⊹ ࣪ ˖ A Vision Trick ─ Peter Parker.
Breakups suck, and Peter Parker knows it better than anyone. So he throws himself into being Spider-Man, hoping the mask will help him forget. It almost works…until every girl he rescues starts looking exactly like the one he’s trying to get over.
୨ৎ ──── yearning. 3k. ex gf!reader. imagine whatever peter you want, but ned shows up for the sake of the plot. haunting the narrative. english isn't my first language. main masterlist.
Peter Parker had been dumped exactly nineteen days, six hours, and, if the blinking green numbers on the microwave could be trusted, thirteen minutes ago.
He knew this because he had always been the kind of person who counted things he couldn’t fix. Minutes. Seconds. Heartbeats. The number of times he’d reached for his phone only to remember there wouldn’t be a new message waiting for him. The number of mornings he’d opened his eyes and, for one blissful second, forgotten that everything had changed. The number of times he’d walked past your favorite coffee shop on purpose, pretending he wasn’t secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of you through the window. The number of nights he’d replayed the breakup in his head, wondering if there had been a sentence he should’ve said differently, a joke he shouldn’t have made, a sign he’d somehow missed.
Nineteen days wasn’t long enough to stop loving someone. It was just long enough for the silence they left behind to become unbearable.
It was torture.
The apartment now was quiet in the familiar way it always was on weekday mornings. Peter sat slouched at the kitchen table in an old sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants, absently pushing a spoon through a bowl of cereal that had long since lost every bit of crunch it once had. The milk had turned lukewarm, the cereal floating in swollen little pieces he barely noticed as he shoveled another spoonful into his mouth without tasting it. His eyes stayed fixed on the cracked kitchen wall across from him, as though if he stared hard enough he could somehow disappear into it. Sleep still clung to him despite having been awake for over an hour.
“…Peter?” May’s voice reached him softly, careful enough not to startle him.
He blinked several times before slowly turning his head, as though surfacing from underwater. Aunt May stood beside the counter with both hands wrapped around a chipped coffee mug. She watched him with quiet concern etched into every line of her face, the kind only someone who had raised him could wear. She didn’t need spider-sense to know when something was wrong.
“Hm?” he mumbled, the sound barely louder than the clink of his spoon against the bowl.
“I asked if you could stop by the store after class. We’re almost out of bread.”
“Oh.” His eyes drifted back to the cereal, studying it with exaggerated concentration. “Yeah. Sure.”
She didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she took another slow sip of coffee, continuing to watch him over the rim of her mug.
“You know,” she said after a moment, “it’s okay to be sad after a breakup.”
Peter’s response came almost too quickly.
“I’m not sad.”
May’s gaze shifted toward the bowl in front of him.
“You’ve eaten cereal for dinner four nights this week.”
Peter looked down defensively.
“Cereal is…” He shrugged one shoulder. “…versatile.”
“You’ve barely left your room except for class.”
“I’ve been studying.”
May sighed, it was the kind of sigh that came from years of loving that boy through every impossible situation he managed to stumble into. It was the sigh of someone who had watched him glue his fingers together trying to repair an old radio, come home bruised with increasingly creative excuses, spend entire weekends taking apart broken appliances just to see if he could put them back together, and smile through pain because he never wanted anyone else to carry it with him. Peter had always believed he could fix everything if he just tried hard enough.
Unfortunately, broken hearts didn’t come with instruction manuals.
“You’re heartbroken,” she said gently.
Peter opened his mouth to argue out of habit, but nothing came.
The silence answered for him.
“I’m fine,” he said anyway, though this time the words lacked every ounce of conviction they’d had before.
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m serious.”
She set her coffee on the counter before walking over, pulling out the chair beside him instead of standing across the room. Without saying another word, she reached over and rested her hand over his. Peter stared at their hands for a long moment, feeling the lump rise in his throat before he quickly looked away toward the window.
“I know you’re trying very hard to convince yourself you’re okay again,” she said quietly. “And maybe one day you will be.”
Peter swallowed hard.
