↳ Warnings/Themes: CONTAINS BRAND NEW DAY PLOT POINTS! PG. Fluff. Barely!Angst.
↳ Pairing: Peter Parker x F!Reader
↳ Words: 4012
↳ Summary: 4 years after Dr.Strange's spell, Peter finds himself face-to-face with you again.
☁️: i LOVED these requests!! very challenging but fun to get out of my smut comfort zone. there are plot points from the movie, but they're not used in a linear way and are not exact scene matches.
Requested: here. General Masterlist here. Peter Masterlist here.
The headache started before you were even fully awake. A dull pressure that built somewhere in your skull until it settled just behind your eyebrow. It was a familiar enough situation that you weren't at all surprised.
At first, they had been easy to ignore, a fleeting headache every couple of weeks that could easily be attributed to life at MIT. But two years ago, something shifted. The headaches became more insistent of being recognised and acknowledged.
They began to be accompanied by fragments of images that you couldn't place flashing through your mind; a laugh that wrapped around you; a hand that fit perfectly in yours; the feeling of rising and falling through the air without fear; and the worst, places you didn't recognise but somehow missed.
Every scan had come back normal. "There isn't anything medically wrong with you," the doctor had gently insisted. She had smiled in a way that you knew was an attempt to be encouraging but it had missed its mark. At least if there was something medically wrong, you would have some sort of an explanation.
You pinched your eyebrow tightly and stayed where you were for another minute, staring at the ceiling whilst you waited for it to pass. Most of the times, that was enough. This morning, however, it wasn't.
Letting out a slow breath, you pushed yourself upright. Outside was a normal day, car horns echoed somewhere below your apartment, followed by the sounds of arguments. The familiar rumble of the subway beneath the street sounded through the air.
Today was a normal day, and so yours would be too.
By the time you were dressed and made it to the kitchen, the headache had dulled into something more manageable.
MJ was perched on the kitchen counter, sipping a hot drink while watching Ned wrestle with a string of fairy lights that had somehow tied itself into an impossible knot.
With a genuine attempt at a smile and a grumbled good morning, you moved through the kitchen almost on auto-pilot. Pulling out breakfast ingredients without a thought as to what you actually wanted to eat.
“I hate decorations,” Ned muttered sometime later.
The snort that came from you was louder than intended and two pairs of eyes turned to look at you. MJ had a shit-eating grin on her face, while Ned's eyes narrowed.
“My sympathy is very low,” you shrugged. “You're the one that brought them.”
“I know.”
“You also suggested the party,” MJ added helpfully.
“I know.”
“Plus, invited half of the population of our graduate class,” you added, mouth full of toast. “So, our home has to look presentable.”
“I know.”
MJ took another sip from her mug to hide her smile. “So... whose fault is this?”
Ned sighed dramatically, his head dropping. “...Mine.”
“Bingo.”
Turning his attention back into the project before him, Ned continued untangling the fairy lights. It only took five minutes of silence before he was sighing again.
“You're hanging those back-to-front,” MJ called out.
Ned's eyes widened as he looked between you both. “Fairy lights have a front?”
“They do,” you smiled, Ned made it too easy sometimes.
Ned's eyes continued to move between you both, waiting for one of you to break. It was always you. The laugh slipped past your lips before you could contain it.
“I swear,” Ned muttered, shaking his head, “we need another person to balance this...” Ned gestured between you both “...out.”
For a few seconds, everything went quiet, like someone had turned the volume down on the world.
An image flashed in your mind, you, MJ, Ned, and a fourth figure that was there, but not really. You could see where they were supposed to be, where they'd fit if they were actually there. It was like someone had taken a pair of scissors to the picture, leaving behind nothing but the outline of a person.
Before you could focus on it, it was gone.
The headache arrived a heartbeat later, sharp enough that you instinctively reached for the edge of the counter to stabilise yourself.
“You okay?” MJ's voice cut through the haze.
The apartment rushed back into focus as you blinked, willing the image away. Ned was already looking at you. It was irrational, and you knew it, but the look of concern only made you feel the sudden urge to shrink until completely invisible.
“Yeah,” you said. You straightened to quickly and your words came out too snappy to be the truth. “Fine.”
Ned ignored it. “Headaches getting worse again?”
“Not worse. Just...” You searched for the words, finding it harder when two pairs of eyes looked at you with a pity that rested uncomfortably on your skin. “...I don’t know. It’s stupid.”
“Try us,” Ned said, untangling the fairy lights from his arm to move next to you. He rested his hand on your forearm.
When you offered no more words, MJ set her mug down and turned to you. “You know, Governments like us to think what’s going on in our heads is stupid, keeps us compliant.”
You would have laughed if you thought MJ was joking.
Fingers drumming against the counter, you swallowed the lump in your throat and began trying to pull non-coherent emotions into something logical. Your eyes remained fixed on the counter as you stumbled through your words.
“It’s like... not worse because it’s more painful. It the feelings that come with it. And... like...the images. It’s a lot.”
There was so much more that could be said, “My headaches make me feel like there’s something I left behind.” “They leave me searching for something I can’t name.” But they barely made sense to you and, despite their reassurances, you knew it was something you’d have to try to explain, so you trailed off.
“You’re seeing things?”
There were probably nicer ways that Ned could have asked that question. He clearly noticed it too, because he immediately winced.
“Harsh, dude,” MJ said.
“It’s okay,” you said quickly, stopping Ned’s response before it could even form. “It’ll pass, I think it’s just stress or whatever.”
MJ watched you with that same unreadable expression she always wore when she was thinking something she wasn’t sure she should say aloud.
The resulting silence stretched over the three of you in a way that made you shift on your stool. You glanced around the apartment, grounding yourself with what you saw. The unpacked boxes that still lined one wall despite having moved in nearly a month ago, the ragged sofa that you’d watched Ned and MJ argue over, and the clock, that flashed a time that told you you were boarding on lateness.
“I’m with Dr. Banner today... I should go.” The words came out quieter than you intended. You cleared your throat, forcing a warmth back into your voice. “I hope those decorations will be ready for later.”
Ned dramatically stood, straightening his spine and raising his arm in a salute. “I will make it my sworn mission.”
Dr. Banner’s lectures always followed the same pattern.
He’d make a genuine attempt to impart years’ worth of knowledge, while at least half of the lecture hall made equally genuine attempts to steer the conversation towards his time as an Avenger. Every so often, the guy that always turned up in green body paint would shout, “Hulk smash.” And, every time, the lecture hall would descend into a fit of giggles and cheers.
By the time the lecture came to an end, you were fairly certain that everyone knew more about what an Avenger had for breakfast than they did about the actual topic.
You smiled to yourself as you zipped your bag shut and made your way down the steps.
Dr. Banner was already talking to a student by the time you reached the front.
He had his back to you, but even with his back turned, there was something strangely familiar about him. You didn't mean to listen in to the conversation, but it happened so naturally as if something declared your attention was needed.
“My name's... Ned.”
The hesitation caught your attention before the name did.
“Ned?” Dr. Banner sounded unconvinced.
‘Ned’ shifted awkwardly, his hand finding the back of his neck. “...Yeah.”
“Well, Ned,” Dr. Banner said, folding his arms, “what you’re talking about is dangerous. If you were going to target specific strands, how would you decide which ones are the ‘bad’ ones?”
You hadn't heard enough of the conversation to know what they were talking about, but you’d never heard Dr. Banner sound as serious as he did now.
“Just... theoretically,” ‘Ned’ responded.
Dr. Banner held his gaze for a moment, looking deep in thought as if he was considering whether or not to answer the question.
“Theoretically,” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.
“Please, sir.”
Whatever he found in ‘Ned’s’ expression seemed to reassure him. “Yes. In theory... it’s possible.”
“Thank you.”
Before you could try to piece together the conversation, Dr. Banner glanced over ‘Ned’s’ shoulder.
“Ah, there you are,” he smiled, all traces of seriousness gone from his features. “Would you mind meeting me in my office in about ten minutes?”
Banner barely waited for your response before making his way out of the lecture hall.
“Of course,” you replied anyway.
At the sound of your voice, ‘Ned’s’ shoulders stiffened. He turned around slowly, eyes finding yours immediately. No words came out when his mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again. He just stood there, brown eyes wide and slightly glassy.
Without thinking, you smiled at him. It wasn’t the polite smile usually offered to a stranger who happened to make eye contact, but something warmer and more familiar. Like seeing someone you'd forgotten you were looking for.
Something shifted in his expression, a flicker across his face that you might have missed had you not been looking at him. It was replaced by a small, tentative smile of his own.
Neither of you looked away, even after the socially acceptable length of time for staring had long passed. His gaze wandered over your face, lingering on your eyes before dropping to the smile you'd barely realised you were still wearing.
His hair fell in soft brown curls in a way that made him look like the kind of person who had their life together, but there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, the kind that only came from too many late nights.
Under your gaze, he swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the straps of his backpack. When he finally spoke, his voice was somehow softer than it had been before.
“Hi,” he murmured, the word tentative, as if testing whether he was allowed to say it at all.
“Hey,” you replied. “Do I... know you from somewhere? You look really familiar.”
“No,” he said softly. “No, I don’t think you do.”
That should have been the end of the conversation. You could laugh it off, wish each other a nice day, and walk away. But the desire to know more about the boy with the familiar soft brown eyes and a curious mind who felt the need to lie about his name consumed you.
You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “What’s your name?”
He pointed to himself, eyebrows lifting. “M-my name?”
The corner of your mouth twitched, a smile threatening to break through. “Yes, your name.”
He looked caught off guard by the question, lips parting, and then closing again. It was like you could see the lie forming on the tip of his tongue.
“And don’t say Ned,” you added, unable to hide your smile now. “I’m pretty confident that’s not it.”
A breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh escaped him. “You caught that, huh?”
“You weren't exactly convincing.”
“I've never been very good at lying.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The words slipped out of you so naturally that neither of you questioned them.
He rubbed his thumb along the frayed edge of his backpack strap as he drew in a deep breath. For a moment, he looked like he was working up the courage to say something far more difficult than his name.
“It’s Peter.”
“Peter,” you repeated.
The name vibrated against the walls of your mind like it was a word that you had thought of a thousand times.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
You tilted your head slightly. “It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”
“You too.”
Silence settled over you both again and you found yourself trying to think up ways to start the conversation again. Your eyes drifted past him, towards the hallway where Dr. Banner had disappeared. The question came to you almost immediately. “Are you a fan of the Avengers?”
Peter blinked, his hands shifting nervously on his backpack straps. “Uh... what? Why do you ask?”
You smiled slightly. “Why else would you be pretending to be one of Dr. Banner’s students?”
“I just wanted to pick his brain about something,” Peter admitted. “He’s... kind of brilliant.”
“I mean I agree, but why do you think so?”
The way Peter’s face changed when the topic of science came up was almost unfair.
He spoke with an enthusiasm that was impossible not to get caught up in, his hands moving just as much as his words while his thoughts raced just ahead. More than once, he caught himself drifting off-topic, only to circle back again a heartbeat later.
You found yourself smiling, a warmth spreading across your chest.
“...Sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I kind of talked your ear off there.”
“I enjoyed listening to you,” you said easily. “Now I understand why you risked committing identity theft in front of a literal Avenger.”
Peter groaned, his head tipping back for a moment. “When you put it like that...”
“It sounds unhinged?”
“Very.”
“Good. Just so you’re aware.”
He laughed again, this one a little louder. “What about you? Are you a student of his?”
“No, I’m doing project work with him for my PhD.”
Peter’s face lit up, his eyes crinkling deeply around the corners with a pride that felt entirely too big for someone you'd only met less than ten minutes ago. “I’m happy for you. You’ve always wanted to do that.”
“Yeah, I have actually.” You tilted your head, eyes narrowing on him. “How did you know?”
“Would you believe me if I said that was supposed to be a question?”
His question earnt a small laugh from the both of you, his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. Peter had a dangerous ability to disarm you, you realised. Even more dangerously, you weren’t sure you were bothered by it.
Students drifted past in the hallway, heading towards their next lectures as you and Peter settled into another round of silence and stares.
“So...” Peter said eventually, shifting his weight to break the heavy silence. “I should probably let you get to your meeting.”
“You probably should.”
Peter rocked back on his heels, but made no attempt to move. It was such a small thing, but the fact he seemed just as reluctant to leave as you were sent a pleasant tingle through your body.
Sighing, you opened your mouth to say goodbye, but instead, you heard yourself ask, “are you doing anything tonight?”
A woosh of air left Peter’s mouth, as if he’d been holding his breath. “...Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Um... I don't... think so.”
“My roommates and I are throwing a party. You should come.” The silence from Peter was long enough that you wondered if you’d completely misread the situation. “If you've got other plans-.”
“I don't,” Peter interrupted. He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I'd... I'd like to come.”
A grin spread across your face before you could stop it. “Really?”
