruises you won’t explain.”
“That’s just…parkour. And a coincidence.”
“Well I just figured if you’re Spider Man, I wouldn’t want to keep you away from the city.”
He went quiet. The silence dragged until it broke under its own weight.
“Peter,” he said finally. “My real name is Peter Parker. And yeah… I’m…Spider Man.”
You didn’t inch away. Instead, you leaned in closer. “I already wanted you. Knowing just means I understand why you’re always a little broken.”
That night the sex was slower at first, almost reverent, until it wasn’t, and he was fucking you hard enough that the headboard knocked after every thrust and you had to bite his shoulder to stay quiet.
This time, you’d barely gotten past the heavy make out stage. Peter was still fully clothed. You wore only a thin strapped tank top with no bra underneath paired with black underwear. The thin fabric clung to your chest, nipples already visible through it from the friction. You were straddling his lap on the bed, grinding down against the thick ridge of his cock through his jeans while his hands roamed around your soft skin. His mouth was on your throat, teeth gently scraping against it so he doesn’t leave any evidence. You rolled your hips in slow, filthy circles, the damp heat of your cunt soaking through the thin fabric until it was visible against the denim. Peter groaned against your skin, low and soft and wrecked.
“Fuck—keep doing that. Just like that, baby.”
You listened, rolling your hips and grinding on him, the friction so good it made your thighs tremble. His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing hard as he guided you. Your moans mixed in with each other, the wet sound of your soaked cunt dragging over the denim filled the quiet room. You tugged his hair. He tugged yours back harder. You were both panting, tongues in one another, when the front door slammed open.
“Hey babe?!—“ your boyfriend’s voice shouted your name from the living room. “The front door was unlocked! I’ve been texting you!”
“Babe?” His shouts were louder.
You quickly moved off of Peter, panicking. “Holy shit, holy shit…” you whispered. You look over right beside you to see him gone, confused but not questioning it for now.
You scrambled back against the pillows, heart slamming so hard you could feel it in your throat. Your lips were slightly swollen. The thin tank top was rucked up slightly, underwear still damp. You were visibly panting, flushed, wearing almost nothing.
Your boyfriend walked in, phone in hand. He’d seen you in underwear a hundred times before, but he still stopped and frowned at the state of how you looked: flushed, breathless, barely dressed.
“You okay? You look…. why are you just sitting there like that?”
You forced your voice steady. “Yea—I’m Fine. Just hot. Ventilations being weird and all. I just finished changing.”
He sat on the edge of the bed like he belonged there. “Look… is everything okay with us? You’ve been distant. I feel like I barely see you anymore.” But you were barely paying attention, even at your own words. “Yeah, no. Everything’s fine. I’ve just been really busy with my new project.” You smiled, heart racing as your eyes moved up subtly and there he was. One second he was under you, the next he was on the ceiling, putting his finger against his lips, stuck silent in the corner upside down, above the doorframe.
Peter watched the way the other man’s hand rested near your knee and something dark and possessive twisted in his chest.
Carefully and silently, he shot a thin web through the cracked open bedroom door. He shot a stack of books that were on the coffee table and it toppled with a loud crash.
Both of you turned toward the sound.
“What the hell was that?” your boyfriend stood.
You stood with him. “Probably the neighbor cat snuck in again through the fire escaped. Or the wind. Look—I’m really busy with work right now. I told you not to come over when I’m working. I need focus. Please just… go.” You led him out of the room.
The intensity in your voice made him pause for a moment but he kept walking. He studied your face, then nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay. Text me when you’re done?”
“Yeah.”
“Love you, text me.”
“Yeah, me too.”
You walked him to the front door, forcing a smile as he kissed your cheek, and locked it the second it closed. The second the deadbolt clicked you were already moving back to the bedroom.
Peter dropped soundlessly from the ceiling. The second his feet hit the floor he had walked towards you and cupped your face with both hands, pulling you close until your noses almost touched. His touch was soft, sweet, almost careful.
“Peter,” you whispered, breath still uneven, “we need to stop.” You leaned in.
He searched your eyes. “You wanna stop?”
Your faces were so close you could feel every exhale. You nodded softly. “Yea… we need to stop…”
His voice dropped even softer. “Then let’s stop, okay?”
“Okay…”
But even as the word left his mouth, his other hand was already moving slow and deliberate, sliding down your side, curling under your thigh, and lifting it up to rest against his hip. He pressed in closer, the hard line of his cock grinding against the soaked crotch of your underwear. The thin tank top did nothing to hide the way your nipples had hardened. He kissed you again, deeper this time, and the soft agreement to stop dissolved under the heat of it.
He walked you backwards once again towards the bed without breaking the kiss, then sat against the pillows propped at the headboard and pulled you into his lap so you could straddle him again. You were still only in the thin tank and damp underwear, rolling your hips back and forth, the wet fabric dragging over the thick ridge of him through his jeans. Peter groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your ass, guiding your hips. You tugged at his shirt. He lifted his arms just enough for you to yank it off and toss it aside. Your palms slid down the warm skin of his chest, over the faint bruises and the rapid beat of his heart, then lower. You popped the button of his jeans, dragged the zipper down, and pushed the denim, leaving him in his boxers. You shifted, grinding against him now, the head of him catching on the edge of your underwear with every roll of your hips.
That was when the familiar hard knock came at the front door.
“Babe—! Wait, babe!” Your boyfriend’s voice carried through the apartment, urgent. “I forgot I came for my business suit! I have an interview tomorrow!”
Both of you froze as you heard the locks move, forgetting he has a spare incase of an emergency.
Panic hit both of you in the face. You scrambled off Peter’s lap so fast you nearly fell. He was already getting ready to crawl back up the ceiling, eyes wide, but before he could do so you panicked and quickly shoved him toward the open window of your room he originally entered from, hearing the sound of the key sliding into the second lock.
“Go—go—” you whispered, frantic.
Peter swung one leg over the sill just as the front door unlocked and opened. You gave him one last desperate push. He dropped out of sight, almost falling but using his new organic webs—he recently discovered— to shoot onto the outer ledge and catch himself, body forced to hang, bare body swinging, arms straining.
You spun, heart in your throat, and bolted for the closet. The suit was right where he’d left it. You yanked it free, nearly tripping over your own feet as you hurried back through the living room.
Your boyfriend stood just inside the doorway, eyebrows raised. You shoved the hanger into his hands.
“Here—sorry, I was—closet was a mess. You really need to stop forgetting things.” Your voice came out too high, too breathless. You were still flushed, lips swollen, smiling widely at your boyfriend. “Interview’s early, right? You should go. Get some sleep…” You coughed awkwardly “…babe.”
He chuckled, low and amused, like there was some private joke you weren’t in on. “You’re acting weird tonight.” He leaned in as if to kiss you; you turned just enough that it landed on the corner of your mouth instead. “Text me when you’re done working?”
“Yeah. Definitely. Go. Get your beauty sleep!”
He lingered half a second longer, then finally stepped back into the hallway. The second the door clicked shut you twisted the lock, spun on your heel, and sprinted back to the bedroom.
Peter was still hanging outside, muscles slightly beginning to tremble with the effort of keeping himself up, dark curls sticking to his forehead, the red glow of a distant neon sign cutting across the defined lines of his back and shoulders. He was trying to hoist himself higher, one arm shaking as he reached for a better grip on the fire escape railing.
You leaned out the window, voice a frantic whisper. “I’m so sorry—I’m so, so sorry—are you okay? Peter—”
He looked up at you, flushed and breathless, a strained almost smile tugging at his mouth even as his arms burned.
“I’m fine,” he managed, voice rough. “Just… give me a second.”
You reached for him, still apologizing under your breath, heart slamming against your chest, the cool air cool against your overheated skin.
Peter finally hauled himself back through the window, landing quietly on the floorboards. For a few seconds neither of you moved. You just stared at each other, chests rising and falling hard, the rush sinking into your skin.
Then the absurdity of it hit.
A breathless laugh slipped out of you first. Peter’s followed a second later, low and disbelieving, as he dragged a hand through his damp curls.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, still half smiling. “He has a key. Of course he has a key.”
“I forgot,” you admitted, voice shaky with leftover adrenaline and something warmer. “I completely forgot.”
He stepped in close, forehead briefly resting against yours while you both tried to steady your breathing. The laughter faded into softer, quieter smiles. His hands found your waist again, thumbs brushing over the thin fabric of your tank top like he needed to make sure you were still real.
“This is insane,” he murmured.
“Completely.”
But neither of you stepped away.
“Finish what we started?” Your eyes met his, and he just smiled and nodded in response.
Summary: After a night of one too many drinks, the reader finds herself vulnerable and alone on a Brooklyn street corner. Her night takes an unexpected turn as New York's own Spider-Man swoops in to save her and get her home safely.
Warning: mentions of alcohol consumption, drunk side effects/drunk behavior, swearing, creepy guys being creepy, suggestive shared moments, mentions of undressing, hangover
Pairing: Spider-Man x fem!reader
Word Count: 2.7k
The winter air was harsh at night, biting through Peter Parker's reinforced suit. His breath coming out frosted in the frigid New York night as he perched on a rooftop overlooking the city he'd saved countless times. Below, life continued without him.
The past hour had been spent tracking down a trio of car thieves who'd made the mistake of leaving a mess behind. With the criminals webbed up for the police to find, Peter found himself pausing to catch his breath, the cold seeping into his bones despite the suit's insulation.
His enhanced senses picked up everything: the distant wail of approaching sirens coming to the scene, the crunch of snow on sidewalks below, and the muffled conversations of people hurrying through the streets to escape the biting wind.