“But you don’t have to rush it. You don’t have to pretend for my sake. You’re allowed to miss someone and cry because they left.” Her thumb rubbed gently across the back of his hand. “None of that makes you weak, Peter. It just means you loved someone.”
The words settled heavily between them.
For once, Peter Parker couldn’t think of anything clever to say. No self-deprecating joke to dissolve the tension. No awkward laugh to disguise the ache pressing painfully against his ribs. He simply lowered his head, blinking a little harder than necessary as he stared into the bowl of soggy cereal in front of him, the spoon resting motionless in the milk. He couldn’t even remember the last bite he’d actually tasted. Somewhere between the breakup and now, eating had become something his body did automatically while his mind wandered somewhere it had no business returning to. Every silence eventually found its way back to you.
In that moment, he wished he had the mask on.
Because being the hero was easy.
Spider-Man never had the luxury of overthinking. He just reacted. He leaped before fear had the chance to settle in, caught people before they hit the pavement, stopped speeding cars, pulled strangers from burning buildings, and threw himself into danger without stopping to wonder whether he was enough. People looked up when Spider-Man arrived. They smiled, cheered, thanked him, and took blurry pictures of him swinging across the skyline. Under the mask, there were no awkward pauses, no heartbreaks waiting in the quiet moments, no empty side of the bed in his thoughts. There was only the next emergency, the next person to save, and the next problem that needed solving.
Sadly, in that kitchen, he wasn’t Spider-Man.
He was just Peter Parker, a twenty-year-old college student sitting in wrinkled pajamas with a bowl of ruined cereal growing warm in front of him, wondering how saving an entire city somehow felt infinitely easier than surviving nineteen days without the girl he still loved.
So he made a decision.
If being Peter Parker hurt this much…then he’d simply be Peter Parker as little as possible.
Fortunately, New York rarely allowed Spider-Man a night off. The city was demanding, as though it had collectively agreed to keep him busy enough that he wouldn’t have time to think. He started putting the suit on earlier and taking it off later. Patrols before class became routine and patrols after class stretched long past midnight. Sometimes he didn’t climb back through his bedroom window until two in the morning, only to catch three hours of sleep before doing it all over again. His laundry basket slowly filled with sweat-soaked hoodies tossed carelessly onto the floor while the Spider-Man suit hung drying by the window, almost becoming more familiar than his own clothes. Every bruise, every pulled muscle, every rooftop crossed at full speed felt preferable to sitting alone with his thoughts. Because as long as he was swinging between skyscrapers with the wind roaring in his ears, there wasn’t much room left in his head for memories of your laugh, your perfume lingering on borrowed sweaters, or the way your fingers used to absentmindedly reach for his hand.
It was a perfect system.
Or at least, it was.
Until Tuesday.
The scream sliced through the evening air so suddenly that Peter changed direction before he’d consciously registered it. His web released instinctively, sending him arcing over the rooftops toward the narrow alley below. Neon signs painted streaks of blue and pink across the damp pavement while overflowing dumpsters cast long shadows against the brick walls.
“Please!”
Spider-Man looked down.
A young woman stood backed into a dead end, one hand clutching her purse tightly against her chest while two men slowly closed the distance between them. Her breathing came in short gasps while her shoulders trembling as she searched desperately for somewhere to run.
“Oh, come on,” Spider-Man sighed beneath the mask, already letting himself fall from the rooftop. “Can’t you guys commit crimes during business hours?”
He landed neatly between them, knees bending to absorb the impact before straightening with practiced ease. The sudden arrival sent a puff of dust skittering across the pavement, and both muggers stumbled back a step.
“Hi!” he greeted brightly, lifting one hand in an unnecessarily cheerful wave.
The men stared.
“You know,” he continued conversationally, pointing accusingly between them, “I was actually on my way home. I had leftover pizza waiting for me. We had plans.”
One of the men lunged first.
Peter sidestepped without effort.
The second swung.
A web shot from Peter’s wrist with a familiar thwip, gluing his hands together before another strand wrapped around his ankles. The first mugger barely managed another punch before Spider-Man ducked beneath it, swept his legs out from under him, and pinned him against the brick wall with three quick webs.
Thirty-seven seconds, that was all it took.