He mirrored it, smaller than yours, but no less genuine. “Really.”
“Great.”
“Good.”
You reached into your bag for your phone, then paused. “Actually...” Holding out your hand, you nodded towards the phone sticking out of his hoodie pocket. “Give me your phone.”
Peter raised an eyebrow, even as his hand slowly moved towards his phone.
“I mean, unless you're planning on memorising my address.”
“Oh.”
He fumbled the phone out of his pocket so quickly it nearly slipped through his fingers. Once unlocked, he held it out to you.
Your thumbs flew across the screen, typing in your number and name before shooting yourself a quick text.
“There,” you said, sliding the device back into his hand. “Now you have my name too, since you forgot to ask.”
Peter looked down at the contact for a long moment. When he looked back up, there was something in his expression you couldn't quite place.
“Thanks.”
You smiled. “I’ll see you later?”
“You will,” he promised.
You’d changed outfits five times before finally deciding that the first one had been fine. The apartment was already loud by the time the first wave of guests arrived and you found yourself glancing towards the front door more often than you cared to admit.
By the time the party was in full swing, you’d convinced yourself you weren’t waiting for anyone even though your eyes kept scanning over the crowd.
The disappointment that settled in your chest was irritatingly disproportionate for someone you’d only known for a few hours and had one conversation with.
You were halfway through a conversation you weren’t really listening to when the front door opened. Without thinking, you looked over. The relief that washed through you was immediate.
Peter stood just inside the doorway, a red cup in his hand, looking around the apartment like he was still deciding whether he belonged there.
You excused yourself before you could think better of it and crossed the room.
“You came.”
Peter smiled softly when he saw you. “I promised.”
“Good to know you keep promises.”
It took less than thirty seconds for Ned to spot the unfamiliar face. He appeared seemingly out of nowhere, all smiles and unnecessary enthusiasm, a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand.
“Hey! I don't think we've met.”
A look flashed across Peter’s face; one you’ve become all too familiar with in the short time you’ve known him.
“I'm Peter.”
“Ned.”
As they shook hands, Ned turned to you, his eyes twinkling. “You invited him?”
“Evidently, Ned.”
“Wow. Good for you.” He nodded slowly as he disappeared back into the crowd.
“Sorry about him,” you said, turning back to Peter. “He gets overexcited.”
“I know,” Peter laughed softly, the words a little too confident.
You spent the next few minutes introducing Peter to people and trying to coax more information about himself out. But as the party grew, so did the tension in his shoulders.
“Do you want to go up to the roof?” you asked. “It’s less crowded there.”
Peter looked back at you. “Yes, please.”
You set your drink down on the counter. “Come on.”
A rush of cold New York air met you the second the door to the roof opened. You stepped out first, pulling your sleeves over your hands as the breeze caught against your skin. You rested your arms against the low brick wall and looked out over the city. The noise of the party faded behind the door, replaced by the distant hum of New York.
“I forgot how nice it is up here.”
Peter moved beside you. “The view is always nicer from above.”
Glancing over, you caught him staring at you. The second you caught him, his eyes shifted away.
You smiled slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Sure, Peter.”
You let out a soft huff of laughter, turning your attention back to the city in front of you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him shift his weight, his shoulder brushing against yours before he pulled back.
The contact was brief, but the warmth of it lingered through the fabric of your top, leaving a strange, electric tingle in its wake. You kept your eyes fixed on the traffic below, suddenly hyper-aware of the distance between his arm and yours, waiting to see if he’d move closer again.
Instead, the wind picked up, sharp enough to cut through the quiet and make your shoulders shiver. Peter looked at you, his jacket was already coming off before you could stop him.
You immediately shook your head, waving your hands. “No.”
“It's fine.”
“You'll freeze.”
“I'll survive.”
“Peter...”
“I promise,” he said, holding the jacket out to you.
You hesitated, looking from the fabric to his earnest face. Then, quietly, “thank you.”
It was still warm from him as you put it on. You pulled it a little tighter around your chest, eyes closing as you buried your face slightly into the collar, and breathed in absentmindedly.
“Mhm, your aftershave smells good.”
The smell of the jacket brought a dull pressure behind your temples, like something was gently gnawing at the back of your head.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
Your eyes opened as you turned to face him. He was much closer than you’d realised. Close enough that the rest of the city lights seemed to blur out of focus. Peter's hand came to cover yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. You weren’t sure if he even noticed he was doing it. But maybe he had. Maybe that's why he looked as though he was trying very hard not to breathe.
Your eyes drifted, just for a second, to his lips. When you looked back up, he was already looking at yours.
Peter couldn’t seem to stop himself from taking a small step forward, crowding into your space. Your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his jacket.
His hand lifted slowly, hesitating for the briefest moment before reaching you, as though he was giving you one last chance to pull away. You didn’t. His fingertips brushed against your chin, his skin warm against the chill of the night.
“Can I?”
When you nodded, Peter tilted your face up slightly. His breath warmed your lips, the tip of his nose brushing against yours as he titled his head.
He was so close now, less than half an inch away when the heavy rooftop door swung open. Your entire body flinched, and you practically fell into Peter’s arms.
“There you are.”
Ned's voice carried across the roof before you’d even had time to register what had happened.
Peter let go immediately, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a step back. The cold air rushed back into the space between you where his warmth had just been.
You cleared your throat. “Hi, Ned.”
“MJ sent me,” he explained, narrowing his eyes slightly at Peter. “She’s deeply mistrusting of people and we don’t know you.”
“She is,” you admitted, looking up at Peter. “We're alright,” you called back to Ned, surprised by how steady your voice sounded.
Ned looked between the two of you, his eyes lingering on the jacket. “MJ said to tell you there's cake.”
You managed a small smile. “I suppose we can't ignore that.”
“No,” Peter murmured, his voice quieter than before. “I suppose we can’t.”
Before anyone could move, Peter’s phone buzzed. The smile disappeared from his face as he looked down at the screen.
“I have to go.”
You tried to hide the sudden drop of disappointment in your voice, but it leaked through anyway. “But you just got here.”
“I know.” Peter looked at you and for a moment, he looked almost as disappointed as you felt. “I’m really sorry. I have to.”
“Okay.” You immediately started to slip your arms out of the sleeves to hand his jacket back. “Thanks.”
He hesitated, his hands resting on top of yours to stop you from taking it off. “Why don’t you keep hold of it?”
“Won’t you need it?”
“I’ll come back for it.”
You bit your cheek to stop the smile from showing too brightly. “Is that your way of saying that I’ll see you again?” “Yeah,” he whispered, words heavier than you knew. “It is.”
I genuinely only seem to be capable of writing smut, so I'M SORRY THIS WAS SO BUNS AND THE PACING IS BAD. I TRIED OKAY!! xx
synopsis: after the world forgets who peter parker is, he convinces himself that being alone is the only way to keep people safe. but when his stubborn neighbor accidentally discovers that he’s spider-man, the walls he’s spent years building around himself slowly begin to crumble—just as a new threat sets its sights on the one person who managed to get close enough to break them down.
word count: 11k
warnings: mild spoilers from spider-man: brand new day, some inaccuracies from the film lmao, angst
a/n: hello everyone! i just watched spider-man: bnd a few days ago and i just had to write something lol. if you'd like to check out my other works, you can check the pinned post in my blog :>
i hope you'll like this fic! happy reading!
ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ
There was something strangely comforting about hearing other people through paper-thin apartment walls.
The sound of someone dragging groceries across the hallway. The distant hum of a television from two floors below. Laughter echoing from somewhere down the corridor at two in the morning because apparently, unlike you, some people in New York actually had functioning sleep schedules.
The elevator dinged as you stepped inside, your backpack hanging off one shoulder and an iced coffee clutched in your hand. Your morning lecture had been canceled, which meant that, for the first time in weeks, you could actually go back to your apartment and catch up on sleep.
Just as the doors were about to close, a hand shot between them. The doors slid back open.
Peter Parker stepped inside.
You had seen him around enough times to know that he lived on your floor, only a few doors away from yours. You also knew that he was probably around your age, spent an alarming amount of time outside at ungodly hours, and had a habit of looking like he hadn’t slept in three business days.
You didn’t know much else. Mostly because Peter Parker was impossible to talk to.
“Hey.”
Peter looked up from the floor, startled for some reason, before offering a small nod. “Hey.”
The elevator doors closed.
You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Early morning?”
Peter glanced down at the watch on his wrist as if he’d somehow forgotten what time it was.
“Uh, yeah. Something like that.”
You smiled. “You look exhausted.”
He let out a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Thanks.”
“That wasn’t supposed to be an insult.”
“No, I know.”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, but the smile disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared.
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
By now, you’d gotten used to it.
It wasn’t that Peter was rude. In fact, whenever you ran into him in the hallway or outside the building, he always smiled politely and held doors open for people. He just never stayed long enough for a conversation.
The elevator stopped on your floor. You stepped out first, Peter following close behind.
“You know,” you said, turning toward him as both of you walked down the hallway, “one of these days, I’m actually going to get more than two sentences out of you.”
Peter nearly dropped the keys he was trying to fish out of his pocket. “What?”
You laughed. “I’m serious. We’ve lived on the same floor for, like, months now, and somehow I still know absolutely nothing about you.”
He finally found his keys, although judging by the way he almost dropped them again, the victory was short-lived.
“Maybe I’m just boring.”
You stopped in front of your apartment door and frowned. “I don’t think boring people come home at four in the morning.”
Peter froze for a split second.
You immediately regretted saying it. “Oh my God, that sounded creepy. I’m not keeping track of your schedule, I swear. The walls are just really thin.”
To your surprise, Peter laughed. Like, actually laughed. “No, it’s okay.”
For the first time since you’d met him, he looked relaxed.
And then, just as quickly as the moment appeared, it vanished.
“Well…” he said quietly, turning back toward his apartment. “I’ll see you around.”
Before you could respond, he disappeared behind his door.
~~~~~
The next few weeks went exactly the same way.
You’d run into Peter in the elevator. You’d try to make conversation. He’d answer politely. Then he’d retreat back into whatever corner of his life he kept hidden from everyone else.
It became a routine.
“Long day again?”
Peter, standing in the elevator at midnight with dark circles under his eyes and a suspicious tear in the sleeve of his hoodie, blinked at you.
“You have no idea.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That’s concerning.”
“I’m choosing to ignore that comment.”
“Thanks.”
For some reason, despite how painfully awkward he could be, you found yourself looking forward to those tiny interactions.
Maybe it was because Peter was one of the only people in the building who was around your age.
Maybe it was because you recognized loneliness when you saw it.
Or maybe it was because every now and then, when he thought you weren’t looking, you’d catch glimpses of someone different beneath all those walls he’d built around himself.
Like the night you came back from the library carrying way too many books and nearly dropped all of them in the lobby.
Peter had somehow appeared out of nowhere. “Whoa, here.”
Before you could protest, he’d already grabbed half the stack from your arms.
“Thanks.”
“You know they make backpacks for a reason, right?”
You scoffed. “I have a backpack.”
Peter looked down at the single notebook sticking out of it.
“That’s impressive.”
“Oh, don’t judge me, Parker.”
“I’m not judging.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m silently criticizing your organizational skills.”
You laughed, pressing the elevator button. “Wow. So you can talk.”
Peter looked away, unsuccessfully hiding his smile.
The elevator doors opened.
As the two of you stepped inside, you glanced at him. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
“What wasn’t?”
“Having a conversation.”
Peter leaned his head against the elevator wall, looking exhausted. “You make it sound easier than it is.”
The elevator stopped. Peter handed your books back.
“Thanks,” you said softly.
“Anytime.”
You hesitated before speaking again. “Hey, um… if you ever need anything…”
Peter looked up.
“I mean, we’re neighbors, right? So… sugar, coffee, someone to complain about school to—”
He smiled, smaller this time. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You grinned. “Good.”
“I’ll see you around,” he said.
~~~~~
He wasn’t even supposed to be here, but Peter found himself standing across from Ned on the subway.
Ned was carrying two bags filled with drinks and snacks, occasionally checking his phone and smiling to himself. Peter had spotted him by complete accident, and before he could stop himself, he’d followed him onto the train.
He knew it was stupid.
Four years had passed since Doctor Strange’s spell. Four years since the world had forgotten Peter Parker.
And yet, here he was, trailing his former best friend through New York like some creep who couldn’t let go of the past.
Unfortunately, Peter couldn’t. Not when that past was all he had left.
The train finally came to a stop, and Peter followed Ned from a distance as he made his way toward an apartment building in Brooklyn. By the time Peter reached the top floor, music and laughter were already spilling out into the hallway.
A party.
Peter stood outside the door for a moment, staring at the crowd inside. He should leave.
He really, really should leave.
Instead, he gripped the bouquet of flowers that he’d bought as an excuse tightly.