That's when he heard it—the sound of someone stumbling, followed by a soft curse. From his vantage point, he saw a figure emerge from a trendy bar on the street corner. Even from several blocks away, Peter's enhanced senses caught the slur in her words as she fumbled for her phone, nearly tripping over a snow-covered curb.
Something about her seemed familiar. He dropped silently to a lower rooftop, then to the ground behind a dumpster, careful not to make a sound in the freshly fallen snow. As he stepped from the shadows to get a clearer look, his breath caught in his throat.
It was Y/n.
Their shared history went as far back at Midtown High School. She'd been his classmate, his chemistry partner, and a member of the academic decathlon with him. She was there for it all— for Washington DC, the Europe trip, and the Statue of Liberty.
They'd even shared a kiss before the spell. It was a fleeting moment of warmth that now burned like an ember in the cold emptiness of his mind. Something that he remembered every day and something that she has no recollection of.
"Shit," her cursing drew him back to reality. She shivered dramatically, hugging her thin jacket tighter around herself.
Behind her, two men stumbled out of the bar, laughing loudly to themselves and clearly drunk out of their minds. Peter became suddenly alert. She dug through her purse in search for her phone.
"Oh, come on." She fussed again. "Where is it?"
The two men noticed her struggling. "Need some help there, sweetheart?"
She tried to wave them away, but her movements were clumsy. "No... I'm fine."
"Come on, let us help you home," the other man insisted, coming around to her other side. He unexpectedly grabbed her arm.
"Hey, let go of me!" She panicked. "I said I'm fine."
Without hesitation, Peter swung closer to the group and landing silently on the ground not far from them. He stepped into the light beaming down from the street light, making his presence known.
"Hey, fellas," Peter called out, making his voice sound deeper, more confident or more intimidating. "We got a problem here?"
Both men stumbled back, obviously startled to see Spider-Man coming out of the shadows. They quickly let go of her and took a few steps back.
"Whoa, it's Spider-Man!" one exclaimed.
Peter narrowed his eyes at them.
The men exchanged nervous glances. "Hey, man, we were just helping her out."
"I think you should leave the saving to me. It's kind of my job," Peter replied. "Now why don't you run along?"
The men scurried away without another word, leaving the two of them alone in the cold night air. She stared at him, wide-eyed and swaying slightly. He held out a hand in concern.
"Are you okay?" Peter asked gently.
"What... what are you doing here?" She sounded a little scared, maybe a little wary of him.
"Just patrolling," he replied softly. "You seem like you've had better nights."
"I... I think so." She confessed with tears threatening to fall down her cheeks. The wind caused her to shiver. "I...I wanna go home."
"Alright," Peter agreed. He placed his hands on his hips. "Where do you live?"
"Brooklyn Heights," she mumbled. "Third floor walk-up."
"Then let's get you home." There was a hint of a smile in his tone. He offered his hand to her.
Glancing down and contemplating his offer, Y/n hesitated only for a moment before taking his hand. He eased her closer to him, gently wrapping his arm around her waist.
"Hold on tight," Peter encouraged.
The city was a smear of neon and shadow as they web-slung through the canyons of buildings. She kept her face tucked against his shoulder, feeling incredibly nauseous from the combination of swinging and the alcohol mixed in her system.
Despite the cold, her body was a warm, slightly dead weight in his arms. He webbed them through blocks of nighttime city traffic, drawing closer to their final destination.
They landed softly in front of her apartment building. She almost lost her balance initially, but Peter kept her upright with a firm hand on her waist.
"I don't think— " she swallowed the vomit that threatened to come up. "Swinging and alcohol mix very well."
Peter couldn't help but smile behind the mask. "I'll keep a note of that."
They climbed the three flights of narrow, creaking stairs. They could hear what was going on behind closed doors because the walls were so thin— a couple fighting, a television program playing an old rerun episode, and music thumping from a party on the first floor.
Coming to the third floor, Y/n fumbled with her purse again to find her house keys. Peter stood awkwardly by her door, not quite sure what to do with his hands and promptly choosing to just hold them.
"Any roommates home?" Peter wondered, already secretly knowing that she'd been living with Ned and MJ since they got accepted into MIT.
"Ned's with his grandma," she claimed, entirely focused on her purse. "MJ's... doing boyfriend things. They're gone 'til tomorrow."
She dumped the contents of her purse onto the welcome mat—lip balm, a crumpled receipt, three pennies, and a set of keys with a beat-up MIT keychain.
"Ah ha," she exclaimed in success. She grabbed them off the floor. "Here," she said, pressing them into his gloved hand.
With Peter unlocking the door, Y/n quickly gathered her items from the floor. She stood back up straight and swayed slightly, feeling the effects of the alcohol heavily coursing through her system.
"Woah," she recovered.
The apartment was exactly as he'd pictured: small, cluttered, and alive. There were books stacked in precarious towers on the floor, a drooping fern hung in the window, and the fridge was covered in photos of people he didn't recognize. He took it all in.
"Think you can handle it from here?" Peter asked.
In response, Y/n moved deeper into the apartment, misjudged the distance to the side table, and sent a ceramic lamp crashing to the floor. It shattered with a definitive crack.
"Or...not," Peter sighed.
"Oh, man," she winced, staring at the broken pieces. "I really liked that lamp."
"Here, let me just..." Peter eased her over to the couch carefully so she could avoid the broken pieces of the lamp. He helped her down onto the couch, letting her rest for a second. "There, bet that's better."
"These shoes are killing me," she muttered, gesturing to the high heels she'd worn.
Peter knelt, his knee pressing into the worn rug. He worked the tiny buckle on one shoe, then the other, his fingers surprisingly deft in the suit. He slipped them off her feet, revealing the red indentations the straps had left on her skin.
Without thinking, he gently took one of her feet in his gloved hands. His thumbs pressed lightly into her arch, working in slow, deliberate circles.
The sound of a soft contented sigh caused Peter to freeze for a second. The intimacy of the gesture suddenly hitting him. He could feel the delicate bones of her foot, the warmth of her skin even through the reinforced fabric of his gloves. He slowed his movements.
"Oh my god," she breathed, her head lolling back against the couch cushions. "You're a superhero and you give foot rubs? That's just unfair."
He cleared his throat and gently set her foot down. "Just trying to help," he said, his voice a little rough.
"It did," she agreed and wiggled her toes. She stood abruptly. "Now this dress... it's trying to kill me."
Peter stood, fully expecting her to ask for privacy. Instead, Y/n struggled to reach the zipper behind her back. She fumbled around until her fingers eventually found it. "I need to change," she declared, her voice determined.
Peter's eyes widened behind his lenses as she began pulling the dress down over her shoulders. "Whoa, wait—" he said, spinning around to face the wall so fast he almost lost his balance. "Maybe I should step outside."
"No, no, it's fine!" she insisted, her voice muffled by the fabric. "It'll just take a second. Don't be weird."
Peter stood rigidly with his back to her, listening to the sounds of fabric rustling and a series of frustrated grunts. He listened closely, half expecting to hear the fabric hit the floor, but it never did. She let out an annoyed groan.
"Stupid, overpriced dress," she whined. "The zipper must be broken. It's stuck."
"Are you okay?" Peter asked, the words out before he could stop them.
"No," she said, her voice small and defeated. "I can't get it off."
Peter squeezed his eyes shut. "Do you… need help?"
A long pause. "Yes," she whispered.
Peter took a steadying breath and turned around, fixing his gaze on a water stain on the ceiling. He kept his hands up, not wanting to overstep or make her uncomfortable.
"Where is it stuck?" Peter questioned.
"Right here," she said, her fingers brushing against his gloved hand as she guided it to a spot on her lower back. He could feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of the dress.
With the care of a bomb disposal expert, he worked the tiny metal teeth free from where they'd caught on a seam. He helped her pull the dress the rest of the way off, his eyes falling to the beautiful woman who stood in front of him.
"There," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. "Done."
"Thanks" she whispered.
Retreating to the bedroom, Y/n put away her dirty clothes and searched for a pair of pajamas to change into. Peter, wanting to respect her privacy, stood in the doorway and kept his back turned to her.
He heard the soft rustle of her bra coming off, then the sound of her underwear hitting the floor. His entire body went rigid. He kept his eyes glued ahead of him, his breathing shallow. He heard the soft sigh of cotton as she pulled on the pajamas, then the heavy thud of her flopping backward onto what he assumed was her bed.
"Okay," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. "All decent."
Peter slowly turned around. She was lying in her bed, the covers pulled up to her chin, her eyes already closed. He walked over to the bed, his movements silent. He gently took the edge of the duvet and pulled it up higher, tucking it snugly around her shoulders. His fingers brushed against her collarbone, and she sighed in her sleep, a small, contented sound.
"Stay?" she murmured, her voice barely audible. "Please?"
"Okay," Peter agreed.
He stood there for a long moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The simple act of tucking her in felt more intimate, more dangerous, than any fight he'd ever been in. He wanted to stay.
God, he wanted to stay.
After ten minutes, when her breathing had evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep, he made his decision. He quietly stood up, walked to the door, and locked it from the outside, slipping the key under the mat.
He swung back into the night, the city lights blurring into a watercolor painting through the tears he refused to let fall. He wasn't just leaving a drunk girl in her bed. He was leaving behind the ghost of a life he could never have, a reminder that Peter Parker was just as much a disguise as Spider-Man ever was.
The morning light filtering through her bedroom window felt like knives stabbing directly into her brain. She groaned, rolling over and burying her face in her pillow. Every throb of her headache was a drumbeat, narrating just how many poor decisions she'd made last night.
"What time is it?" she mumbled into the pillow.
"Time for you to get up and face the consequences," a familiar, dry voice replied.
MJ.
She slowly pushed herself up on her forearms, wincing at the light from the window. "Consequences? The only consequence I'm facing is the fact that my mouth tastes like something died."