Both men hung cocooned against the alley wall, grumbling muffled complaints through layers of webbing.
“There we go,” Spider-Man said, dusting imaginary dirt from his gloves with exaggerated satisfaction. “Everybody wins. Well…statistically speaking, not everybody.”
He turned toward the young woman, his usual easy smile hidden beneath the mask.
“You okay?”
She slowly looked up at him and Peter’s breath caught.
Oh.
It wasn’t you. Not even close.
Her hair was different. Shorter. Her nose curved differently, her face was rounder, and she was several inches shorter than you had ever been. Objectively, she looked nothing like you.
And yet, there was something in the way she smiled through the adrenaline. Something about the softness in her eyes as relief replaced fear. The tiny wrinkle beside her mouth when she whispered thank you.
It hit him so suddenly his stomach dropped.
For one impossible heartbeat, she looked exactly like you.
“…Spider-Man?”
Peter blinked hard behind the mask.
“Sorry.”
She tilted her head, confusion replacing the fear.
“You kind of froze.”
“Nope,” he answered much too quickly. “Didn’t freeze.”
She waited.
“I’m actually…very anti-freeze.”
Silence.
“…What?”
“What?” Peter echoed automatically before mentally groaning. Smooth, Parker.
The woman gave him a bewildered little smile.
“Thank you.”
He forced himself to nod.
“You’re welcome.”
Before she could say anything else, Peter fired a web toward the nearest rooftop. The line caught with a familiar snap, and he launched himself into the night much faster than he usually would have, disappearing above the skyline before she could even finish watching him leave.
The wind rushed past his face as Manhattan blurred beneath him, but it wasn’t enough.
Because for the first time since putting on the mask, he realized something that made his chest feel impossibly heavy.
***
It happened again two days later.
Then again the following week.
First it was a college student stranded on the rooftop of a parking garage after the access door jammed shut. She laughed nervously the second Spider-Man pulled her back over the ledge, brushing windblown strands of hair behind her ear with trembling fingers. For one impossible heartbeat, the sound landed somewhere deep in Peter’s chest. Then there was a tourist in Times Square who twisted her ankle trying to dodge a speeding cyclist. She thanked him with a shy smile that lingered just a little too long, and suddenly he was remembering how you used to smile at him whenever he rambled about quantum physics. A few days later, a woman had her purse snatched outside a subway station. Peter caught the thief within seconds, swinging back down with the bag tucked beneath one arm. She reached for it, relief washing over her features, and for the briefest moment the afternoon sun caught her hair just right.
His heart stopped.
Every single time, for one impossible second, they looked exactly like you.
Not literally. They never had the same face, the same voice, or the same eyes. One was taller, another had freckles, another wore glasses, another spoke with an accent you’d never had. If Peter had been forced to compare them side by side, he would’ve admitted they shared almost nothing in common.
But somehow, his mind kept stitching together tiny pieces that weren’t there.
The curve of a smile.
The warmth behind someone’s eyes.
A laugh carried by the wind.
The absentminded way someone tucked loose hair behind an ear.
His brain filled in every blank until, for one cruel, fleeting heartbeat, he believed it was you standing in front of him.
It was becoming ridiculous.
“So.”
Ned didn’t look up immediately. He was sitting cross-legged on Peter’s bedroom floor, carefully attaching the final pieces to an enormous LEGO Death Star that had occupied nearly every available surface for the past three weeks. Tiny gray bricks surrounded him in organized little piles while the instruction booklet rested open across his knees.
“So?” he answered absentmindedly.
Peter sat at his desk, spinning slowly in his chair.
“Do you think…” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck before finally forcing the words out. “…my brain’s broken?”
That got Ned’s attention.
He lowered the instruction booklet just enough to peer over the top of it.
“That’s a loaded question.”
Peter sighed.
“I keep seeing her.”
Ned’s face immediately softened.
“Peter—”
“No, not actually seeing her.”
“Oh.”
“I mean…” Peter stood up and began pacing the room, running both hands through his already messy curls. “Every girl I rescue kind of…” He stopped beside his desk, opening his wallet almost unconsciously. Tucked behind his student ID was a slightly worn photograph of you, smiling at the camera with your head tilted toward him just outside Midtown. He stared at it for a second before gesturing helplessly with the wallet. “…becomes her.”