“Housewarming gift,” he muttered to himself, staring at the bouquet. “Totally normal.”
He entered the room, blending in easily amongst the crowd of people he’d never seen before.
The apartment was filled with people, conversations overlapping with music coming from the speakers in the corner. It felt warm and alive in a way that Peter’s own apartment hadn’t felt in years.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.
Pinned to the wall beside a room was an entire collection of newspaper clippings, blurry photos, and handwritten notes—all centered around Spider-Man.
Peter slowly walked closer.
Pictures from different sightings. Articles about unexplained events around the city. Strings connecting random details that shouldn’t have made sense to anyone else.
And yet his former best friend had put them together.
“You believe in all this stuff too?”
Peter turned around to find Ned standing beside him, holding a drink.
Peter looked back at the wall. “Oh, hey. You made all of this?”
Ned shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s weird, but ever since I was a kid, I’ve always felt like… I don’t know, like Spider-Man means something to me.”
Peter felt his chest tighten.
Ned laughed awkwardly. “Sounds crazy, right?”
“No,” Peter replied quietly. “Not crazy.”
For a brief moment, Peter allowed himself to imagine what life would’ve been like if things had been different. If the spell had never happened. If he could’ve stood beside Ned and laughed about all of this instead of pretending to be a stranger.
But reality had a way of pulling him back.
Across the room, Peter spotted MJ walking towards them. For a moment, it almost felt like nothing had changed.
Peter watched her slowly, holding out the bouquet. “Housewarming flowers.”
MJ blinked in surprise before taking them from his hands. “Oh, wow. Thanks.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
“Do you two know each other or…?” MJ’s brows furrowed, eyeing Peter and Ned.
Peter chuckled nervously. “Oh, uhm. Not exactly. I’m Mayne—Maynard.”
“Nice to meet you, Maynard. I’m gonna put these in water.” She smiled politely, thanked him again, and disappeared into the kitchen to put the flowers in water.
Peter watched her go.
Then he saw him.
A guy standing beside the sink, smiling as MJ walked over to him. She nudged his shoulder playfully, and the guy wrapped an arm around her waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Peter immediately looked away.
He had spent four years telling himself that he’d made the right choice. That letting them go had been worth it because they were safe.
But standing in the middle of that apartment, surrounded by people who used to know him, Peter couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d truly let them go—or if he’d simply been left behind.
Suddenly, the room felt too small. Too loud.
Without saying goodbye to anyone, Peter quickly slipped out of the apartment and made his way back onto the streets of New York.
The city was alive around him—cars honking, people laughing, music pouring from open windows—but Peter barely registered any of it. His mind was still back in that apartment, replaying every smile, every laugh, every reminder of the life he’d lost.
He leaped across buildings. By the time he reached his neighborhood, the pain in his wrist had started again.
At first, it was only a dull ache. Then it spread up his arm like fire.
Peter stopped abruptly, grabbing onto the nearest wall as he hissed through clenched teeth.
“Not now,” he muttered.
The pain only grew worse.
He pulled his sleeve back just enough to see the distended veins on his wrists.
His breathing quickened.
Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
Panicking, Peter rushed toward his apartment building, nearly tripping over his own feet as he fumbled for his keys. The pain had become unbearable by the time he stumbled through his front door.
On the other side of the wall, you were sitting at your desk, absentmindedly reading through your notes when you heard something crash.
At first, you ignored it.
Peter was a strange guy. For all you knew, he’d dropped a lamp.
Then came another noise.
Your eyebrows furrowed as you pulled your headphones off. “Peter?”
You were just about to put your headphones back on when a scream echoed through the wall.
Not the kind of scream someone lets out after stubbing their toe.
A scream of pain.
You shot up from your chair so fast that it nearly toppled over.
For a moment, you stood frozen in the middle of your apartment, trying to convince yourself that you’d imagined it.
Then you heard it again.
Without another thought, you ran for the door. You didn’t even bother putting on your shoes.
The scream echoed through the hallway again, louder this time, and whatever hesitation you had vanished the moment you reached Peter’s door.
“Peter?!”
You knocked once.
No answer.
“Peter, are you okay?!”
Silence.
You pressed your ear against the door, trying to make sense of the sounds coming from the other side. Something crashed into a wall, followed by what sounded like muffled groaning.
Your heart dropped.
You grabbed the doorknob, fully expecting it to be locked. Instead, the door swung open.
The first thing that hit you was the mess.
Peter’s apartment, which you’d never actually seen before, looked like a tornado had torn through it. Papers were scattered across the floor, tools and wires hung from the ceiling, and pieces of machinery sat abandoned on tables in the corner. It was nothing like you had imagined.
And then there were the webs.
They stretched across the walls, clinging to lamps and cabinets, covering entire sections of the room as though a giant spider had made the apartment its nest.
You stopped in the doorway, unable to process what you were looking at. “What the hell…?”
Another groan pulled your attention toward the living room.
“Peter?”
You rushed forward, carefully stepping over broken pieces of metal and strands of webbing stuck to the floor. It wasn’t until you rounded the corner that you finally saw him.
Peter was collapsed beside the couch, one hand gripping his wrist so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. His breathing was uneven, and more strands of webbing slowly releasing from his arm.
For a few seconds, you simply stood there, frozen.
Nothing about this made sense.
The webs. The machines. The strange red-and-blue fabric crumpled beside the couch.
Your eyes darted back to the fabric.
A mask. A Spider-Man mask.
You stared at it, then back at Peter, then back at the mask again.
Your brain was trying to connect the dots.
There was absolutely no way.
And yet, as you looked around the apartment, surrounded by webs and gadgets and the unmistakable suit lying only a few feet away, there was no other explanation.
“Oh my god.”
Peter shifted slightly at the sound of your voice. His eyes slowly opened, unfocused at first before eventually landing on you. For a split second, confusion crossed his face.
Then came realization.
You watched the panic wash over him almost instantly.
“Y/n—” His voice was weak, barely above a whisper.
You immediately knelt beside him. “Peter, what is happening? Are you hurt? Do I need to call someone?”
“No.” The answer came too quickly. “No, don’t—don’t call anyone.”
“Peter, you’re literally lying on the floor!”
“I said don’t call anyone.” The harshness in his voice caught both of you off guard.
Peter shut his eyes, taking a shaky breath as if he regretted snapping at you.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Just… don’t.”
You looked down at the hand clutching his wrist.
Your gaze drifted toward the mask again. The bruises that always seemed to appear out of nowhere. The nights he came home at impossible hours. The way he always looked exhausted.
Every weird thing about Peter suddenly made perfect sense.
Your mouth went dry. “Peter…”
He already knew what you were about to ask. You could see it in his expression. He turned his head away, staring blankly at the ceiling.
You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your heart was pounding in your chest.
“You’re Spider-Man?”
Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t deny it either.
The silence was answer enough. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Despite everything, Peter actually let out a weak laugh.
It lasted all of two seconds before another wave of pain shot through his arm. He doubled over, gripping his wrist again.
“Peter—”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re obviously not okay!”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re covered in webs!”
Peter opened his mouth as if he wanted to argue, but whatever he was about to say never came out. Instead, his eyes fluttered shut.
“Peter?”
No response.
“Peter!”
You grabbed his shoulder, shaking him gently.
Nothing.
Your eyes widened. “Hey, don’t do this right now.”
You glanced around the apartment, completely lost. You had absolutely no idea what the hell you were supposed to do in this situation.
Normal people didn’t have emergency plans for when their neighbor turned out to be Spider-Man and passed out on the floor.
After a few moments of panicking, you managed to drag a blanket off the couch and awkwardly pull it over him. It wasn’t much, but it was better than leaving him on the cold floor.
Then, after what felt like ten straight minutes of struggling, you somehow managed to move him onto the couch.
By the time you collapsed into the armchair across from him, you were exhausted.
You glanced over at him again, watching his chest rise and fall.
“You’re seriously Spider-Man,” you whispered to yourself. Within minutes, exhaustion finally caught up with you too.
The armchair wasn’t comfortable in the slightest, but after the night you’d just had, you didn’t really care.
As sleep slowly overtook you, one last thought crossed your mind.
Tomorrow morning was going to be a disaster.
~~~~~
The first thing Peter noticed when he woke up was that his wrist didn’t hurt anymore.
For a few blissful seconds, he simply lay there, staring at the unfamiliar angle of his living room ceiling, too exhausted to think about why he was on the couch instead of his bed. Then, slowly, the events of the night before came rushing back to him.
Peter shot upright so fast that he nearly fell off the couch.
His eyes darted around the room in a panic. The apartment was still covered in webs. His suit was laying openly on his working table. One of his web-shooters was dangling from a lamp.
And there you were. Curled up in the armchair across from him, your head resting against the side cushion, you were still asleep.
Peter stared at you in horror. You were actually here. In his apartment.
After everything you’d seen.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself, dragging both hands down his face. “Okay, okay, okay…”
He stood up from the couch and immediately got a strand of web stuck to his hoodie.
“Seriously?” The frustration in his voice was apparently enough to wake you.
Your eyes slowly fluttered open, and for a moment, you simply blinked at the room around you, still half-asleep.
Then you saw Peter standing in the middle of the apartment, trying to untangle himself from his own webs.
You sat up so quickly that Peter froze. He looked like he’d rather jump out the window than have this conversation. You honestly weren’t doing much better.
“You’re awake,” you finally said.
Peter glanced down at the floor. “Yeah.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
An awkward silence settled between the two of you.
You looked around the apartment. In the daylight, the whole place somehow looked even more ridiculous. You looked back at Peter.
He was still avoiding your eyes.
“So…” you began carefully.
Peter visibly tensed. “So?”
You gestured vaguely to literally everything around you.
“Do you maybe want to explain…” You paused, looking up at the web-covered ceiling. “…all of this?”
Peter let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like defeat. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”
You blinked. “Peter, you passed out on your living room floor.”
“I know.”
“You were screaming.”
“I know.”
“There are webs on your refrigerator.”
“I know.”
You stared at him for a moment before letting out an incredulous laugh. “Okay, wow. We’re really glossing over the fact that you’re Spider-Man, huh?”
Peter finally looked up.
The panic in his expression from the night before was gone, replaced by something quieter. “I was kind of hoping you’d think you imagined it.”
You snorted. “Yeah, because giant spider webs covering your apartment are a perfectly normal hallucination.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of Peter’s mouth despite himself.
You studied him for a moment, suddenly realizing that he looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep. The dark circles under his eyes were still there, and now that you thought about it, so was the same expression you’d seen on his face every time he stepped into the elevator.
You leaned back against the chair. “You’re Spider-Man.”
Peter swallowed. “Yeah.”
It was the first time he’d admitted it out loud in years.
“You know,” you said, “this actually explains a lot.”
Peter frowned. “Like what?”
“The bruises.”
“I walk into things.”
“You absolutely do not walk into things.”
“I could.”
“Peter, normal people don’t come home at dawn with cuts on their face.”
Peter shrugged. “New York is weird.”
You stared at him. “Did Spider-Man just try to convince me that New York is weird?”
“I think Spider-Man would know.” He hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure how to continue. “Listen, you can’t tell anyone about this.”
You blinked. “Who exactly am I supposed to tell? ‘Hey, guys, by the way, my neighbor is secretly Spider-Man’? People would think I’ve lost my mind.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“No, Y/n, I—”
“You really think I’d tell someone?”
Peter opened his mouth, but no words came out.
You sighed, standing up from the chair.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with…” You gestured toward his wrist. “Whatever happened last night. And I definitely don’t understand why your apartment looks like a spider nest. But I’m not going to tell anyone.”
Peter looked unconvinced.
You crossed your arms. “Besides, keeping secrets apparently isn’t exactly new territory for us.”
That made him pause.
You immediately regretted saying it.
Peter seemed to understand exactly what you meant because he quietly looked away. “I’m sorry.”
The words caught you off guard. “What?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, staring at the floor.
“For lying.”
You frowned. “You didn’t really lie.”
“I kind of did.”
“You just left out the part where you spend your nights swinging around New York.”
Peter let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah.”
You hesitated before speaking again. “Can I ask you something?”
He looked up.
“Why do you always push people away?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it. Immediately, you wanted to take it back.
Peter froze. “Y/n—”
“No, no, forget I asked that. You don’t have to answer.”
Peter stayed quiet for a long moment. Then, almost too quietly, he said, “It’s safer that way.”
You frowned. “Safer for who?”
Peter didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced toward the window, his expression distant.
You opened your mouth to ask another question, but Peter suddenly stood up. “I should clean this up.”
You looked up at the ceiling.
“Yeah, I was actually wondering how you planned on explaining the fact that your entire apartment looks like an outdated Halloween decoration.”
Peter laughed under his breath, shaking his head.
You smiled, relieved that the tension had eased, if only a little.
As you made your way toward the front door, you stopped and turned back around. “Hey, Peter?”