Ned appeared in her doorway, holding a mug of coffee. "Here, this might help. Though I'm not sure anything can help with the level of stupidity you achieved last night."
Y/n accepted the mug gratefully, taking a cautious sip. "What are you talking about?"
They exchanged a look. "You don't remember?" MJ asked.
She shook her head, so Ned explained it all. "You went out drinking alone which is breaking rule one. Then you didn't text us. So we come home this morning to find your front door locked from the outside and a shattered lamp on the floor."
She frowned, trying to piece together the previous night. She remembered the events leading up to her going to the bar and her ordering a couple drinks. Everything after her fourth tequila was a hazy, impressionist painting.
"I think... I think Spider-Man brought me home," she said slowly, the memory fragment coming into focus.
Ned was suddenly very alert. MJ's eyebrow shot up. "Spider-Man? As in, our friendly neighborhood webslinger?"
Y/n nodded, a small smile playing on her lips despite her hangover. "He was so... gentle. And strong. He swung me home."
Ned snorted, a puff of air escaping his lips. "Right. And I'm secretly the Hulk."
"I'm serious!" She insisted, her voice gaining conviction. "He saved me from some creeps outside the bar, then escorted me all the way home. He was very helpful."
"Let me guess," MJ said, crossing her arms. "He helped you change, too?"
Glancing down at her pajamas, Y/n felt the blush rising to her cheeks. "The zipper on my dress was stuck. He helped me get out of it," she recalled.
Ned's eyes widened. "Whoa, okay, that's... a detail."
"It wasn't like that!" Y/n protested. "He didn't even look. He faced the wall the whole time."
"Uh-huh," MJ said, her expression a perfect mask of disbelief. "And I suppose he also tucked you in, fluffed your pillows, and read you a bedtime story?"
She fell silent, trying to remember. The memory was fuzzy, but she thought she remembered the feeling of a blanket being pulled snugly around her shoulders.
"It sounds crazy, I know," she finally said. "But it felt so real."
MJ sighed, her skepticism softening into concern as she sat on the edge of her friend's bed. "Look, we're not mad you had a bad day. We're worried. You scared us. If something had actually happened..."
"Nothing did," Y/n insisted. "Because he was there."
"Okay, let's play devil's advocate," Ned said, finally setting the coffee down on her nightstand. "Say we believe you. Why would Spider-Man personally escort you home and help you into pajamas?"
"I don't know," Y/n admitted. "Maybe he patrols near the bar? Maybe he saw I was in trouble?"
"Or maybe," Ned chimed in, "some guy in a really good Halloween costume saw a drunk girl and an opportunity."
She shook her head. "No, it was him. I'd know him anywhere."
"Well, whoever it was, they got you home safe," MJ conceded, though her tone was still doubtful. "That's something, I guess. But the locked door is weird."
Her two roommates stood to their feet and began heading towards the door. She turned her head to stare out her bedroom window, admiring the sight of city buildings and wondering if he was somewhere out there.
bf!peter who truly does feel bad when he leaves you sore and achey . . . but who also can't help but get so, so turned on by it!
it's like fighting against himself, because peter absolutely loathes the idea of ever causing you pain—and the almost sick surge of satisfaction he feels when he catches you wincing and massaging your inner thighs the next day and the subsequent chubby he usually pops from it makes him want to recoil. (or at least, makes him feel like he should want to recoil.)
but he just can't help it. there's just something about it—something about knowing that he had fucked you so deep and thoroughly that your body literally aches from it—that drives him up the wall. makes him feel almost animalistic. feral.
and there's something equally as mind-spiraling about making it up to you. about using his hands and mouth and tongue to soothe the aches he caused, to pull the soft sounds of relief and pleasure from your pretty lips.
maybe that's the best part, when he's got you like this—achey thighs split open by his shoulders, trembling softly, clit so puffy and pretty under his tongue, and your gummy walls massaging and drooling around his fingers as he steadily (and gently, of course) fingerfucks you to an orgasm.
and, fuck, he's so sick for the way his cock twitches when you wince or sigh out in pain despite him being so gentle with you—but, to his pleasure, you aren't running.
no, you're pushing back into him, softly humping your cunt against his tongue, clenching around his fingers and suckling them like you can't get enough.
"feel's'good, peter," you mewl, slurred, whiny, pussy constricting when he presses his pads into the sweet spot at the top. "mmm—ah, fuck—please—a-ah, wait, careful—hurts a little—"
your body seems to be contradicting itself, tensing up when he strokes a particularly sore spot but yet releasing the most delicious sounds of pleasure, with whines for him to slow down peppered in between cries for more.
"i know, baby, i know. i know she's sore." he cuts off your next whimper softly, massaging gentle circles into your thigh with his free hand, fingers still sinking knuckle deep inside you rhythmically. "'m gonna go slow, okay? fuck, i'll make it up t'you... 'm'gonna make this pretty pussy feel better, hmm? y'want that?"
"yes, yes, please," you rush out on a breath, one that catches on a small whine and a jerk of your hips when his shoulder rubs against the sensitive flesh of your thigh. "wan-wanna feel better, pete, please—"
fuck, he's hard enough to cut steel right now. his boxers are tight and sticky, pools of pre spilling from his swollen tip. he aches so badly to simply bury himself inside your sweet cunt, replace his thick fingers with something even thicker and longer—but he knows he has to wait.
there's no way your poor, achy pussy could handle his cock right now. that would be far too much. she needs his tongue and fingers to bring her to orgasm first.
"fuck—a-ah—peter, i-i think 'm gonna cum."
oh, speak of the devil. peter suppresses a small smirk and starts to pump his fingers just a little harder—not faster, not higher, just harder. he flicks his tongue over your clit in tandem, and fuck, now your pussy is clenching so tight. your chest heaves and your moans are loud enough to shake the walls.
"that's it, pretty baby," peter murmurs, breath hot and fanning over your slopped up pussy. "c'mon, let it go. mmhmm, jus' like that. let go f'me, cum on my fingers—oh, yes, that's a goooood girl—"
peter can't really tell if the whine that escapes your throat is one of pain or pleasure; maybe it's a bit of both. but what he can tell is that you are coming on his fingers, slick gushing and clit pulsing, so swollen and cute and sensitive when he sucks on it gently.
and now that you have cum, maybe you'd be willing to let him make you just a little more sore...
note. so acc idk entirely how i feel abt this one bcs i'm expirementing a lil with a more dominant peter, so pls lmk how you guys feel about it or if i did a decent job of it or if u like it yeah u get it lol. anyway luv yas xoxo!! ♡
summary: peter’s new arachnid senses often leave him disoriented—hibernating and waking up in places he doesn’t recognise. it’s a small problem, one he's willing to deal with on his own, till he wakes in your apartment with his arms wrapped around you.
pairing: peter parker x reader
content: no bnd movie spoilers (feel free to read if you haven't seen bnd), FLUFF, clingy! peter parker, comfort, light banter, arachnid! peter, peter goes through it, yearning
Peter hates most of the new developments that arrived with the enhanced levels of his arachnid half—and migraines are definitely top of the list. Particularly the ones that start early in the morning, muffling his senses and rendering him a zombie slob for the entire start of the day. He stirs in his sleep, a soft, pounding ache burrowed in the back of his skull. It's an irritating sensation, one he's already grown familiar with, worsening the overheating, the sensitivity that comes with his overloaded senses, the pull of nerves behind his eyeballs.
His nose burrows deeper into a comforting scent, arms tightening around something soft. Letting out a dragged sigh, low against his throat, the pain fades into something barely noticeable. A sort of relaxed relief that hasn't hit him in years, with his entire body growing slack and heavy, the kind that only comes after a restful sleep. One he hasn't achieved since—his gaze peers open, blinking heavily as his eyes adjust to his surroundings.
The first thing he catches sight of is a familiar bundled sight of hair, and the curve of a shoulder. He must be dreaming. The sunlight stings the sensitivity of his eyes, and he blinks harsher in an effort to recollect himself. His brows furrow as he loosens a hand, parting from his tight grip to run his fingers gently over the loosened hair.
He wasn't dreaming. Somehow, he was laying in your bed, hugging you like an oversized koala.
"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.
You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.
The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.
What has he done?
"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.
Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.
"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"
Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?
“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”
Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.
Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.
"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."
"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."
Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?
He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.
His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.
“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.
He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.
He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.
There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.
“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.
Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.
“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”
His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.
“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.
Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.
“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”
His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.
“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”
Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."
A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.
"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.
Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.
Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.
"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.
He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.
He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.
You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?
Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.
You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.
"Don't go." He whispers.
Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.
"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.
He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."
You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.
He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.
"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."
His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.
"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."
He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.
"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."
The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.
"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.
"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.
You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.
Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.
You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.
Apparently, today was its much-needed day.
Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.
Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.
"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"
He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.
Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.
Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.
Okay, sure. You could work with that.
He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.
Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.
He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.
You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.
"Spidey." You whisper.
He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.
"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.
His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.
"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."
His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."
"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."
His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.
"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."
It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.
You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.
It gets demolished within seconds.
As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.
You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.
Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.
"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.
His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."
You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.
"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."
His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.
"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.
If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.
"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.
Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.
“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”
It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.
"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.
If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.
You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."
Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"
His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”
Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.
He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.
He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.
"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."
His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.
You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.
"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.
He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.
The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.
It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"
"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."
The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.
You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"
"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"
"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."
You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."
"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."
"That's not true." You hum.
He blinks slowly, processing your words.
"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."
He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.
"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.
The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"
"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”
He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.
It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.
“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”
"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."
Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."
"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."
"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."
His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.
"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."
Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.
It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.
"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.
You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.
"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."
His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."
"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"
He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."
His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."
Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."
"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."
You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.
He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.
"Spidey." You call out.
He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.
"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."
He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."
Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.
You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.