Ned frowned.
“Like hallucinations?”
“No.”
“Face blindness?”
“No.”
“Ghost?”
Peter looked at him in complete disbelief.
“What? It was worth asking.”
“No, Ned,” Peter groaned, letting himself fall backward onto the bed with enough force to make the mattress squeak. He threw an arm dramatically over his eyes. “She’s not haunting Manhattan.”
“So…what’s happening?”
Peter let out a long, frustrated sigh.
“I don’t know.” His voice came out quieter this time. “I’ll rescue someone, and for one second…” He searched for words that made sense. “It’s like my brain decides it’s her. Then I blink, and it isn’t. But for that one second…” He swallowed. “…I actually believe it.”
The room fell quiet.
The only sound was the soft click of LEGO pieces snapping together as Ned stared thoughtfully at the half-finished Death Star.
Finally, he spoke. “I don’t think you’re seeing her.”
Peter moved his arm just enough to look over at him.
“I think…” Ned set another brick into place before meeting Peter’s eyes. “…you’re looking for her in everyone you save.”
“…Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Ned gave him an apologetic smile.
“That’s rough, buddy.”
Without even sitting up, Peter grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it across the room.
After that conversation, he convinced himself it would stop.
Eventually.
Because that was what everyone said happened after heartbreak, wasn’t it? Feelings faded. People moved on. Memories became less sharp until they stopped hurting every time they surfaced. One day he’d wake up and realize he hadn’t thought about you at all. He’d laugh about how dramatic he’d been, thank the universe for getting him through it, and finally let himself fall in love with someone else...right?
Three weeks later, Spider-Man landed silently on the narrow fire escape outside a third-floor apartment after the unmistakable sound of someone screaming cut through the evening air. Rain from earlier still clung to the rusted metal beneath his boots, making it creak softly under his weight as he crouched beside the open window. Inside, the apartment was dimly lit, illuminated only by the yellow glow of an old kitchen light. A man’s voice echoed through the small space, loud enough to rattle the picture frames hanging crookedly on the walls. Something shattered followed by another frightened cry that made Peter move before he’d consciously decided to.
One quick step.
A web anchored to the ceiling.
Then he was already inside.
“Okay!”
The room froze.
The man standing in the middle of the living room turned so abruptly that his raised fist dropped to his side. Broken glass glittered across the hardwood floor, and an overturned chair lay near the kitchen table. Spider-Man straightened with both hands raised in mock surrender, looking between everyone in the room.
“Yep. Knew that was coming.”
The fight lasted less than half a minute.
One punch, a dodge, and a web wrapped neatly around the man’s wrists before another pinned his ankles together, sending him stumbling face-first onto the carpet with a string of colorful complaints muffled against the floor. Outside, police sirens grew louder with every passing second, bouncing off the surrounding buildings as flashing blue and red lights reflected faintly through the apartment windows. Someone in the building had already called them.
Peter dusted his hands together.
“There we g—”
“…Peter?”
Everything inside him stopped, his heartbeat, breathing and even the familiar stream of sarcastic remarks that usually arrived before he had the chance to think.
No. No. Not again.
Slowly, almost afraid of what he’d find, he turned toward the kitchen doorway.
A young woman stood there, frozen in place. She wore an oversized cream-colored sweater with streaks of dried paint scattered across one sleeve and faint smudges of blue and ochre dusting her fingertips, as though she’d been interrupted halfway through a canvas. Loose strands of hair had escaped whatever hurried bun she’d attempted that morning, framing a face Peter had spent weeks trying to forget.
Those eyes.
For one desperate, exhausted heartbeat, Peter almost convinced himself this was another cruel trick his heartbreak had invented.
Another stranger. Another coincidence. Another ghost wearing your smile.
Then you tilted your head ever so slightly, studying him with the same curious expression you’d worn every time you caught him overthinking.
“You know my name.”
Spider-Man forgot how to breathe.
Because this time, you weren’t another girl who happened to remind him of the one he couldn’t forget.
You were her.