He looked up from the mess of webs tangled around his coffee table. “Yeah?”
You hesitated for a moment before saying, “For what it’s worth, knowing that you’re Spider-Man doesn’t really change anything.”
Peter stared at you.
You shrugged. “You’re still the weird guy who lives next door.”
For the first time that morning, Peter smiled.
“Wow,” he said. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” You grinned, opening the door. “And maybe next time you decide to pass out dramatically, try not to do it alone.”
Peter rolled his eyes, but you caught the smile he was trying to hide. “Noted.”
You nodded once before stepping into the hallway.
~~~~~
The next few days were, without a doubt, the weirdest days of your life.
Not because you had assignments piling up or because you had somehow managed to survive on instant noodles and iced coffee for three consecutive days. No, the weirdest part was that your next-door neighbor—the same guy who once spent an entire elevator ride pretending to be fascinated by the floor numbers to avoid small talk—was Spider-Man.
You had barely stepped out of your apartment when Peter’s door swung open at the exact same moment. The two of you froze, staring at each other from opposite ends of the hallway.
“Hey,” you said.
“Hey.”
An awkward silence followed.
Usually, this was the part where you’d ask him about his day and he’d mumble something before disappearing into the elevator. But things were different now. You knew why he came home at impossible hours. You knew why he always had bruises on his knuckles and dark circles under his eyes.
“So…” you began, falling into step beside him as the two of you walked toward the elevator. “Did you get all the webs cleaned up?”
Peter glanced at you, horrified. “You said you weren’t going to bring that up.”
“I said no such thing.”
“You absolutely implied it.”
The elevator doors opened, and you stepped inside together.
“I’m just saying, if I found out my neighbor was secretly Spider-Man and then immediately discovered that his apartment looked like a spider’s house, I’d be a little disappointed.”
Peter let out an exasperated sigh. “Please never call it that again.”
“No promises.”
The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and the two of you stepped out into the lobby.
“Well,” you said, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, “good luck saving New York today.”
Peter nearly tripped over his own feet.
You stared at him. “Did Spider-Man just almost fall because of a joke?”
“I didn’t almost fall.”
“You absolutely almost fell.”
“I stepped weird.” Peter rolled his eyes, though you could see the faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You know, you’re surprisingly annoying.”
“Thank you. I’ve worked very hard to achieve that.”
“I can tell.”
You grinned triumphantly. “See? That was practically a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It definitely was.”
Peter shook his head, muttering something under his breath as the two of you stepped outside. The morning air was cold, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, just as you were about to head in the opposite direction, you heard Peter clear his throat.
“Hey, Y/n?”
You turned around. “Yeah?”
Peter shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, staring at the sidewalk. “I just…” He paused, struggling to find the words. “Thanks. For not freaking out.”
You blinked.
“Peter, I did freak out.”
Peter laughed softly. “You did.”
Your smile softened. “You know, you don’t always have to deal with things by yourself.”
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
Peter’s expression changed almost instantly.
You wanted to push further. You wanted to ask him why he always looked so sad whenever he thought nobody was paying attention, why he insisted on carrying everything alone, why he acted like letting people get close to him was the worst thing in the world.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
~~~~~
For the next week, things settled into something that neither of you knew how to define.
You still ran into each other in the hallway before you left for class. Peter still came home at absurd hours with new bruises that he insisted were “nothing.” You still made fun of him for having the social skills of a brick wall.
The only difference was that now, whenever he disappeared halfway through a conversation or showed up looking like he’d just fought for his life, you actually knew why.
Well, partially.
Because despite the fact that you’d discovered his biggest secret, Peter Parker was still, somehow, the most secretive person you had ever met.
It was almost midnight when you found him sitting on the fire escape outside your apartment building.
You had just gotten back from the cafe after spending six straight hours pretending to understand a lecture that absolutely nobody understood, and the only thing on your mind was sleep.
That was, until you looked up and saw Peter sitting one floor above you, elbows resting on his knees.
For a moment, you considered pretending you hadn’t seen him.
Then again, this was Peter. If you didn’t start the conversation, there was a ninety-percent chance that he’d sit there in silence for another hour before disappearing back into his apartment.
“Please tell me you’re not brooding up there.”
Peter looked down, startled. “I’m not brooding.”
You crossed your arms. “You’re sitting alone on a fire escape in the middle of the night, staring dramatically into the distance.”
“I’m just thinking.”
“That’s exactly what a person who’s brooding would say.”
Peter rolled his eyes, but you caught the smile that flashed across his face.
“You coming up or are you just going to insult me from down there?”
You blinked. “Was that an invitation?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Oh, it’s already weird.”
He laughed quietly, shaking his head as you climbed up the stairs and sat beside him.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke.
Below, New York buzzed with life. Cars moved through the streets, people spilled out of restaurants, and somewhere in the distance, a siren echoed through the city.
You leaned back against the brick wall behind you.
“I used to think New York would feel bigger.”
Peter frowned. “Bigger?”
“Yeah.” You shrugged. “Before I moved here, I thought it’d be this huge, exciting place where I’d constantly be meeting people and doing cool things.”
“And?”
You let out a laugh. “And now I spend most of my nights crying over assignments and eating instant noodles.”
Peter snorted. “Sounds about right.”
You nudged his shoulder. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
You stared out at the city lights. “I don’t know. I guess I just thought it’d be easier.”
Peter was quiet for a moment. “Easier to do what?”
“To be alone.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. You immediately looked away, embarrassed by how honest you’d just been.
“That sounded sadder than I meant it to.”
Peter didn’t laugh.
Instead, he looked down at his hands, almost like he was thinking about whether or not to say something. “You get used to it.”
You turned toward him. “Being alone?”
He nodded.
“No offense, Parker, but you don’t exactly sound convincing.”
That earned a small smile from him, but it disappeared almost immediately.
“You don’t get used to it,” he admitted quietly. “You just learn how to deal with it.”
The way he said it made your chest ache. “Is that why you push people away?”
Peter let out a breath, his eyes fixed on the street below.
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
He was silent for so long that you thought he wasn’t going to answer. “Have you ever made a decision that you knew was right, but you hated yourself for it anyway?”
You frowned.
Peter laughed bitterly to himself. “Forget it. That’s a stupid question.”
“No, it’s not.”
He glanced at you, surprised by how quickly you’d answered.
You shifted slightly, pulling your knees closer to your chest. “I think people do that all the time.”
Peter looked away again. “Yeah. Maybe.”
You weren’t sure what came over you, but before you could stop yourself, you asked, “Did it have something to do with someone?”
The question hung in the air between you.
Peter froze. And immediately, you regretted asking.
“You don’t have to answer that,” you said quickly. “Sorry, that was way too personal—”
“It did.”
Your voice caught in your throat.
Peter wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes were fixed somewhere beyond the skyline, somewhere far away.
“Her name’s MJ. We used to be… close.”
The understatement almost made you laugh. “Close?”
He smiled sadly. “Yeah. She’s very special to me.”
You didn’t push. You could tell just from the way he was speaking, that this wasn’t a story he told often.
“There was this guy too,” he continued. “Ned. My best friend.”
Then Peter leaned back against the wall, staring up at the sky.
“A few years ago, something happened. Something really bad. And the only way to fix it was…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “The only way to fix it was to make everyone forget who Peter Parker was.”
You stared at him.
“What?”
He laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it.
“Yeah. Crazy, right?”
You didn’t know what to say.
Because suddenly, everything made sense.
“Wait.” You turned toward him. “You mean they literally don’t remember you?”
Peter shook his head. “No.”
“Not even MJ and Ned?”
“No.”
You stared at him, completely speechless. “Peter…”
He shrugged, like he was talking about the weather instead of the most heartbreaking thing you’d ever heard.
“It was my choice.”
“But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
The words escaped before you could think twice.
Peter’s expression softened. Then he let out a quiet laugh and shook his head. “You’re the first person who’s said that.”
You frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It’s always about how I saved the world or how I did the right thing.” He looked down at his hands. “Nobody ever talks about what it cost.”
The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard. For the first time, you understood.
Peter Parker hadn’t isolated himself because he wanted to. He’d isolated himself because he genuinely believed that loving people meant losing them.
You reached over and gently nudged his shoulder.
“Well, I think what you did was incredibly selfless.”
Peter smiled weakly. “Thanks.”
“But I also think you’re an idiot.”
He turned to you so fast that you almost laughed. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Wow. Harsh.”
“I’m serious.” You sat up straighter. “You keep acting like the solution to everything is to shut people out.”
“Because people get hurt.”
“People get hurt regardless, Peter.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but you didn’t let him.
“You think pushing everyone away protects them, but all it’s doing is making you miserable.”
Peter stared at you.
“And before you say anything, yes, I know that’s hypocritical coming from the girl who spent the first three months in New York eating canned goods alone in her apartment.”
That got a laugh out of him.
“I’m serious, though.” You smiled softly.
The two of you sat there for what felt like forever, the noise of the city filling the silence between you.
“You know, when we first met, I thought you were way too friendly.”
You gasped dramatically. “Way too friendly?”
“You kept talking to me in the elevator.”
“God forbid someone tries to have a conversation with their neighbor.”
“I thought there had to be some ulterior motive.”
You laughed. “And now?”
Peter looked at you. “Now I think you just hate awkward silences.”
You smiled. “You’re half right.”
“And the other half?”
You hesitated before answering. “I saw someone who looked lonely.”
Peter’s expression changed instantly. The teasing smile disappeared, replaced by something softer.
Because the truth was, you’d been right all along.
He was lonely.
You simply sat beside each other, watching the lights of New York flicker in the distance. Somewhere below, taxis disappeared into traffic, distant sirens echoed through the streets, and the summer air carried the sound of laughter from people walking home.
For the first time in a long time, Peter didn’t feel like he was carrying the weight of the city by himself.
Beside him, you absentmindedly rested your chin on your knees, staring out at the skyline.
“Do you ever stop thinking?” you asked quietly.
Peter let out a small laugh. “Not really.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
You smiled sympathetically. “Well, I think you deserve a break every once in a while. Fighting off bad people every other day isn’t healthy.”
Peter glanced over at you, about to make some self-deprecating joke, when suddenly, something felt… wrong.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His expression immediately changed.
You frowned. “Peter?”
He didn’t answer.
His eyes darted toward the street below, instinct taking over before his mind could catch up. There was no obvious danger—just passing cars, people crossing the road, cyclists weaving through traffic.
And yet, every nerve in his body was screaming at him that someone was watching.
“Peter?” You followed his gaze, confused as he abruptly stood from the fire escape. “What is it?”
“I…” Peter scanned the street, his heartbeat picking up. “I don’t know.”
Down below, parked across the street, a dark car sat between two taxis. Through the windshield, he could barely make out the silhouette of someone sitting in the back seat, their face hidden by the reflection of the city lights.
For a split second, Peter thought he saw the figure turn toward him.
Then the engine started. The car pulled away from the curb, disappearing into the traffic before Peter could get a better look.
He remained frozen, staring after it.
“Did you see someone?” you asked, standing beside him.
Peter hesitated. “I think so.”
“You think so?”
He shook his head, frustration creeping into his voice. “I don’t know. It just felt like…” He stopped himself.
Like someone had been watching him.
You glanced down at the now-empty street before looking back at Peter.
“Maybe it’s just your superhero paranoia.”
Peter let out a breathless laugh, though the uneasy feeling in his chest refused to disappear.
“Yeah,” he muttered, still staring into the distance. “Maybe.”
~~~~~
It was barely nine in the morning when you opened your apartment door and nearly ran face-first into him.
Peter stumbled backward, a paper bag clutched awkwardly in his hands. “Oh—sorry.”
You blinked. “Are you just permanently stationed outside my apartment now, or…?”
“What? No.” Peter looked genuinely horrified. “I was just—I wasn’t—”
You crossed your arms, trying to suppress a smile as he completely lost the ability to form coherent sentences. “Relax, Parker. I’m kidding.”
He let out a relieved sigh. “You really need to stop doing that.”
“And deprive myself of the joy of watching Spider-Man panic? Absolutely not.”
Peter rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Only then did you notice the coffee cup sticking out of the paper bag. You narrowed your eyes.
“…Is that coffee?”
Peter immediately looked down at the bag as if he’d forgotten he was holding it in the first place. “Uh, yeah.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And why are you standing outside my apartment at nine in the morning holding coffee?”
Peter stared at you for a few seconds, clearly debating whether or not he could still escape this conversation.
“I, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “You said you had an exam today.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “You know that?”
The second the words left your mouth, Peter looked like he regretted everything. “I just—I overheard you talking on the phone in the hallway last night.”
“Oh, so you’re spying on me.”
“I’m not! I have heightened senses, you know?”
You laughed, reaching for the coffee he was still awkwardly holding hostage. “Well, thank you.”
He shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the floor. “I figured you’d need it.”