You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?
Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.
You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.
"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."
"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."
Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."
"Why?"
"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.
You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."
His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"
"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.
"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.
"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."
You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?
You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.
Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.
Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.
"Peter. Peter Parker."
likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3!!
marvel masterlist - coming soon! (do let me know if you'd like to be added to a peter parker taglist, i may be making one as i have more fics coming up for him <3).
a/n: brand new day spoilers. reader and peter start dating after nwh, mj does not exist. most basic fic of all time but it was literally pressing at the sides of my head. not proof-read. probably fucked up pov at some point.
Peter always calls. He texts, sure, but if you ask him what he prefers, he’ll shrug and say, “Sometimes, it’s just nicer to hear your voice.”
Placating. Diplomatic. The words of a man who spends most of his time using both hands to launch himself between skyscrapers.
And Peter always calls at 5 PM on Thursdays. He knows you get out of work at 4:40, knows you’ll be taking the longer route home. For nearly two years, Peter has called at 5 PM every Thursday. It’s a dance routine, and a well-practiced one at that. And when he falls out of step, so do you.
You let it go when the phone doesn’t ring at five. He’s probably still in class, you shake your head. Fell asleep at his desk again, couldn’t get to the phone. Six o’clock passes and you check his location, still in his apartment. No texts and no calls. You try to call, but get his voicemail.
“Hey, Pete, it’s me. Call me back when you get the chance.” I pause. “I miss you. Okay, talk soon. Bye, babe.”
By ten, you’ve called four times and left a whole flood of messages. You’ve chewed your nails down to the stubs. Midnight rolls around, and you’re already out the door. Peter lives two blocks over and, though you rarely make the walk over alone, you’ve got pepper spray in your bag. And besides, with Spider-man out at night, the crime wasn’t terrible either way.
You knock on the door rapidly, glancing around the hallway. “Peter?” You whisper before pressing your ear to the door. “Peter.” Your hand lands on the door, twisting at the knob. You inhale sharply as the knob turns freely, pushing the door open and slipping into the apartment. You turn and lock the door behind you. “Peter?” You call, taking your shoes off. “It’s just me, don’t freak. I was getting kind of worried about you.” Still no response. “Peter.” Your breath catches as you spot drops of something dark and red on the floorboards. Blood. “Peter!”
You rush into the bedroom, where the blood continues, but there’s nobody there. “Pete!” You are nearly shouting, trying to keep your breath calm. Your swivel around the room, searching for another sign of blood, of Peter, of–
Spider-man.
His suit is hung over Peter’s chair. There’s a Tide pen on the desk, and it’s clear someone had tried to get a patch of blood out of the sleeve. Spider-man uses Tide pens. You don’t have too much time to think about it, fingers suddenly picking up the mask and glossing over the lenses. Did Spider-man beat up your boyfriend? Or vice versa? Or Peter is just helping him out with a Tide pen, since Peter carries one on him most of the time, he’s really prone to getting blood on his –
Oh. It clicks in your head and you nearly drop the mask. But, instead, you raise it to your face and inhale softly. It smells like blood, sweat, and Prada Ocean.
It smells like the stupid bottle of cologne you gave Peter a year ago. Your eyes go wide. “Peter?” You call out again, voice tilting nervously.
A door clicks open behind you, and you nearly scream, startling Peter as he emerges from the bathroom, clearly just showered and in his boxers. “Jesus Christ, Y/n, how did you get in here?” He groans, closing his eyes after the shock fades.
“Your door is open, Peter, that’s so dangerous!” You push back, before remembering what you were doing before he came out. His eyes fly open as he also seems to register the situation, wide pupils landing on the mask hovering between your finger-tips.
“Uh, Y/n.” “Why do you have this?” You hold up the mask.
“It’s not mine.” His words are clipped, and he grabs a t-shirt off the ground. “Yeah, no shit, Peter, it’s Spider-man. Why is it here?” Wide-eyed, he pulls the shirt over his head. “It’s not what you think, Y/n, okay– he got stuck on the fire escape, and I–”
“You better come up with something more believable than that.” You shake your head, hands starting to tremble.
“It’s just a costume, Y/n.” “Peter, this is not just a costume, this– this is the real thing! Why won’t you tell me what’s happening? And where have you been all day, I’ve been freaking out–” You start rambling, the stress of the day pouring out of you when Peter practically groans.
“Fuck, Y/n, I was just a little busy, ‘m fine and ‘m here, it’s not that big of a deal!” “You’re dodging my question! You always do–” “Would you please just drop it?” He squints his eyes. “Please, Y/n.”
You stare at him, mouth opened a bit. “Peter.”
He doesn’t look at you, crashing onto the edge of his bed, head in his hands. “Just– please, baby. Please don’t make me.” “Pete, just talk to me.” “Please.”
Peter wasn’t even sure what he was asking for anymore. For you not to leave him, for you to ignore what you were seeing, for you to walk out and be safe somewhere far away. “Y/n.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Just go, go home.”
You stare at him, taken aback. “Are you serious?” Peter looked up at you from his hands, and for a moment you forgot what you were even pressing him for. He looked awful. He looked like he had been holding the sky above him for years, like the weight of the entire universe pressed down on his temples. Your eyebrows knit together, real concern bleeding into your anger. “Peter, what’s happening with you? Would you just– just talk to me here.”
You set the mask in your hand down on the desk, crouching down in front of Peter’s bed, trying to get him to hold your eyes. “Jesus, baby, what’s going on?”
Peter squeezed his eyes shut as you came down to his level, unable to look you in the eye and force himself to admit he had been lying to you. He was on the verge of tears, his voice high and shaky. “I can’t talk about it.”
You ducked down to try and catch his eye again, hands coming up to his face. “You can tell me anything, you know that?” He was already shaking his head.
“Don’t shut me out, Pete, I just want to help you.” “You’re going to be mad at me.” “Baby, I’m mad at you already, you don’t really need to–”
“I’m Spider-man.” Peter breathes out, his eyes nervously scanning your face. Your hands fall from his face and he feels his stomach drop.
“Yeah, Peter, I know.”
Peter pulls back, his eyes narrowing. “What?” You shake your head.
“Your suit is on your desk, it smells like your cologne. Do you put cologne on when you go out like that?” Peter blinks rapidly, not sure how to answer the question.
You press further. “Is that why you’ve been so distant?”
He shrugs, but his eyes are full of tears. “I feel like I’ve been lying to you.”
You nod. “Are you?” He shrugs again. “I was.” “Then tell me.”
Peter exhaled, shaking. “What do you want to know?”
“The whole Avengers thing, the bombs, and the bank robberies, that’s all been you?”
Peter nodded, chewing on his cheek. “Yeah. That was me.” You blink. “Oh my god.” You stood up, reality beginning to sink in on you. Peter stood up quickly too.
“Y/n, you should sit,” He spoke softly.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” “I didn’t know how to.” “And all– all those times you came over to mine all beat up?”
Peter looked at the ground, guilt piling in his throat.
“You told me you kept getting hit by Lime Scooters, oh my god, Pete.” Your hand came up to your mouth.
“I’m sorry, Y/n, please. Just sit down.”
You keep pacing, and he stands, his hands coming up to your hips in an attempt to steady you. “C’mon, baby, look here. I’m okay. Really,” He soothes.
“Peter, this is awful, this is really, really dangerous stuff you’re doing.” “I know, but I have to do it.” “Did you have to lie to me about it?”
Peter’s eyes close, and his mouth twists like he’s trying to keep from crying. “I don’t want you to be scared of me.”
You shook your head, taking a small step back. Peter’s hands fall from your hips. “I’m not scared of you, Peter, I’m scared for you. I’ve seen the Damage Control attacks in the news, people have died. What happens if–”
“I’ve been doing this for a while, Y/n, I’m already careful.” “None of this is careful, Peter!” “How would you know?” Peter’s voice began to climb.
“Well, you didn’t tell me!” “Yeah, because I knew you would act–” “Don’t even, Peter.” You put up a finger, warning him. Taking two more steps back, you shake your head. “You’re so– Peter, what would have happened if you had died out there? And nobody knew? It’s bad enough you’re hurting yourself this much!” “Y/n.” “I can’t talk to you like this, I’m so– my god, I’m so confused.” “I’m trying to explain!” “Just– I need air, I need–”
Peter backed up, his hands coming up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” He rasped. “Please, would you just sit down?” “Peter, I think I should go.”
Peter’s mouth parts, slightly, like he wants to protest. He shakes his head, looking down for a moment as he closes his mouth again. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Just– just call me, okay? If you– if you’re ready.”
Peter must assume you’re not ready. Because it’s been a full week, and there has been radio silence between the two of you. He’s seen you, of course, perched above the city, watching your walk home when it’s late. He knows you’ve seen him, too. You know he’s there, watching for you. But you can’t bring yourself to look up at him in that suit. To acknowledge that it is him, that his eyes are behind those lenses, his face behind that mask.
Because you see that mask everywhere. On the street, behind your eyelids, and on the news. On the news, when every major channel is reporting about how Spiderman has been shot.
“Peter.” You sit up straight as he stirs, pulling at the oxygen mask over his face. “Leave it, Pete, you’re okay.”
“Y/n.” He sits up higher, taking off the mask. You scoot closer, brushing back his hair. “You’re okay, you’re okay. You scared the shit out of me.” “What happened?” “Baby, you tell me. I see on the news that you’ve been shot, and then I get a call from some guy named Frank telling me I need to come here.” “Is Frank here?” “Yeah, he’s outside. Who is he?” Peter coughs. “He’s a friend.” “He said he shot you.”
Peter pauses. “He’s still a friend.”
You sniffle, and Peter’s eyes snap up again. Your eyes are red and teary already.