You looked down at the cup before glancing back up at him. “Okay, this is actually really sweet.”
Peter almost choked. “What?”
“I’m complimenting you.”
“You’ve spent the last week bullying me.”
“I tease you because it’s funny. Completely different.”
Peter shook his head, mumbling something under his breath as he started walking toward the elevator.
You immediately followed him. “Oh, no. You don’t get to do something nice and then escape before I properly thank you.”
“Pretty sure I do.”
“You absolutely do not.”
The elevator doors opened, and the two of you stepped inside.
“Did you sleep at all?”
Peter leaned against the wall. “A little.”
“Yeah, right.”
“What?”
“That’s a lie.”
He glanced over at you. “How would you know?”
“Because you look like you fought a bear.”
“You’re judgemental.”
“Answer the question.”
Peter sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “There was some stuff going on downtown.”
“Some stuff?”
“Yeah.”
You stared at him. “You’re literally Spider-Man. ‘Some stuff’ could mean anything from stopping a robbery to fighting an alien invasion.”
“Okay, first of all, that’s only happened once.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Twice, maybe.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “I can’t believe this is my life now.”
“Imagine how I feel.”
The elevator doors slid open, and the two of you stepped into the lobby.
Outside, New York was already awake. People hurried down the sidewalks, taxis filled the streets, and somewhere in the distance, someone was yelling at a delivery truck.
You took a sip of your coffee. “Okay, serious question.”
Peter looked over.
“How do you balance all of this?”
He frowned. “Balance what?”
“You know…” You gestured vaguely. “Spider-Man stuff. Life.”
Peter laughed softly. “I don’t.”
“No, seriously.”
“I am serious.”
You stopped walking. “What do you mean, you don’t?”
Peter shoved his hands into his pockets. “I mean exactly what I said.”
For the first time that morning, the teasing tone disappeared from his voice.
“Half the time, I’m in front of my desk, fixing my suit. The other half, I’m too exhausted to focus on anything.” He shrugged. “I’ve kind of accepted that I’m bad at balancing things.”
You frowned. “That’s not healthy.”
Peter opened his mouth, prepared with another joke, but stopped when he noticed the look on your face.
You were actually worried.
Peter looked away first.
“You know,” you said softly, “you’re allowed to take care of yourself too.”
He let out a quiet laugh.
“Funny. You sound exactly like my aunt May.”
The moment the words left his mouth, his expression changed. The smile disappeared.
“Oh.” Your voice softened. “Peter…”
“It’s okay.”
You weren’t sure whether to say something or pretend that the conversation hadn’t just shifted into dangerous territory.
Before you could decide, Peter shook his head and forced a smile. “Anyway, good luck on your exam.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Nice try.”
“What?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Am I?”
“Very obviously.”
Peter laughed, stepping backward onto the sidewalk. “Seriously, though. Good luck.”
You stared at him for a moment before sighing in defeat.
“Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”
Peter smiled. “We’ll see.”
You pointed at him accusingly. “No, don’t ‘we’ll see’ me, Parker.”
He laughed and started walking backward down the street. “Go ace your exam, sweetheart.”
The second the nickname left his mouth, both of you froze.
Peter looked just as surprised as you did.
Your eyes widened. “Did you just call me sweetheart?”
Peter stopped walking. “I—”
“You did!”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did!”
He buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”
You couldn’t stop smiling. “Oh, this is never leaving my memory.”
“Can we all agree to pretend that never happened?”
“Absolutely not.”
Peter groaned as you laughed, continuing your walk toward campus.
He shook his head, turning to leave in the opposite direction, but even from several feet away, you could still see the embarrassed smile on his face.
~~~~~
You tried not to think too much as you walked home from campus that evening, convincing yourself that he was probably just busy with superhero things. It wasn’t unusual for him to vanish for hours at a time.
Still, there was an uneasy feeling in your chest that you couldn’t explain.
By the time you reached your apartment building, the sun had already disappeared behind the skyline, painting New York in shades of orange and blue. You stepped into the lobby, fishing your keys out of your bag and nearly jumped when you saw Peter standing completely still in front of the elevators.
“Jesus Christ, Parker.”
He turned around so quickly that you almost took a step back.
For a moment, he just stared at you.
“Peter?”
He blinked a few times, as if he were forcing himself back into reality.
“Oh. Hey.”
You frowned.
“Hey? That’s all you have to say after ignoring me all day?”
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“Peter, I sent you three texts.”
“You sent me three memes.”
“They were funny memes.”
Peter let out a distracted laugh, but something was off.
He looked more exhausted than usual. His hoodie was damp from the rain, his hair was a mess, and there was a fresh cut just above his eyebrow.
You immediately noticed. “You’re hurt.”
“What? No.”
“You literally have blood on your face.”
Peter instinctively touched his eyebrow before dropping his hand. “It’s nothing.”
You crossed your arms. “You know, for someone whose entire job is saving people, you’re really bad at taking care of yourself.”
Peter looked away, jaw tightening.
The elevator doors opened with a ding, but neither of you moved.
“Peter?”
He swallowed hard before finally speaking. “Have you ever felt like someone’s watching you?”
The question caught you off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “For the past few days, everywhere I go, I keep feeling like there’s…” He hesitated. “Like there’s someone there.”
You frowned. “Someone following you?”
“Maybe.”
“Have you actually seen anyone?”
Peter thought back to the fire escape. To the dark car disappearing into traffic before he could get a good look at it.
“Not really.”
You stepped a little closer, lowering your voice. “Peter, are you sure you’re okay?”
He opened his mouth to answer—
“Behind you.”
The voice wasn’t yours.
Peter froze.
His head snapped toward the lobby entrance, but there was nobody there except an elderly man struggling with grocery bags.
“What?” you asked.
Peter stared at the doors, his heartbeat suddenly pounding in his ears.
The old man looked up.
“You’re easier to find than you think, Peter.”
Peter’s blood ran cold. The voice wasn’t the old man’s. It was someone else’s, speaking through him.
The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by confusion as the man adjusted his glasses and continued walking.
“Peter?”
He turned back toward you, panic flashing across his face.
“Did you hear that?”
You blinked. “Hear what?”
Before Peter could answer, a woman stepped into the lobby, talking on the phone as she walked past the two of you.
“Everyone has a weakness.”
Peter stiffened.
The woman stopped walking.
Slowly, she turned her head toward him. “You know that better than anyone.”
The air left Peter’s lungs. “What the hell…”
“Peter?” You grabbed his arm. “What’s wrong?”
He couldn’t answer. Because now, all around the lobby, people had started looking at him.
One by one, they turned toward him.
And they all smiled.
“You lost your aunt.”
“You lost your friends.”
“You lost the girl you loved.”
The voices overlapped, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Peter stumbled backward, his breathing becoming uneven.
“You found someone new.”
Peter’s eyes immediately darted toward you.
“So that’s why you’ve been smiling lately.”
Your grip on his arm tightened. “Peter, you’re scaring me.”
Instantly, every face in the lobby returned to normal.
Peter stood frozen in the middle of the lobby, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Peter, talk to me.”
He looked at you, but it was obvious that he wasn’t really seeing you. His mind was somewhere else, replaying the words over and over again.
You found someone new.
“No,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.
“What?”
Peter grabbed your wrist.
The sudden movement startled you.
“You can’t stay here tonight.”
You frowned. “What?”
“Pack a bag.”
“Peter, slow down—”
“I’m serious.”
“What’s going on?”
He looked around the lobby one last time, searching for any sign that whoever had done this was still watching.
“I think someone’s trying to get to me.”
You stared at him.
“And I think…” His voice cracked slightly as he looked back at you. “I think they know about you.”
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then you shook your head. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“Neither do I.”
Peter finally had something left to lose again.
And whoever was out there had just figured that out.
~~~~~
By the time Peter finally explained what was happening, the two of you were already halfway across New York.
Well “explained” was a generous term.
According to Peter, there was someone out there who could somehow speak through other people, someone who had spent the last few days following him, taunting him, and apparently taking a concerning interest in the fact that he’d started spending time with you.
According to you, that sounded completely insane. “You realize how crazy this sounds, right?”
Peter tightened his grip on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Trust me, I know.”
“No, because from my perspective, I went from studying for finals to being shoved into a car by Spider-Man because some random woman might be stalking us.”
“I’m not shoving you anywhere.”
“You practically dragged me out of the apartment.”
“You had, like, five minutes to pack.”
“Exactly.”
Peter let out an exhausted sigh.
The city lights reflected against the windshield as silence settled between you for a moment. You glanced over at him, finally getting a good look at his expression.
He looked terrified.
You looked away, staring out the window. “Who is she?”
Peter hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know her name?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“You’re Spider-Man.”
“Yeah, and believe it or not, I don’t actually know every single person in New York.”
You rolled your eyes, but the joke barely landed. It was obvious that his mind was somewhere else entirely.
The city slowly disappeared behind you, replaced by quieter streets and the dark outline of the harbor. After another few minutes, Peter pulled into a small dock.
You stepped out of the car and immediately froze.
Floating a few feet away from the pier was what looked like a tiny house sitting on top of a boat.
“Where are we?”
“It’s safer than the apartment.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Peter ignored you, already walking toward the dock.
“Peter!”
“I’m serious, Y/n.”
You quietly followed him down the dock.
The house itself was small, warm lights spilling out from the windows onto the water. Peter knocked twice before the door swung open, revealing a man who looked like he’d been expecting him.
The man’s eyes immediately landed on you. Then they shifted back to Peter.
“…You brought company.”
Peter sighed. “Frank, not now.”
“Oh, it’s definitely now.”
“Frank.”
You watched as Frank crossed his arms, trying to suppress an amused smile.
“So, let me get this straight.” He pointed between the two of you. “The world is apparently ending, and this is who you decided to bring to my place?”
“She’s my neighbor.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”
Peter groaned. “Can you please not do this right now?”
“I’m just asking questions.”
You bit back a laugh as Peter shot Frank the most exhausted look you’d ever seen.
Frank stepped aside, letting the two of you inside before he disappeared into the kitchen.
“So,” he called out, “you want tea? Coffee? Emotional support?”
Peter buried his face in his hands. “Please stop talking.”
“I’m sensing coffee for the kid and emotional support for Spider-Man.”
You snorted.
Peter glared at both of you.
An hour later, after Frank had finally stopped making fun of him, the three of you sat around the tiny dining table.
Well, technically, Frank was sitting.
Peter had spent the last twenty minutes pacing back and forth.
“Peter, you’re making me dizzy.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re stomping.”
He ignored you.
Frank looked up from his coffee. “Kid, sit down before you wear a hole through my floor.”
Peter stopped pacing, but only because his phone buzzed.
He immediately grabbed it, eyes scanning the screen.
Nothing. Just a news notification.
You watched as he exhaled, disappointed. “You’ve checked your phone seventeen times in the last ten minutes.”
Peter frowned. “No, I haven’t.”
“You absolutely have.”
Frank looked between the two of you. “You guys do realize that you’re acting like a married couple, right?”
You nearly choked on your drink.
Peter looked ready to throw himself into the ocean. “We are not acting like a married couple.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“Frank.” Peter stood up so abruptly that his chair nearly fell over. “I need some air.”
Without another word, he stepped outside onto the dock.
You hesitated for a moment before quietly following him. The night air was colder now, carrying the scent of the ocean and the distant sounds of the city.
You walked up beside him, leaning against the railing.
For a few moments, neither of you spoke. Then, quietly, you asked, “How bad is it?”
Peter didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t know.”
You looked down at the dark sky in front. “You really think she want to hurt me?”
Peter’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what she want.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
For the first time that night, Peter looked at you. The fear in his eyes caught you off guard.
“I can’t let anything happen to you.”
The words came out so quickly that it almost sounded like he’d been holding them in for hours.
You stared at him.
“I mean it.” He shook his head, frustrated with himself. “I spent years convincing myself that being alone was the only way to keep people safe, and then you came along and suddenly—”
He stopped himself.
Suddenly, he didn’t want to be alone anymore.
Suddenly, he had something to lose again.
The silence stretched between you.
You took a step closer. “Peter, look at me.”
He did.
“I’m scared too.”
His expression softened.
“But you don’t get to decide things for me.”
Peter frowned. “What?”
“You keep acting like you have to carry everyone else’s pain by yourself, like it’s your responsibility to decide who gets hurt and who doesn’t.” You shook your head. “But that’s not fair.”
“Y/n—”
“No, listen to me.” Your voice softened. “I know you’re trying to protect me. I know that. But I’m here because I chose to be here.”
Peter looked away. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
He stepped forward and gently squeezed your hand. Just for a second. Just long enough for both of you to freeze.
Peter pulled away almost immediately, looking just as shocked as you felt.
“I should go.”
And before you could respond, he turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving you standing alone, watching the only person you’d ever trusted with your heart swing back toward a city that never stopped needing him.
~~~~~
The first thing Peter noticed was the silence.
It was wrong.
His suit was torn near the shoulder, bruises bloomed across his ribs, and every muscle in his body ached as he limped down the dock toward Frank’s home. The morning had blurred together into a mess of adrenaline and panic: tracking Jean across the city, realizing she had taken control of the Hulk, barely escaping the destruction that followed, and worse was that Jean managed to escape.
The lights inside the houseboat were still on.
Peter frowned. “Frank?”
No answer.
He climbed the last few steps and pushed the door open. “Frank, I’m back—”
The words died in his throat.
The living room was a disaster.
A chair had been knocked onto its side. One of the lamps lay shattered on the floor, glass scattered across the wood. Your backpack was gone.
And Frank was unconscious on the ground.
Peter’s heart stopped. “Frank!”
He dropped to his knees beside him, shaking his shoulder.
“Frank, hey, wake up. Come on, come on—”
Frank groaned, slowly opening his eyes. “Kid…?”
Peter let out a breath of relief, but it lasted less than a second. “Where’s Y/n?”
Frank blinked, still disoriented.
“She…” He winced, trying to sit up. “She was here.”
Peter felt the blood drain from his face. “What do you mean, ‘was here’?”
Frank looked around the room as though trying to piece everything together. “There was someone at the door. I thought it was you.”
Peter’s stomach dropped. “No.”
Frank swallowed hard. “Next thing I knew, she was acting strange. Said she had to go home.”
Peter stood up so fast that the room spun around him. “No, no, no—”
“Hey—”
“No.”
He was already reaching for his phone, hands shaking so violently that he nearly dropped it.
Twenty-three missed calls.
And then a message.
Sent ten minutes ago.
From you.
hey :) im back at the apartment. can you come over? we should talk.
Peter stared at the screen. Every instinct in his body screamed at him that something was wrong. You never used smiley faces.
Frank had managed to sit up now, watching Peter’s expression darken. “What’s going on?”
Peter was already backing toward the door. “She’s not there.”
Frank frowned. “What?”
“That’s not her.”
The realization hit him all at once.
Jean hadn’t been captured.
And while Peter had been busy trying to save the city, she’d gone after the one person he had been trying to protect.
~~~~~
The city became nothing but streaks of light as Peter swung through the night.
His breathing was ragged beneath the mask, every thought in his head collapsing into one singular fear.
You.
Every second felt like an eternity. Every red light, every building, every street corner seemed to move too slowly.
Please be okay.
He landed outside the apartment building so hard that several people on the sidewalk screamed and jumped back.
He sprinted through the lobby, ignoring the confused stares around him as he practically launched himself into the stairwell.
The elevator would take too long. By the time he reached your floor, his lungs were burning.
The hallway was empty. Your apartment door was slightly open.
Peter’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. “Y/n?”
No answer.
He stepped inside cautiously. The lights were off except for the glow of the city spilling through the windows. The apartment was silent.
“Y/n?” Then he saw you.
Standing by the window. Your back was turned toward him, your silhouette framed by the lights of the city below.
Relief crashed over him so quickly that his knees nearly gave out. “Oh my God.”
You slowly turned around.
For a brief moment, everything seemed normal.
“Peter.” The sound of your voice almost made him collapse.
He took a step forward. “Are you okay? Frank said that you left and then you texted me and I—”
“I’m okay.” Something about your tone made him stop.
It was your voice. But it didn’t sound like you.
Too empty.
Peter’s entire body tensed. “Y/n…”
“You’re worried.” You tilted your head slightly.
Peter took another cautious step. “Come away from the window.”
A smile spread across your face.
Except it wasn’t your smile.
“No.”
The room suddenly felt ten degrees colder.
Peter’s heart sank. “Jean.”
Your smile widened. “There he is.”
Peter felt sick. “Get out of her head.”
“Oh, Peter.” Jean’s voice echoed through your lips. “You’re making this far too easy.”
Peter couldn’t take his eyes off you.
You were standing much too close to the edge.
“Whatever you want, this has nothing to do with her.”
Jean laughed. “Nothing to do with her?”
Your body turned slightly, glancing out at the city below.
“You spent years convincing yourself that isolation would protect the people you love.” Jean’s voice softened. “And then she smiled at you in an elevator.”
Peter’s chest tightened. “Stop.”
“You let her in.”
“Stop talking.”
“You gave yourself something to lose.”
“Jean, stop!”
For the first time, something flickered in your expression.
For a split second, Peter saw you.
Really saw you.
Terrified. “Peter?”
The fear in your voice was unmistakably yours. Peter immediately stepped forward. “Y/n, listen to me. I’m right here.”
Your eyes darted around the room frantically. “W-what’s happening?”
Then your expression changed again.
Jean was back. And this time, she was smiling.
“Tell me, Peter.” You took a step backward. Right onto the ledge. “How many people can Spider-Man save before he finally fails?”
Peter’s blood ran cold. “No.”
“How many times can Peter Parker lose the people he loves before he breaks?”
“Jean, don’t do this.”
For the first time all night, Jean’s voice lost its mocking tone.
“I just want you to understand.” Instead, she sounded almost sad.
And then you fell.
“Y/N!”
Peter didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t hesitate. He ran.
The window shattered behind him as he launched himself into the open air, diving after you as the city lights blurred together beneath him.
Wind roared in your ears. For a moment, there was nothing.
Then suddenly—consciousness.
You blinked. And realized you were falling.
The scream that tore from your throat was filled with pure terror. “Peter!”
You couldn’t breathe. The ground was getting closer. And then strong arms wrapped around you.
You collided against Peter’s chest as he wrapped his body around yours and shot a web into the nearest building, swinging both of you away from the street below.
You clung to him instantly, shaking so violently that you could barely form words.
One hand held the web. The other was wrapped so tightly around you that it almost hurt.
You buried your face against his shoulder, tears streaming down your cheeks.
“I don’t—I don’t know what happened—”
“I know.”
“I was in the boat and then—and then—”
“I know.” Peter’s voice cracked.
Because for one horrifying moment, he hadn’t known if he’d make it in time.
And as he held you against him, thirty stories above New York City, Peter Parker made himself a promise.
Whatever happened next, whatever it took, he would never let you go again.
~~~~~
The rooftop was silent except for the sound of your uneven breathing and the distant hum of New York below.
Peter still hadn’t let go of you.
Not since he’d caught you.
Not since he’d felt your fingers clutch desperately at his suit thirty stories above the ground.
You sat beside him now, shoulders pressed together, both of you staring at the skyline as the first hints of sunrise painted the clouds orange.
Neither of you knew what to say.
Because how were you supposed to act normal after something like that?
“Peter…”
He didn’t look at you. “I’m sorry.”
You frowned. “Why do you keep apologizing?”
“Because I should’ve protected you.”
“You did protect me.”
“No.” He shook his head, his voice cracking. “I was supposed to keep this from happening in the first place.”
You turned toward him. “Hey, that’s impossible.”
He laughed bitterly, staring down at his hands. “Yeah, well, I’ve spent the last four years trying to do the impossible.”
The words hung between you.
You watched him quietly, noticing the way his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of everything he carried.
“You know that’s not your fault, right?” you whispered.
Peter finally looked at you. The expression on his face almost broke your heart.
“After May… after MJ and Ned…” He swallowed hard. “I promised myself that I would never do this again.”
“Do what?”
Peter let out a shaky breath. “Care.”
You felt your heart stop.
“Because every single person I’ve ever loved…” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I’ve lost them somehow.”
“Peter—”
“And then you showed up.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head.
“You kept talking to me in elevators when I clearly didn’t want to talk. You kept making fun of me. You kept showing up with coffee and stupid jokes, and…” He looked at you, eyes shining in the early morning light. “Somehow, you made me forget what it felt like to be alone.”
You couldn’t speak.
“I tried to stay away from you.” He shook his head. “I really did.”
Your eyes welled with tears.
“But every time you smiled at me, every time you waited for me to come home, every time you sat next to me on that fire escape…” He laughed weakly. “It just got harder.”
The silence between you became unbearable.
And then Peter whispered the words he’d spent months trying not to feel.
“I love you.”
The world seemed to stop. Peter immediately looked away, almost like he regretted saying it.
“I know it’s selfish,” he continued quickly. “And maybe I shouldn’t have said anything because everything in my life is complicated and dangerous and honestly, I don’t even know what tomorrow looks like, but when I saw you falling—”
His voice broke.
“When I saw you falling, the only thing I could think was that I never told you.”
Peter let out a shaky breath, staring at the city because he couldn’t bear to look at your reaction.
“I love you,” he whispered again. “And that’s the scariest thing that’s happened to me in years.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you reached for his hand.
Peter looked down, almost surprised to find your fingers intertwined with his.
“Peter Parker,” you whispered, squeezing his hand, “you are such an idiot.”
He blinked. “That’s not exactly the response I was expecting.”
You laughed and shook your head. “Because I’ve been in love with you since before I even knew you were Spider-Man.”
Peter just stared.
“You brought me coffee before my exams, sat with me when I was lonely, and somehow made me feel at home in a city that never felt like mine.” You smiled softly. “I didn’t fall in love with Spider-Man.”
You stepped a little closer.
“I fell in love with the awkward guy from the elevator.”
Peter’s eyes immediately filled with tears.
And for the first time since the spell, since May, since losing everyone he’d ever loved, Peter allowed himself to believe that maybe losing people wasn’t the only ending he deserved.
He laughed shakily, pressing his forehead against yours.
SUMMARY. . . You'd made a habit out of chasing Spider-Man across the city, phone in hand with your heart in your throat, just to catch a glimpse of him. Peter knew it was stupidly reckless. He also knew he should have stopped encouraging it. But when you look at him in that way, something in him gives way.
pairing: peter parker/spiderman x reader
content warnings: reckless behavior, kinda stalker-ish behavior, reader repeatedly chasing active crime scenes, danger, explosions, injuries, blood, peter parker being chronically stressed, near-death experience, protective spider-man, arguing, down bad pining, emotional vulnerability, identity secrecy, tracking apps, disastrous flirting, light hurt/comfort, panic and fear, bruises and minor injuries, kissing, making out, masked kisses, peter parker's severe boundary issues & reader's even worse self-preservation instincts, accidental emotional confessions, possessive undertones, references to violence and crime, PLEASE MDNI! 18+, smut. creampies, cockwarming, degradation/praise, dirty talk, doggy style, dry humping, groping, hair pulling, marking/biting, missionary, multiple rounds, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, rough sex, secret identities (mask stays ON! until it doesn't), sensory deprivation (m!&f!), sensory overload (m!&f!), slight manhandling, teasing, unprotected p in v sex, lmk if i missed anything!
comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡
— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !
w/c: 13k (she's a big girl im sry </3)
a/n: big credits to @rip-quizilla who gave me the idea for this, and all my other friends/moots who helped me spent so long watching me lose my mind over finishing this. guys, please do NOT do anything you see in this fic, this is purely for fictional purposes sakes 😭
The first time you saw Spider-Man in person, you hadn't meant to follow him.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
You had been two blocks from the laundromat, carrying a plastic bag of warm clothes against your hip while your phone buzzed violently in your hand. The tracking app had lit up with a sudden red pulse near Delancey, a messy little cluster of comments flooding beneath it.
SPIDEY NEAR ESSEX. CAR CHASE??
NO WAY HE JUST FLIPPED OVER A BUS!
You had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone had muttered behind you annoyed, and stepped around your laundry bag. The city kept moving in every direction, yellow cabs pushing through the intersection, steam curling from a grate, somebody laughing too loudly outside a bodega. But your attention had narrowed to that blinking dot.
You had only meant to look. Just for a second. Just to see if the app was accurate, because people exaggerated online all the time and half the sightings turned out to be drones, cosplayers, or blurry red jackets photographed from four avenues away.
Then something had swung overhead.
A blur of red and blue cut between the buildings, so quick your breath caught before your mind could name him. The air shifted with him. People on the sidewalk looked up in scattered bursts, phones rising, mouths open, one man yelling, “Yo! Spider-Man!” like he was calling to a friend across the street.
You had craned your neck so hard it hurt.
He landed on the side of a brick building as if gravity had simply made an exception for him. One hand stuck to the wall, knees bent, white lenses angling down toward the street. Below him, a black SUV fishtailed hard around the corner, its bumper half-torn loose, sparks spitting from beneath the frame.
Spider-Man pushed off the wall.
Your bag split somewhere behind you. A white sock escaped onto the curb. You didn't bother going back for it.
You had run.
Not toward the SUV exactly, because you were not stupid enough to run into traffic on purpose. Not then, at least. But you ran in the same direction, weaving through pedestrians, shoes slapping pavement, pulse climbing higher with every shout and honk.
By the time you reached the next block, the SUV was webbed to a lamppost, the driver was dangling upside down from a fire escape, and Spider-Man was crouched on top of a dented mailbox with one hand pressed to his ribs.