He reaches for your hand, and you let him. “I’m okay, Y/n. I heal fast. That’s part of the– the deal, I guess.”
“This is exactly what I was scared of.”
Peter slumps, suddenly feeling small. “I promise I’m okay now.” “But it could’ve been worse. You– he said you were almost dead, Pete.”
“I’m not, though.” Peter attempts, smiling sheepishly.
You don’t laugh.
“Y/n. I– I know this is scary. And dangerous. And I know you’re worried. But this is– this is what I do, this is what I am. And I have to. I have to.” “Peter.” “I know people are dying. I know I almost died. But more people will die if I do nothing.” “Peter.” “I don’t want to lose you because of this. I don’t want to pick between being Spider-man and being your boyfriend.” “Peter, stop.”
He falls quiet, big brown eyes staring up at you. “We can talk, okay? You– you scared the shit out of me, but I’m here. You’re not scaring me away. I’m not asking you to choose. You just got shot, and I just– I just want you to be okay.”
Peter grips your hand tighter, leaning forward to press his mouth against where your hands intertwine. “I am.”
“Let me get Frank.” You clear your throat to stand. Peter’s brow furrows.
“Why?” “He said he had a plan to get you out. Something about him wanting to try on your mask.”
summary: Peter Parker and Black Cat!reader have been circling each other for years with banter and kisses, fighting crime side by side only to tear into each other the second the adrenaline fades. He loves her completely but she only wants him in his suit. The “I hate you”s, and desperate hands ends the only way it ever does: with his webs around her wrists, her suit ripped open, and both of them too far gone to stop.
➺ tags: tom holland!spiderman, reader!black cat, toxic relationship, angst with fluff, banter, bickering, complicated relationship, rooftop sex, public sex, sex with suits on, ripped suit, latex, web bondage, dominant peter parker, submissive reader, name kink, good girl kink, choking, spanking, rough sex, breeding kink, creampie, multiple orgasms, needy peter, dirty talk, moaning, unmasking, mask kink, crime fighting, flashbacks, some plot with angst
➺ authors note: i reaaaally want to make reader!black cat x spiderman a series but i dunno yet
word count: 3.6k
It was the usual spot.
The half collapsed water tower on the roof of the old industrial building. Cracked concrete, rusted railing, the faded spray paint of some forgotten tag. The city stretched out below in every direction with yellow taxis crawling like insects, neon lights bleeding into the humid night air, the distant pulse of sirens that never quite stopped. This was their spot. Not neutral ground exactly. More like the only place the two of you could stand still long enough to try and tear each other apart without any interruption.
You were already there when the familiar figure swung in, landing in a controlled crouch that still managed to look effortless. Peter Parker. Spider-Man. The man who had been under your skin for years and still somehow thought he could dig deeper.
He straightened, head tilting slightly as he took you in. The white and black latex catsuit hugged every curve like it had been poured on. The deep cleavage framed by the corset style top, the soft weight of your breasts shifting with every breath, high cut legs and thigh high boots that made the simple act of walking look like a promise. The white fur trim at your collar stirred in the breeze. The glossy latex caught the neon and city lights, making your body look almost oiled, every swell and dip gleaming. You looked expensive and dangerous and completely fucking perfect, and Peter’s cock was already half hard just from the sight of you standing there.
“You’re late, tiger,” you said, voice silky. “I was starting to think you’d finally gotten yourself killed. Would’ve been convenient for me.”
He huffed a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Missed me that much? You left me hanging upside down from a crane last Tuesday so you could swipe the shipment first. I had to cut myself free.”
Your grin was sharp. “What can I say? You looked good dangling there. Using all those muscles to free yourself.”
— three months earlier, same rooftop
You’d just finished a job together with his webs and your claws taking down a weapons deal gone sideways. Adrenaline still singing in both of you. Peter had pinned you against the water tower, one hand already shoved between your legs while you laughed into the space between you.
“You need to be more careful next time,” he’d growled, two fingers sinking into your wet heat without warning.
“Make me,” you’d answered, rolling your hips, fucking yourself on his hand while he cursed. “Come on, Spider. Steal something back for once.”
He’d fucked you right there against the metal, hard and fast, fingers in your mouth to muffle the sounds while the city moved on below. Afterward you’d both been panting, sticky, and you’d still managed to slip his web shooters off his wrists and vanish with a wink and a stolen kiss.
He’d spent the next two days half furious and half hard every time he thought about it.
— six weeks earlier, a different night
He’d shown up unmasked at your apartment window like an idiot, rain soaked, nervous yet earnest, asking if you wanted to come to dinner at Aunt May’s. You’d laughed in his face, shoved him back out onto the fire escape, and then climbed him like a tree the second he tried to leave—kissing him breathless, grinding against the hard line of his cock through his civilian clothes, whispering filthy things about how you’d rather have Spider-Man on a rooftop than Peter Parker at a dinner table. He’d left with your lipstick on his throat and a fresh set of claw marks down his back. You’d spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, angry at yourself for wanting both.
— last week
A rooftop chase that turned into a fight that turned into you both slamming into the same abandoned penthouse. You’d argued mid combat about a lead you’d withheld. He’d webbed your wrists to a beam in pure frustration. You’d used the leverage to wrap your legs around his waist and drag him in, mask lifted above his mouth, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood while he thrust against you fully clothed, both of you too stubborn to stop and too desperate to finish properly. He’d left you webbed there for a full ten minutes after, pacing, muttering about how you drove him insane. You’d just smiled and told him to hurry up if he wanted another round.
The pattern never changed. It was playful, vicious, addicting. You took and he gave and neither of you ever quite walked away clean.
Tonight felt a little heavier.
Peter stepped closer, the soles of his feet silent on the concrete. His gaze dragged over you the way it always did, lingering on the deep V of your top, the way your breasts rose and fell with each breath, the soft jiggle when you shifted your weight, the way the latex made everything look slick and touchable. “I can tell you’re staring again,” you murmured, already amused. “Is it at the suit? Or at what’s under it?”
“Both,” he said, honest as always. “You look perfect. Like you were made to ruin me.”
You closed the distance, gloved fingers trailing up the center of his chest plate, over the raised spider. “Then let me.”
You reached up, hooked your fingers under the edge of his mask at the jaw, and lifted it just enough to bare his mouth. The fabric bunched above his upper lip. The kiss started the way it always did; heated with a clash of teeth and tongue. Peter’s hands found your waist and yanked you flush against him. The hard lines of his suit met the soft give of yours. You bit his lower lip and he growled into your mouth and deepened it, one hand sliding down to grip the full swell of your ass through the tight latex, kneading hard enough to make you arch into him with a soft, open moan. His cock was fully hard now, thick and insistent against your stomach through the suit.
You made out like the world was ending. Wet, open mouthed, messy, tongues sucking on each other. His fingers slipped under to stroke your cunt against the catsuit. You were already wet; and he could feel it against the fabrics, the scent of it rose between you, sweet and sharp. One gloved finger traced the edge of where panties would have been if you’d bothered wearing any. You shuddered and moaned against his mouth, the sound low and needy.
“Peter—” you started, then caught yourself. “Spider.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, mask still lifted only to his nose. “Say my real name.”
Your eyes flashed. “No.”
And the heat turned sharp.
You shoved at his chest hard. “Don’t start this again.”
Peter caught your wrists, but gently this time. “Hey! We can’t keep doing this. Sneaking around the same spot. You only wanting me when my mask is on. I love you. All of you. Please, let me in.”
You laughed, bitter. “Love? You don’t even know what that means half the time. You’re too busy playing hero. Saving people who will never know your name. Being good. I don’t want that life, Peter. I want the thrill. The heists. The nights where we take what we want and disappear before anyone can make us stay. Not the rent checks and— and the constant almost dying for strangers who wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire. I don’t want the unmasked version. I don’t want the responsibility. I don’t want to watch you bleed out for a city that doesn’t deserve you.”
“I’ll change,” he said, too fast, too desperate. “I’ll cut back on the patrols. We’ll figure it out. I’ll be more careful. I’ll—”
“Stop.” You yanked your wrists free and shoved him again, harder, open palms against his pecs. “Those are just words. Pretty, empty words. You’ve said them before. You’ll say them again after the next crisis. After the next villain who almost kills you. I know you, Spider. You’ll never stop. And I’m not going to sit around waiting for the day they scrape you off the pavement.”
Your voice cracked. Anger and something softer, something you hated, warred across your face. You pushed him a third time, harder still. “I hate you. Do you understand that? I hate you for making me feel like this. For making me want something I can’t have. I’m disgusted by the way you look at me like I’m the only thing that matters when we both know I’m not.”
Peter didn’t move when you shoved him. He just stood there, solid, taking it. Because he knows what you’re saying are just words.
Then his arms came around you. They felt strong, unyielding, wrapping around your hips and pulling you flush against him again. Hip to hip. The still hard length of his cock pressed insistently against your lower stomach. His forehead dropped to yours.
“Take my mask off,” he said, voice rough and demanding yet soft. “Fully. All the way. I want you to see who’s fucking you.”
You hesitated. Then your fingers found the edge of the fabric and peeled it the rest of the way up, over his nose, over his eyes, over the messy dark hair. You pulled it completely free and dropped it somewhere on the concrete. The cool night air hit his flushed face. Big brown eyes, earnest and hungry. That mouth that had whispered your name in the dark more times than either of you could count.
Peter Parker. Not the legend. Just the man.
You stared at him like you’d never seen him before and also like you’d memorized every line of his face.
“I still hate you,” you whispered.
“I know.” He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. His hands slid down to cup your ass, lifting you slightly so you were on your toes. “Hate me while I’m inside you.”
The argument dissolved into something hungrier and meaner.