He looked smaller up close than you expected. Not small, exactly, but strangely human.
Breathing hard. Shoulders rising and falling. Suit scuffed dark along one thigh. A tear near his side showed a thin line of skin beneath before he twisted away from the cameras.
You stood behind the police tape with everyone else, hair sticking to your face, lungs burning, and one sock missing from your laundry life forever.
He turned his head.
For half a second, those white lenses landed on you.
You knew he couldn't have recognized you. There was nothing to recognize. You were just another girl in a city full of people who wanted to see a miracle and then post about it before the adrenaline wore off.
Still, your stomach dropped.
Then he lifted two fingers in a quick salute to the crowd, shot a web, and vanished between buildings.
You downloaded two more tracking apps that night.
After that, seeing him became less of an accident and more of a bad habit you pretended was harmless.
You learned the patterns the way other people learned train delays. Robberies traveled fast through comment sections. Sirens became invitations. Helicopters meant something serious. If three different users posted the same grainy red-blue blur within five minutes, you grabbed your jacket before the app could refresh again.
Sometimes you missed him completely and arrived only in time to see cops clearing debris or tourists replaying videos at full volume. Sometimes you caught him from far away, a streak against the gray of the sky, no closer than a rumor. But sometimes you got lucky.
Lucky meant standing across from a jewelry store with shattered glass glittering over the sidewalk while he webbed a man’s wrists to a parking meter.
Lucky meant watching him swing down to stop a delivery cyclist from being clipped by a fleeing van.
Lucky meant hearing him talk.
That was the part nobody could capture right in videos. The way he sounded in person. Younger than the headlines made him, sharper when he was annoyed, and funny even when he was clearly in pain. He filled dangerous moments with words, like if he talked fast enough nobody had time to panic.
“Okay, so, quick note,” he told a guy holding a crowbar outside a pawn shop one wet Thursday evening, “if your getaway plan involves running directly into a bike lane during rush hour, I do think maybe crime isn’t your strongest career path.”
The guy swung at him.
Spider-Man ducked, webbed the crowbar to a street sign, and added, “Oh-kay, so that was a growth opportunity that you just missed.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
His head snapped toward you.
You were standing too close. Not past the tape, not exactly in the line of fire, but close enough that a cop had already told you twice to move back. Rain dotted your cheeks. Your hood kept sliding off. Your phone was clutched against your chest, recording nothing because you had forgotten to press the button.
Spider-Man stared at you for one beat too long.
Then he pointed at you.
“You,” the words were barely clear to your ears.
Your face warmed so fast it felt humiliating. “Me?”
“Yes, you. With the…” He gestured vaguely at your entire existence. “The enthusiastic crime tourism thing.”
A few people nearby turned to look at you. Someone snorted. You should have been embarrassed enough to leave. Instead, you smiled.
“You noticed?”
His lenses narrowed. Somehow, they managed to look exhausted. “That is not the takeaway I was hoping for.”
You lifted your chin as if that proved something to him. “I’m behind the tape.”
“You are practically dating the damn tape.”
“I respect boundary lines!”
His tone turned slightly incredulous. “You followed a man with a crowbar into a rainstorm.”
The correction came quickly on your lips. “I followed you.”
“That is relatively worse.”
It should have ended there. He should have swung away and become a story you told yourself later, replaying every word until the edges wore smooth. But the man webbed to the street sign started yelling about unlawful restraint, the cops moved in, and Spider-Man hopped backward onto the side of a parked van.
Before he left, he looked down at you again.
“Go home,” he said as if you needed the reminder.
You had grinned like an idiot. “Will you be there?”
There was a pause.
Not long, just enough for him to register the line, process it, and decide he absolutely did not want to touch it.
“Nope,” he sighed, voice flatter than before. “Wow. Okay. Definitely go home.”
Then he was gone, leaving you with rain in your eyelashes and the distinct, dangerous realization that Spider-Man could be flustered.
Peter remembered you after that.
He didn't mean to.
He remembered plenty of people in flashes: New York was made of recurring characters if you paid attention long enough.
But you, you became hard not to notice.
You were at the edge of too many scenes, always just outside safety, and always pretending you had arrived by coincidence while breathing like you had sprinted ten blocks. Sometimes your hair was pulled back messily. Sometimes you wore work shoes that were really not made for running. Once, you showed up with a grocery bag still looped around your wrist, and had a bunch of cilantro sticking out the top while an armored car smoked behind you.
He saw the app open on your phone once when he swung low past a bus shelter.
That made his stomach twist.
The city had always watched him, but the tracking apps made it worse. They turned danger into a scavenger hunt. They pulled kids, tourists, thrill-seekers, and people with too much faith in his reflexes toward scenes they should have been running from.
Peter hated them in the abstract way he could.
He hated yours specifically because you looked at the screen like it was a promise.
He told himself he was not responsible for your choices. He told himself he had bigger problems than one reckless woman with quick comebacks and bad self-preservation instincts. He told himself a lot of things while dragging stolen cars out of intersections, yanking weapons from hands, and getting punched in the same bruised shoulder three nights in a row.
Still, every time Peter landed somewhere and spotted you in the crowd, his first reaction was not annoyance.
It was relief.
Then anger, quick and hot behind it, because relief meant he had started looking.
“You’re here again,” he sighed again one night, landing on the fire escape above you after a group of teenagers tried to rob a closed pharmacy.
You looked up, breath fogging in the cold. There was a knit scarf wrapped around your neck and one glove missing from your hand. You had probably lost it running.
Your response came instinctive in its quickness. “You say that like you’re not also here again.”
Peter pinched at the bridge of his noise as if that could stifle his second sigh. “I’m working.”
“So am I.”
He tilted his head, looking down at you with clear disbelief. “Your job is standing under active crime scenes?”
Your chin tilted back up in a counter measure. “My job is none of your business.”
“Fair. Is your hobby standing under active crime scenes?”
You tucked your ungloved hand into your sleeve and looked around with fake surveying. “Maybe I’m a concerned citizen.”
His words came out too quick and too impulsive. “You are a concerning citizen.”
That got a smile out of you, small but entirely pleased, and Peter hated how quickly he noticed the shape of it. He was hanging upside down from the railing, one knee hooked around metal, and blood drying uncomfortably under the torn fabric near his elbow. The cold bit through the suit where it was damp. Below, police lights washed your face blue, then red, then blue again.
“You’re bleeding,” you faltered slightly when your gaze caught on the blood.
He glanced at his arm and the white lenses dilated before going back. “It’s not mine.”
You gave him a look that had him sighing. “It’s mostly mine.”
You stepped closer before you were cut off. “Do you need—”
“No.”
A scoff left you. “You didn’t even know what I was going to offer!”
Peter felt the need to run his hands through his hair to stifle the whirlwind of exasperation you made him feel instantly. “Unless it was ‘a renewed commitment to staying several blocks away from felonies,’ no.”
You shifted your weight. The crowd had thinned behind you. People were still filming from across the street but the immediate danger had passed, and with it came that strange hollow quiet after a loud thing ended. Sirens faded. Glass crackled under people's boots.
You looked up at him with your scarf covering your chin, your gaze narrowing suddenly.
“Do you ever get tired of doing that?”
“Bleeding?”
“Deflecting.” The word landed too cleanly, you saw it in real time.
Peter’s fingers flexed against the railing. The easy answer was right there. A joke about reflective surfaces, maybe. Something stupid and quick that would let him swing away before the conversation took on weight.
Instead, he looked past you toward the pharmacy windows. Fluorescent lights flickered inside. A display of cough drops had toppled near the door, someone would have to sweep all of that up. Someone would have to call insurance. Someone would wake up tomorrow and deal with the ordinary consequences of extraordinary panic.
“Go home,” he repeated, though it was quieter this time.
Your expression changed, not much. Just a pause around the eyes. “You always say that.”
Peter's exasperation came back tenfold. “Because you never do it.”
A face got made instantly at the words. “I do eventually!”
“Eventually is not good enough.”
You hugged your arms around yourself, and the words came out light. “You worried about me?”
“Yes,” he scoffed before he could stop himself.
The answer sat between you, plain and unarmored.
Your mouth parted slightly at the unexpectedness of it.
Peter pulled himself upright too fast, his boots sticking to the fire escape. “I mean—generally. In the way I worry about all civilians who make terrible decisions near blunt objects.”
“Right,” you nodded, but your voice had taken a slight tone that had Peter instantly regretting the words even more.
He pointed toward the subway entrance with intensity. “Home.”
You glanced at his arm again, seeing the material start to soak up the darker redness. “You too.”
Peter let out a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”
He swung away before you could say anything else, before he could do something stupid like ask your name.
You told yourself the chase was harmless because Spider-Man always won.
That was the lie at the center of it.
You knew he got hurt. You had seen him limp. You had watched him press a hand to his side and pause on rooftops when he thought nobody was looking. You had noticed how he changed after harder fights, how the jokes thinned out, and how his head turned sharply at sudden noises.
He wasn't invincible.
But he survived so consistently that survival became part of the spectacle. People cheered before the danger fully ended. Phones came out before the weapons were down. The city trusted him with the unreasonable ease of people who needed someone to trust.
You were worse than most because somewhere along the way, your fascination had stopped being abstract and freeformed.
It was not just the suit, though the suit did something humiliating to your ability to think clearly near him. It was not just the swing of him between buildings, the impossible strength, the quick hands, or the way he landed with a dancer’s balance and a boxer’s readiness.
It was the pauses he had.
The way he crouched beside frightened strangers and made his voice gentler. The way he checked on shop owners after the crowd moved on. The way he sometimes stayed an extra second after saving someone, hand hovering near their shoulder but not actually touching unless they leaned in first. The way he seemed both everywhere and entirely alone.
That was what kept pulling you closer to him.
The app buzzed late on a Friday, when the city had already loosened into nightlife. You were in a corner booth at a diner, poking at fries that had gone soft with vinegar, half-listening to your friend complain about a coworker who microwaved fish in the break room.
Your phone lit up.
Three alerts. Then five. Then too many.
SPIDEY SIGHTING NEAR 42ND. BIG GUY WITH TECH??
STAY AWAY FROM 9TH AVE. EXPLOSION HEARD.
Your friend stopped talking.
“No,” she reached for you immediately when she saw you were already reaching for your jacket.
She grabbed at your sleeve with intent. “Are you serious?”
“It’s close.”
A groan left her from knowing you too well. “That’s the problem.”
“I’ll stay back!”
She didn't seem convinced. “You always say that.”
The echo of his words should have slowed you.
It didn't.
Outside, the air was sharp with exhaust and fried food from a halal cart. You ran until your lungs burned, cutting through clusters of people spilling out of bars, and ignoring the tightness that formed under your ribs. The closer you got, the more the city changed. Laughter thinned. Traffic tangled. People moved in the opposite direction with their heads turned back, faces lit by emergency lights.
Then something slammed into the side of a parked car half a block ahead.
The impact folded the roof inward. Windows burst. People screamed and scattered.
You froze.
For once, your body understood before your obsession did.
Spider-Man hit the pavement hard beside the car, rolled, and barely got a hand under himself before a heavy metal device skidded after him, sparking violently. It looked homemade and expensive at the same time, all black plating and unstable blue light. A man in a reinforced jacket limped into view, one arm fitted with some kind of mechanical brace that whined when he lifted it.
Peter saw you from the ground.
Even through smoke, flashing lights, and the chaos of running bodies, he found you standing beside a newspaper box with your phone in your hand and fear finally catching up to you.
His blood went cold.
“Move!” he shouted with a loud rasp.
You did not.
Not because you refused, but because for one terrible second, you couldn't even tell where to go. People shoved past you. A cab jumped the curb. The device near Spider-Man pulsed brighter, high-pitched and wrong, and the man with the brace swung his arm toward the street.
Peter fired a web at you before he thought about gentleness.
The strand hit your waist and yanked.
Your feet left the ground and the world snapped sideways. Your shoulder clipped something hard, maybe a signpost, maybe somebody’s elbow. You gasped, more startled than hurt, and then you were against him, one of his arms locked around you as he twisted midair and slammed both of you behind the concrete mouth of a subway entrance.
The street exploded white-blue.
Heat washed over your back and the sound swallowed everything.
For a moment there was only his body curved around yours, the texture of his suit under your fingers, the hard rise and fall of his breathing. Dust rained over the steps. Someone was crying nearby, your ears rang so badly the world seemed underwater.
Spider-Man lifted his head first.
“Are you hit?” he demanded with his grip tightening to pull you back enough to look at you.
You stared at him, and apparently it must've been a flatter look than you had tried to express.
“Hey.” His hand came up to the side of your face, not tenderly, not quite. He turned your head enough to check you, fingers firm along your jaw. “Are you hit?”
The world returned to you in pieces and you shook your head enough to move. “I—no. I don’t think so.”