Peter’s fingers found the zipper at the front of your catsuit and dragged it down in one long, deliberate pull. The material parted. Your full breasts spilled free, heavy and soft, nipples already hard from the cool breeze and the earlier friction. They bounced slightly with the motion, the peaks dark and stiff. You gasped as the night air kissed the sensitive skin, a soft, needy moan slipping out.
“Fuck,” Peter breathed, staring. “Look at these perfect tits. Look at you.” His gloved hands cupped them, thumbs circling the hardened nipples until you arched into his touch with another open moan. He lowered his head and took one into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking the peak, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You moaned louder, fingers threading into his hair. He switched to the other breast, biting harder this time, then soothing with his tongue while one hand kept kneading the soft flesh. A low, needy sound rumbled out of his own throat—almost a whimper, the vibration of it going straight through you.
The zipper stayed open, the suit still on, latex gleaming around your waist and hips. Peter spun you around so your back was to his chest, then bent you forward over the low rooftop wall. The city stretched out below, lights, noise, the distant wail of a siren. He kicked your legs farther apart. One hand braced on the small of your back. The other grabbed the tight latex covering your ass in both fists and ripped.
The sound was sharp and sudden. The shiny material ripped under his strength, tearing open a wide, ragged hole right over the full, soft curves of your ass and the dripping heat between your legs. The latex stretched and clung around the tear, framing everything. Your big ass looked even fuller now—bouncy and glossy like it had been oiled, the sheen of the remaining suit catching every bit of city light. When Peter gave one cheek an experimental slap, the flesh jiggled and the torn latex flexed with it in a way that made his cock twitch hard against his suit. He groaned, low and desperate, the sound almost a moan, and your ears twitched at the needy edge in it.
“Jesus, look at that,” he muttered, voice rough. “That ass… fuck, the way it moves in this thing—”
He freed his cock. Thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. He rubbed the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit until your hips twitched and a broken little moan spilled out of you. “Peter… ah—”
“You gonna take it like a good girl, right?” he asked, voice low and rough against your ear. “Or you still trying to be in charge?”
You tried. You pushed back against him, rolling your hips, attempting to control the angle. “I don’t need you to—ah!—mmgh!”
He thrust in to your cunt in one smooth brutal stroke with the help of how wet your pussy was.
The stretch burned in the best way. You cried out, a loud, open moan that echoed off the water tower, hands scrambling for something to hold on to on the rough concrete edge. Peter didn’t give you time to adjust. He set a hard, punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward. Every thrust drove you against the wall; every retreat left you clenching around nothing. The head of his cock dragged over that spot inside you that made your knees threaten to buckle. Your moans came freely now. They were high and needy. Peter’s own sounds were worse: desperate moans that slipped out of him with almost every thrust, needy and raw.
“Peter—P-P-Pet—fuck—mmp—ahh!”
“That’s it. Say my name.” He wrapped one arm around your waist to keep you from sliding too far over the edge, the other hand coming up to circle your throat. Slightly hard enough to cut air and just enough pressure to make your pulse hammer under his palm. You moaned harder against his grip, the sound vibrating into his hand. “You like that? Being choked while I fuck you open. I can feel it in your pussy. My good girl.”
You tried to snap something sharp back, but he slammed in deeper and the words turned into a broken, high moan. Your body betrayed you. Your hips pushing back to meet every thrust, pussy fluttering around his thick cock. He slapped your ass hard enough to leave a red print that stung deliciously against the torn latex. The cheek bounced, glossy and full, the remaining suit flexing with the motion. Then again. And again. The sharp cracks mixed with the wet sounds of him burying himself inside you over and over. Peter moaned at the sight, a needy, almost helpless sound that went straight to your core.
“Trying to dom me?” he growled, voice strained and breathless. “Cute. But we both know how this ends. You’re gonna cum on my cock and you’re gonna thank me for it.”
He shifted the angle, hitting that spot harder, and your vision sparkled. A long, shaky moan tore out of you. His free hand slid between your legs, two fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing in tight, relentless circles. The multiple sensations of his thick cock stretching you open, fingers working your clit, the pressure around your throat—ripped another sob-moan from your throat.
“Peter—please-mm—ahh—”
“Please what? Use your words, baby.”
“Breed me. Breed me please,” you gasped between moans, the confession tumbling out. “Fill me up—ah—I-I want it. I want you to—”
He cursed, the sound almost a moan itself. His thrusts turned erratic, deeper, the wet slap of your suits growing louder. “Gonna pump you full. Gonna keep you on this roof until it’s dripping down your thighs. You’re mine. Say it.”
“Yours,” you choked out on a moan. “I’m yours—All yours Peter—ahh—”
That was when he moved.
He pulled out just long enough to grab both of your arms, yanking them behind your back with one strong hand. Your wrists crossed. A thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist and wrapped them tight, binding them together so securely that your shoulders were forced back, chest pushed out, breasts hanging heavy and vulnerable. He adjusted his grip, one large hand now wrapping completely around both of your bound wrists, holding them like a handle. The other hand stayed at your throat. He thrust back in hard, using the leverage of your bound arms to pull you onto his cock with every snap of his hips.
“There,” he gritted out, voice rough and needy. “This is who fucks you like the pretty obedient girl you really are. Not the mask. Not the superhero. Me. The guy who knows exactly how wet this pussy gets when I take control. The guy who knows you hate how much you need it.”
You couldn’t do anything but take it. Bound, bent over the edge of the world, completely at his mercy. The helplessness only made you wetter with slick sounds every time he thrusted out, your juices coating his cock and dripping down your thighs. He fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin, the grip on your bound wrists tightening every time you tried to squirm, the hand at your throat flexing just enough to make your head swim. Your moans spilled out freely—loud, broken, shameless. Peter’s own moans answered them, needy and low, making your ears twitch every single time.
“Look at you,” he said, voice rough and almost shaking. “Ass probably red. Wrists webbed. Throat in my hand. Taking every inch like you were made for it. My good girl. My messy, perfect girl.”
The first orgasm hit you like a freight train. Your pussy clamped down hard, pulsing around him as you came with a broken, high cry of his name. Peter didn’t stop. He kept thrusting through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive, using the hold on your bound arms to keep you exactly where he wanted you. Only then did he bury himself deep inside of you, cock pulsing as he flooded you with thick, hot ropes of cum. A long, needy moan tore out of him as he came, the sound vibrating against your back. He stayed there, grinding deep, forcing every drop as deep as it would go while his free hand stroked over the marks he’d left on your ass through the torn latex.
You were still trembling when he finally pulled out. Cum immediately began to leak down your inner thighs in a messy trail. Your legs shook hard, barely holding you up. Peter moved carefully. One arm still steadying you, the other reaching for the webbing at your wrists. He dissolved the strands with a quick tug, freeing your arms. Your shoulders ached in the best way. He guided you back from the edge, then sat slightly against the low wall himself, leaning into it for support. His hands found your waist. He lifted you easily, your legs still trembling, body pliant and spent—and settled you into his lap, facing him, so you straddled his thighs.
Your soaked, used pussy slid along the length of his still hard cock. He guided himself back inside with a low, needy moan that made your ears twitch again, filling you in one slow, deep push. Your hands found his shoulders immediately, fingers digging into the muscle for something solid to hold onto. This time the rhythm was heavier, more grinding. Peter’s hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise and helped you bounce on his cock.
Your breasts bounced with every movement, nipples brushing his bare chest. The torn latex still clung around your hips and thighs, framing the wet mess between your legs. Peter’s mouth found one breast again, sucking hard while he slapped your ass: once, twice, the sharp sting making you clench around him and moan out loud. When you tried to set a faster pace he slowed you with a firm grip, forcing you to feel every thick inch dragging against your sensitive walls. Soft, needy moans kept slipping out of him.
“Look at me,” he ordered, voice thick. “Eyes on me while you take it…That’s it. Good girl. Just like that. This is who’s inside you. This is who owns this pretty cunt every time.”
You came again with his name on your lips, a long, shaky moan that broke into a sob as your walls fluttered around him. Peter followed a few thrusts later, burying his face in your neck as he pumped another load deep inside you, a desperate, needy moan muffled against your skin while his hands held your hips down so you couldn’t pull away even if you wanted to.
You collapsed against his chest afterward, both of you breathing hard, the cool night air cooling the sweat on your skin. Cum leaked out of you around his cock, making a mess of both of you. Peter’s arms stayed locked around you, one hand stroking absently over the marks he’d left while he left soft kisses on your shoulder, the other resting warm at the small of your back.
For a long moment neither of you spoke. The city kept moving below. Sirens. Horns. Life continuing without either of you.
Peter then pressed a kiss to your temple, soft and lingering. “I still love you,” he said quietly.
You didn’t answer right away. His heartbeat was steady under your cheek, his scent making you melt.
“I still hate you,” you whispered into his skin.
But you didn’t pull away.
And Peter held you like he never planned to let go.
summary: bucky isn’t your biggest fan, but when you have car trouble and need his help he shows he might care more than he usually lets on.
warnings: i didn’t proofread and im scared
———————————————————————
It had been a rough day. The kind of day where your shirt gets caught on the door handle and then you consider banging your head against the wall. The kind of day where nothing goes right and you start to question if you’ve ever felt joy before. Dramatic? Yes, but it’s one of those days.
So after this day full of little things just piling up, you decide to treat yourself. You took a bath, put on some pjs, and hopped in your car to go get that milkshake you had been craving.
You felt lighter. The windows down letting in the cool night air, good music playing through the speakers, finally escaping the weight of anxiety that had been on your chest all day.
But then…
Your heart drops when you feel the car stutter. No… no, no, no.
“Whoa, what the-“ You get cut off by a loud thunk coming from the engine. Then smoke. “Holy crap.” You quickly pull off into some grass—barely making it as the car keeps stuttering.
Immediately, you turn off the car and just stare in shock at the smoke slipping through the seams of the hood. “This can’t be happening right now.”
Everyone is out of town. The whole team is either on missions or visiting family, well except Bucky. He’s still at the compound with you, but it’s pretty much like you’re there alone.
You’re close with the whole team, but you two have a certain dynamic. Bucky is a distant guy and you’re… you. You make jokes and he rolls his eyes with a grumble, even though he thinks you’re funny. He purposely pushes your buttons and you push his back. You two are frenemies, for lack of better words. He never gave you a chance to be friends. He’s not really sure why—maybe it’s just his subconscious knowing he’d care for you more than he’s ready for.
After googling, crying into the steering wheel from being defeated by this day, and thinking about just walking home—you call him. You had no other choice. The car can’t be driven like this.
———————
Bucky is in his room reading, when he hears his phone going off. He assumed it was Steve calling from his mission, or maybe Sam calling just to annoy him. When he sees your name on the screen his eyebrows pull together, weren’t you just right down the hall?, he answers with a gruff, “Hello?” He could swear he heard you sigh in relief.
“Hey um… are you busy?” Bucky doesn’t miss the slight rasp in your voice when you speak.
“What’s wrong?” He automatically sits up in concern, especially because why would you call him of all people?
“My car starting stuttering and then kinda… well no, definitely started smoking. So, I-I pulled over and I just was wondering if you could come pick me up? I’m like ten minutes from the compound. I’m really sorry, you’re just the only one home.” The words just tumble out. There is a beat of silence as Bucky processes, then he hears a small sniffle that snaps him in gear.
Just as you start to speak again—worried he’s annoyed—he hops out of bed like a man on a mission. “Send me your location. I’m on my way.” He says as he grabs his shoes.
The sound of you sighing in relief makes his chest feel tight, did you think he wouldn’t come help you?
“Thank you, Bucky” You say gratefully. More than ready to be saved from this cherry on top of this hell of a day.
“Just stay put and lock the doors.” He directs before he hangs up and slides on a black hoodie over his shirt.
—————————
Bucky is there in less than ten minutes—the compound is kinda in the middle of nowhere so he floored it. He sees your car pulled over into the grass. Your car is older, chipped paint, faded stickers, obviously loved.
When you see Bucky pull up you quickly look in the mirror to see if it looks like you’ve been crying… it does. Maybe he won’t notice.
As you both get put of your cars he takes in your appearance—baggy shorts with the penguins on it, a faded shirt that says ‘I ❤️ NYC’, and mix matched socks under sandals. A lethal combination.
“Hey” You say with a small apologetic smile, shoulders slightly hunched in defeat from the day.
“Where were you going?” Bucky asks in confusion at the time of night plus your appearance.
The constant state of grumpy is on his face which makes you sink further into yourself. Normally you can take it. Push his buttons as a way to charm him. Tonight, however, you don’t have that in you.
“I wanted a milkshake.” If the puffiness of your face and shine in your eyes wasn’t enough evidence you had been crying, the rasp in your voice confirmed it.
It was so minuscule you are unsure if it actually happened, but you could’ve swore his face softened. You knew that he knew you’d been crying, but he doesn’t mention it.
He just says, “Pop the hood”, as he moves over to the front of your car.
You wave a dismissive hand. “You don’t have to look at it. I’m just gonna use a truck from the compound and tow it home in the morning.” You clear your throat after—trying to rid the rasp from your voice.
He says your name plainly with an almost annoyed look that says ‘just do it’. You look at him for a moment—as if trying to gauge how irritated he is—then you just nod once and pull the lever to pop the hood.
Trapped smoke swirls into the air that’s illuminated by the headlights of his car pointing towards us. You step over to peer into the car, close enough to see where he points his flashlight but giving him space to look.
“How bad is it?” You ask, voice soft and small.
Bucky has never heard your voice like that and he wants to make it go away. He’s so used to you being all smiley, voice a little too loud, always with a joke to punctuate a conversation. Sure, you frustrate him sometimes, make him roll his eyes more times than not when talking to you. But he’d rather you be loud and pushing his buttons, than you quiet and sad like you are now.
Bucky finally looks over at you after a few more moments of investigating. His eyes look over you face—the fading red splotches, puffy features, the lack of light in your eyes. He notices the way your arms are wrapped around yourself—either to comfort yourself or guard yourself from the night breeze that’s growing brisk. He ignores the urge to bring you into the safety of his arms.
“Um, I’m not sure yet. It could be a couple of things.” He replies, making you let out a small sigh of nerve and relief. “Crank the car for me.” Bucky nods to drivers seat while peering back into the engine.
You nod and climb in without a word. You listen to his commands through the open door—turning the car off and on, revving the engine when told. Cringing at the concerning sounds your car makes.
After he tells you to shut it off one last time, he walks over to your open door. Looking down at you, your shoulders slumped and face still showing faint signs you had cried.
He swallows away the feeling in his throat, then says, “We’re gonna have to tow it.” Almost baiting you to quip at him. Maybe a little ‘no shit, sherlock’ or ‘nothing gets past you’, but instead you just take a shaky breath and nod.
You knew you were gonna have to tow it. It was already planned in your head—tow it in the morning and have Tony fix it when he gets back in town. But for some reason, Bucky saying it needs to be towed makes your eyes begin to water.
You nod quickly and turn away from him to grab your bag—and really just collect your emotions. “Yep, ok cool, just one second.” Your throat tightens.
Bucky watches your shoulders shake as you put your dashboard knickknacks into your bag. Before he could think, he says your name softly.
“I’m coming. I’m just grabbing a few things.” You dismiss with a light crackle in your throat. He watches the random little figurines be tossed into your bag. Such a silly thing that makes him frown.
His frown deepens as he watches you climb out of your car, making sure to keep your head down as you double check it’s locked. He opens the passenger door to his car for you—chest tightening at your small ‘thank you’.
You exhale shakily to yourself for the few moments you’re alone as he walks around to the drivers side. You don’t look at him when he climbs in, but after a few moments pass of him not starting the car you look over.
Bucky is already looking at you.
“What?” You ask softly, eyebrows pulling together lightly.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks. His voice gruff in its usual way, but underlying care softens the edges.
It feels like his eyes were peering into your soul. You advert your gaze and chew on your cheek in an attempt to stop the emotion. “It’s just been a day.” You answer softly, hoping that is enough of an answer.
You assume the answer sufficed when he started the car—but the car sat still.
Bucky sees the way you continue to hug yourself, as you stare out the window waiting for the car to move. He can’t take it anymore. He wants to provide some sort of comfort—but he’s not good with words.
You hear a soft rustle—just as you turn your head towards him he sets his hoodie carefully on you lap. You look down at the black fabric, then up to meet his eyes as his slowly retreats.
A wave of something drifts through your eyes—confusion, sadness, appreciation? Neither of you speak for a moment.
“You looked cold.” Bucky explains simply.
“I’m o-“ You start, but he cuts you off. “You can throw it in the back if you don’t want it.” He says, calling you bluff.
He shifts the car into drive and pulls onto the road. You sit there for a beat trying to process the moment. You glance back to your car left in the grass, then to Bucky focused on the road.
Finally, you pull the hoodie over your head. Automatically a wave of comfort rushes over you, like warm water flushing through your veins. It’s like a shield from the day. It’s huge on you, the fabric is worn out just right, and it smells good… it smells like him.
“Thank you.” You say as you slowly sit back in your seat—feeling a little awkward.
Bucky just nods once in response. He keeps his eyes on the road—hands gripping the wheel a little tighter as he fights the thoughts in his head.
Throughout the quiet ride, he steals glances towards you—your gaze lazily out the window. You look so small and cozy in his hoodie. It makes his chest ache.
“Do you think my car will be okay? Like, you don’t think anyone is gonna do something to it, right?” You break the silence. You know it’s highly doubtful that someone is gonna steal your broken down car in the middle of the night, but still you seek reassurance.
Bucky glances over at you, then back to the road. You see him swallow before he speaks, “It’ll be fine,” then adds, “it won’t get far if anyone tries something.” He lightly pokes fun in his dry gruff tone—trying to get the normal you out.
You chuckle half heartedly. “I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.”
That brings a tiny tug to the corner of his mouth. After a few beats of silence, he looks back over to you. You’re staring out the window—seemingly lost in thought—chewing on the inside of your cheek.
“Hey,” his low voice pulls you out of your thoughts. The soft vulnerability in your eyes, the way you’re wearing his hoodie like a safety blanket—it makes his heart ache. “It’ll be fine.” He says soft and sure. Hoping his words smooth the worry crease in your brow.
The weight of his genuine reassurance makes you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Tears prick the corners of your eyes despite your best efforts. You can’t help it on days like this—emotionally exhausted from simply existing.
“I know.” Your voice just above a whisper. “Thank you.” You sniffle and turn to face out the window as the car approaches the compound.
You try your hardest to breathe through the emotion in your chest, blink away the welling tears. You wanna smack yourself and say ‘get a grip’ for being worked up over nothing in the grand scheme.
As he pulls into his parking spot, you feel relief that you are closer to your escape to cry in peace. However, you won’t let yourself escape without doubling down on your gratitude.
“I really can’t thank you enough.” You say, making sure to keep your face downturned as you unbuckle and exit the car.
Seeing you like this feels like someone is slowly chiseling away at him. Each quiet word from you is a hairline fracture to his bones. He tries to keep his feelings locked away. He tries not to care, cause he knows if he lets himself care just a little bit he won’t be able to stop it growing.
When you get to the doors of the compound you want to exhale in relief, so close to being alone to cry in peace. However this day isn’t done being against you. You dig through your bag hoping to unlock the doors before Bucky catches up to you, but you can’t find your key card.
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Your shoulders sag as your head drops forward—pressing against the door in defeat. You don’t care if this is embarrassing. You don’t care this gives him easy ammo to tease you later on.
“I forgot my key.” Your voice breaks pitifully.
That’s what does it for Bucky.
It’s like his body moves on its own. He gently grabs your shoulder to steer you in his arms. He inhales sharply, shocked at himself for doing this.
Your brain trying to process what the hell is happening. He’s tense. You’re tense. He’s just about to pull away and curse himself for doing this, when your shoulders ease. You melt into him, arms snaking around his torso, you let out a shaky cry against his chest. He hold you closer and more surely.
Now that the dam is broken the tears just keep flowing. His hand rubs soothing circles on your back—cooing softly “it’s okay.” Bucky doesn’t know if it’s your car or something else making you so upset, but he knows he’ll do everything he can to make it better.
The comfort you feel is almost intoxicating. Bucky’s broad build engulfs—feeling like shelter from a storm. You seek more of that feeling by tightening your arms around him, curling your face further against him.
Bucky’s heart feels like it may burst at the feeling. His flesh hand comes up to protectively hold the back of your head.
“What happened, doll?” His voice is tender in a way that makes your heart skip.
“It’s just been a bad day.” You know you’ll be embarrassed by this when you feel better, but right now you couldn’t care less. Your tired crying resumes.
Bucky’s arm tightens around you. He thinks for a moment and then he makes a plan. “I know what might help.”
Your brows draw together as you lift your head to look at him. He looks down at you with a soft determination. “Let’s get you inside.” He keeps one arm wrapped around you, while the other grabs his key. You let him lead you inside—staying tucked under his arm.
Once in the living area, he uses a hand on your back to guide you to the couch. “Stay here. I’m making you a milkshake.” He says while handing you a blanket from the back of the couch.
You look back in bewilderment as he’s already moving to the kitchen. “Huh?”
“You didn’t get to get one.” He replies simply, opening the freezer. “Do you want chocolate or vanilla?”
You look over the back of the couch to see him in the kitchen. “What? Bucky, no. Don’t do that.”
“You said you were going to get one, so you’re getting one.” He says while getting out the ingredients.
“You don’t have to-“ You start, but he cuts off your protest to ask you again, “Chocolate or vanilla?”.
You look at him for a few moments until you realize he is not taking no for an answer. “Chocolate please.” You say softly.
Bucky just nods and gets to work. You settle back into the couch—still snuggled up in his hoodie—waiting in awe.
He makes a perfectly thick chocolate shake with whipped cream and a cherry on top. He grabs a yellow straw cause yellow is cheerful, duh.
“I know it’s not what you were hoping for, but i hope it’s good enough.” Bucky says, as he hands you the glass, and sits on the other side of the couch.
Seeing the milkshake makes you smile. “I can’t believe you made me this.” You chuckle, voice still stuffy. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Bucky feels his chest tighten when you look at him. Although your face still shows the effects from recent tears, your smile shines for him.
He mumbles a small, “it’s nothing”.
The first sip causes you to hum in delight. “Oh my gosh dude it’s so good.”
A few semi-awkward moments of silence pass. Then you break it, “I’m sorry for this,” you say gesturing to the proof of tears on your face, “I don’t know why I got so worked up.”
“Is everything really okay, or did you just say that?” Bucky asks, eyes searching your expression.
You look down at the glass. “That’s why i’m extra embarrassed over this, cause everything is fine.” You meet his eyes again, then continue. “It’s just been a stressful day. Felt like everything was going wrong. Nothing massive, well my car is a big thing, but yeah everything just kinda piled on top of each other.”
He nods in understanding. “Well, the milkshake hasn’t made you cry, so I think you’re making progress.” That makes you chuckle—some of the normal shine in your eyes comes back. The corners of his mouth twitch at being the cause of that.
As you drink your shake, you two just talk. Well mainly you talk and he listens. You ramble about all the things that went wrong today. He adds little comments here and there. He sees how the red splotches on your face slowly fade with time.
You slurp up the bottom of the shake. “You are now obligated to make me a milkshake every time I have a bad day.”
He takes your empty glass and sets it on the table for you. “I’m not agreeing to that.” He chuckles lightly.
A beat of comfortable silence passes.
“I must’ve seemed really pitiful if you’re being this nice to me.” Your chuckle is dry and self deprecating. Your words make his expression slip into a small frown.
“What?” You ask, wondering what that face is for.
“I don’t like seeing you like that.”
You hold his gaze while searching for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes a deep breath and says, “So are you feeling better?”
You nod while taking in his expression—soaking in this rare moment for you two. “Thank you for everything, Buck.” Your voice soft and genuine.
“It’s nothing.”
“You saved me from the side of the road, dealt with my breakdown, and made me a milkshake. That’s not nothing” You swear you see his cheeks turn pink.
“You needed help.”
“Yeah, but you did more than just help.”
A beat passes of unspoken words. You can’t keep up with his unwavering eye contact, so you look away. Bucky keeps looking at you—so small in his hoodie.
You finally turn to him again—heart fluttering when you realize he hadn’t looked away. “You don’t have to sit here with me. I swear I’m not gonna have another breakdown.” You say with a soft crooked smile.
“I don’t mind.” He replies. You’re taken aback by his sincereness.
“Don’t mind sitting with me or me having another breakdown?” You joke.
Bucky rolls his eyes in response. “I’ll stay with you.”
You smile softly. A smile he’s never gotten from you. It’s not big or teasing, but sweet, almost shy. You two talk for a while—nothing in particular. It’s easy, simple.
Once you yawn, Bucky decides it’s time to call it a night. “It’s getting late. You should get some sleep.”
You yawn again. “Yeah… probably, but I don’t wanna get up.” You say sleepily, laying your head against the cushion.
A small smile grows on his lips. “Sounds like you’re training sessions.” He stands and offers you his flesh hand. You sigh and let him pull you up. His hand is warm, rough yet soft, and completely envelopes yours. You miss the feeling as soon as he lets go.
Bucky walks you to your room, “Just gotta make sure you don’t start crying again.” He uses teasing to cover up the care.
At your door you turn to tell him goodnight. You should probably give him his hoodie back, but you pretend you forgot you have it on. He’s a couple steps away from you with hands in his pockets.
“I hope you know you made this sucky day much better.” You say.
Bucky looks at you for a beat, like he’s fighting what he really wants to say. “Get some rest.” His voice is soft, like he’s afraid to be any louder.
“Goodnight, Bucky.”
—————————————
In the morning you have to force yourself out of bed. You wash your face, brush your teeth, tie your hair up. You throw on some shorts but you stay in Bucky’s hoodie.
You grab your bag from where you left it in the living room, and head to the garage to borrow a truck. You have no idea how to tow a car—you’re just gonna google it and hope for the best.
You drag your feet out of the elevator, and into the garage—dreading having to do this. You halt when you see your car already back, with Bucky under the hood. You gasp and he whips his head around.
He’s wearing black gym shorts and a dark blue tee that is fitted just perfectly.
“Morning.” Bucky says casually. He takes note that you’re still wearing his hoodie. He tries to ignore the way it makes him feel.
“You got my car?!” You say in surprise.
“I didn’t have anything else to do.” He shrugs, while wiping grease from his hands. Really he knew you were worried about it. Plus, he didn’t want you going to try and tow it alone. He can just imagine some weirdo pulling over trying to ‘help’.
“Dude, I could kiss you.” You exhale with a big smile—walking over to look at your car. His brain short-circuits at that. He knows you were just being dramatically grateful, but still. You can’t just say that to him. He is happy your normal self if back, compared to how sad and quiet you were last night.
You look up at to him with a bright smile. “Thank you so much, Bucky.”
Bucky loves being on the receiving end of your smile. “It’s nothing. Figured you didn’t know how to tow it anyways.” He teases.
“Oh, I absolutely was just gonna wing it.” You laugh.
“Sounds about right.” He crosses his arms over his chest. He nods to the car. “Your spark plugs were fried.”
“Is that what messed it up last night?”
“Yeah, so found some in Tony’s garage. I’m almost done changing them out.”
“What? Bucky, you didn’t have to do that.” You look at him in appreciation.
“Had nothing else to do.” He says again, but you both know that’s not true.
“Sure. You totally didn’t do it cause you’re a secret sweetheart.”
“Don’t push it. I can take those spark plugs right out.” He threatens.
“Shut up.” You lightly shove him.
He smiles and shakes his head. “Mouthy for a girl I’m helping.”
“You say you’re helping. Maybe you’re secretly sabotaging my car.”
He scoffs lightly, nodding to the elevator. “Go back inside. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
“Let me help you with the last one.”
“It’s a one man job.”
“Let me keep you company?”
Bucky looks at you for a moment, then sighs. “Okay.”
“So where’d you learn how to do this?” You ask, sitting crisscross on the ground.
“Uh, my Pops was a mechanic.” He never really talks about life before, especially not his family.
“Ah so he taught you his ways.” He just hums in reply. “Hopefully he was a good one.” You joke. He blows air from his nose in amusement.
————————
“Alright.” Bucky huffs, wiping his hands on a rag. “Crank it.”
You hop into the drivers seat and turn the key. The car grumbles to life. You pop your head out with a smile. “It sounds good!”
“Hop out. I’m gonna take it for a test drive.” He walks over to the door.
“Well I’m coming with.” You climb over the console, plopping into the passenger seat.
———————————————————————
hiya! i had this in the drafts, and decided i think i like this lol. could be a cute little two parter? let me know what you guys think.
also i just want to thank everyone so so much for the reception my first story got! everyone is so kind and im happy people enjoyed it!
p.s. no ai was used for this! ai is lame!
I Want To Go Back To Ohio @s-trawberryv-eins - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