Peter's voice came out strangled before he tried to reign it in. “You don’t think so?”
You emphasized better. “I’m not.”
His white lenses narrowed and the hand at your jaw stayed for half a second longer than necessary, then dropped.
He pushed himself up and looked over the edge of the subway entrance. The man with the brace was running now, injured but still moving. Peter’s shoulders tensed with the need to follow.
Then, he looked back at you.
You were covered in dust. Your phone was certainly gone. There was a scrape along your cheekbone where something had caught you, and your eyes were too wide, your breath coming shallow in a way that finally made you look as scared as you should have been all along.
The anger hit him so hard it almost steadied him.
“Stay here,” he all but demanded
You nodded because it seemed like it was necessary to do so.
He pointed at you, sharper now. As if you weren't truly listening. “No. I need you to hear me. Stay. Here.”
“I heard you.”
“Because if I turn around and you are not exactly where I left you—”
“I’ll stay.”
Peter really didn't believe you.
But someone shouted from the street, and the brace whined again, and it was clear he had to go. He launched himself back into the fight with his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
You stayed.
For three minutes, maybe four, you sat on the subway steps with dust in your mouth and your hands shaking in your lap. You heard the impacts, webs snapping tight, and Spider-Man’s voice cutting through the noise in strained bursts.
“Hey, buddy, quick question—did you build that in a garage, or was there a coupon situation?”
A crash came next.
“No? Cool, cool, just asking because it’s very explode-y for something near civilians.”
Another loud noise of impact.
You pressed your palms together to stop them from trembling.
The fight ended with a sound like metal tearing away from itself, followed by a heavy thud and a chorus of relieved shouting. When Spider-Man came back where he left you, he was limping.
Badly so.
He dropped into the subway entrance hard enough that one hand hit the tiled wall to steady himself. His suit was scorched along one side. Dust clung to the webbing pattern across his chest. One lens had a faint crack through it, thin as a hair.
You stood up too quickly, instincts taking over. “you’re hurt.”
Peter laughed but it was entirely without humor. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The frown came instantly. “I’m serious.”
His answer came too quick. “So am I.”
The space between you seemed smaller than it had before. The city kept roaring above, but down here everything echoed: footsteps, sirens, your breathing, his.
He stepped closer.
“What is wrong with you?”
The words were not shouted. That made them even worse somehow. His voice was rough, scraped thin at the edges, and controlled only because he was forcing it to be.
You swallowed because he seemed actually upset this time, and you figured it wasn't time to poke the bear. “I know—”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know.” The words had your head flicking up in surprise for their intensity. “You keep showing up with your phone and your big eyes and your little comments, and you think because there’s a crowd, because there are cops, because I’m there, that nothing can happen to you.”
Your throat tightened and you opened your mouth but shut it when he pointed up toward the street. “That was not a photo op. That was not a cute story. You almost got turned into collateral damage because you ran toward an explosion.”
“I didn’t know it was going to—”
“That’s the point!” His voice cracked around the words. He stopped, breathed hard, and tried again. “You don’t know. You never know. Hell, I barely know half the time.”
You looked down at his hand because the movements caught your attention. His fingers were flexing open and closed, like he wanted to grab something and couldn't decide whether it should be the railing, his own temper, or you.
“I’m sorry,” you stopped him from going further and he went still.
Maybe it was because you had never said it before. Not really. You had flirted, teased, and smiled your way around his warnings until they became part of the game. But there was no game left in your voice now because there wasn't in his.
“I am,” you continued quieter and immediately hated it because of how exposing it felt. “I know it’s stupid. I know you keep telling me to stop.”
Peter's voice loudened before he could've controlled it. “Then stop!”
You looked up again quickly with widening eyes.
There was dust on his shoulder, a rip near his ribs, and a dark stain spreading slowly through the fabric at his side. He was standing in front of you like he could hold the entire city back by force if he had to, and yet he would not give you one ordinary piece of himself.
Not a name. Not a face. Not the truth behind the voice that kept finding you in crowds.
“I just wanted to know you,” the words came out smaller than you meant them to.
Peter forgot how to breathe.
Not because nobody wanted to know Spider-Man. Everybody wanted that. They wanted the picture, the secret, the headline, the face under the mask. They wanted proof, access, even ownership. They wanted to solve him.
But that was not how you said it.
You said it like you had already noticed the part he worked hardest to hide. The pauses. The pain. The loneliness that leaked through the jokes no matter how quickly he patched over it.
You said it like knowing him didn't mean unmasking his whole identity.
You said it like you had been chasing danger for the stupid, impossible privilege of standing close enough to ask if he was okay.
Peter hated how easily that worked on him.
He hated that after everything, after the blast and the blood and the fear still souring his mouth, some tired part of him wanted to believe you.
“You don’t,” he scoffed, but it was smaller this time.
Your brows drew together immediately at the insinuation. “I don’t what?”
“Want to know me.”
You made a face, and answered just as quickly as he stopped. “I do.”
“No.” He shook his head once, and even the movement had him straining, you could tell by the way he held himself in tension. “You want the guy who swings in at the right second. You want the banter and the upside-down thing and whatever version of me lives in your phone notifications.”
You stepped forward again and forced a huff away when he shot you a pointed look that had you stopping short. “That’s not fair—”
Peter cut you off. “It’s accurate.”
You found your voice again, because you kept letting it be cut off by him. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I know you don’t want the rest.”
You stared at him, anger beginning to push through the shock. Good, Peter thought. Anger was safer than that open, aching look you had given him.
“The rest?” you asked with your brows twitching together in a face that wasn't clear in its expression.
He laughed again, though more bitterly this time. His head kept moving, looking around the emptiness of the place between you too as if that gave him a refuge. “The blood. The missed calls. The lies. The never showing up on time. The disappearing without explaining because if I explain, someone gets hurt. The fact that I know where you live because I’ve followed you home twice to make sure you got there safely, and I hated myself both times.”
The confession landed badly.
You blinked blankly, the movement was fast and clearly unexpected.
Peter realized what he had said half a second too late when your lips parted. “You know where I live?”
“No.” His answer came too quick and that only spurred you on more.
Your lips opened and let out a puff of air. “You just said—”
Peter's hand went up to the back of his neck, immediately cutting you off again. “I said a lot of things. Head injury, probably.”
“You followed me home?”
He looked up to the sky and felt his eyes shut tightly. “Not in a creepy way.”
You threw him a well deserved glance of judgement. “That is exactly what someone says when it is a creepy way.”
“I was making sure you were safe.”
Your expression shifted. The fear had not left you completely, but something warmer and more reckless, moved beneath it. You took one careful step closer.
“You know where I live,” you repeated, breathless now, almost vindicated by the confession.
Peter pointed at you again, but there was less force behind it. His jaw strained again just from listening to you throw his words back at him. “Do not make that sound romantic.”
You kept going, your voice turning more observational by each passing second, but not losing its tone. “You noticed me that much.”
“I notice threats.”
“You think I’m a threat?”
His answer came swift. “To yourself? Constantly.”
“To you?” He didn't answer fast enough.
Your gaze moved over him, slower now that the immediate danger had passed. He felt it through the suit in a way he should not have. The cracked lens, the torn fabric, the blood near his ribs, even the tense line of his shoulders. He knew what he looked like after a fight. He knew people saw the damage and either flinched from it or turned it into a bigger moment.
You looked at him like the damage made him harder to ignore, not less.
“Let me help,” you softened again because it was hard not to when looking at him.
The response came expected, but still unwelcome. “No.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
You let out an exasperated groan, one hand coming up to knead through your hair and the other stretching it towards him. “Then let me do something.”
“You can do something.” Peter willed his voice to be sharpened again. “You can stop chasing me.”
Your jaw tightened and a scoff escaped you. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”
“It should be.”
“Well, it’s not.” The honesty of it hung there, inconvenient and too human.
Above you, officers shouted to each other. The subway tiles gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, grime caught in the grout, and had old posters peeling at the corners. Peter could smell smoke, rain, metal, and the faint sweetness of your perfume beneath the dust.
He should have left.
He should have just webbed up to the street, given one last warning, and removed himself from whatever this was before it became another thing he could ruin.
Instead, the only thing that came out was, “You’re impossible.”
You let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “So you’ve mentioned.”
“I’m not joking.”
You finally quieted down when he did, the air felt still. “I know.”
“Do you?”
Not entirely, but you just nodded. “Yes.”
He stepped closer this time.
You had to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Up close, he was all controlled tension, every line of him caught between staying and going. The white lenses hid his eyes, but they didn't hide the way his attention dropped briefly to your mouth and snapped back up.
Your pulse jumped and you figured Peter saw that too.
“Don’t,” he rasped out quickly after you opened your mouth again, but the word had no clear target. Maybe it was to you, or maybe to himself.
You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to move away. And when he didn't, your fingertips touched the center of his chest, light enough that it should not have mattered.
It mattered.
The suit was warm from his body, textured beneath your fingertips, and damp in places from rain and sweat. His chest rose sharply at the contact.
“You’re really here,” you let slip out with your voice barely above a whisper.
His laugh was low and strained. You had a feeling his expression mirrored that. “That explosion did a number on you.”
Your voice hadn't lost its lightness, but you paused for a moment. “I’m serious.”
Peter let out a wry exhale to himself. “That’s what worries me.”
Your fingers drifted, not very far, just over the red fabric where dust had settled into the raised black lines. He caught your wrist before you reached the torn place near his side. His grip was firm, but not painful though.
It was a warning with a pulse.
“Careful,” he murmured and the word ran through you in a way it should not have, roughened by exhaustion and the edge of pain.
You looked at his hand around your wrist. It felt tingly for all the right reasons. “You always sound like that when you’re mad?”
His fingers flexed slightly against you.“No.”
“When you’re hurt?”
Peter attempted repetition for it to stick. “No.”
You decided to push more. “And when you’re trying not to be?”
He went quiet.
That was answer enough for you.
You should've apologized again. You should've stepped back, let him have the distance he kept asking for, promised to delete the apps and mean it. Some responsible part of you knew that. And some part of you was still sitting on the subway steps with shaking hands, understanding far too late that your fantasy had edges sharp enough to cut.
But he was still holding your wrist.
And, he hadn't let go.
“Tell me to leave,” you all but challenged him and Peter didn't bother containing the groan that left him.
“I did.”
“Tell me again.”
Peter’s grip tightened for half a second. You felt his fingers twitch against the inner area of your wrist.
Under the mask, his jaw shifted. You could see the shape of it where the fabric clung to him, could see the movement of his throat when he swallowed. He was close enough now that you heard the faint hitch in his breathing, and betraying close enough that the city above felt less real than the narrow pocket of space between your bodies.
“You need to leave,” he said instead, but still, he didn't move away.
Neither did you.
The misunderstanding was almost laughable, except neither of you laughed or probably could've. His words said one thing. His hand said another. His body, angled toward yours despite every reason not to be, said something else entirely.
You reached up with your free hand.
This time, you touched his jaw.
Not skin, not yet at least. Just the mask, the red fabric pulled taut over the hard line of him. His whole body went still, frighteningly still, like even breathing had become a choice.
“Don’t take it off,” he commanded and the intensity of him sent prickles up your spine.
Your fingers settled where his jawline rested, and your head tipped back slightly when your eyes fluttered shut.“I wasn’t going to.”
Peter tilted his head slightly at you from the proximity, his face did a funny thing that mixed genuinity with suspicion. “No?”
“No.”
That seemed to undo something in him more than if you had begged for his face.
You did not want the reveal, not right now. Not in this way, in a dirty subway entrance with sirens overhead and blood drying beneath his suit. You wanted what he was willing to give. The covered jaw beneath your palm. The breath he was trying to control. The impossible nearness of him.
Peter let go of your wrist only to catch your waist.
The motion was sudden enough that you inhaled sharply. He turned you, backing you against the tiled wall beside an old transit map, his hand braced near your shoulder before your spine met cold ceramic. He left you space to pull away. Barely, but still enough that the choice remained yours and his restraint remained visible in the strain of his posture.
“Tell me no,” he exhaled and you had to tear your eyes away from where the material of his suit strained against his shoulders.
Your voice came out unsteady. “No to what?”
“To this.”
You looked at him then almost incredulous, at the cracked lens, the scorched suit, and the careful violence of how still he held himself.
“I’m not saying no.”
Peter's head dipped on bodily instinct the second his ears registered the words.
He stopped an inch from you.
The pause was unbearable. Awkward in the way real wanting often was, full of breath and doubt and the tiny adjustments of two people realizing they had crossed a line before either had agreed where it was. Your hand slid from his jaw to the edge of his mask.
Peter caught your fingers again.
“Mask stays on,” he murmured with warning.
Your voice came breathless in its agreement. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He searched your face for something. A trick, maybe. Regret. Fear. A demand he could refuse so he could return to familiar ground. You gave him none of those things. You were breathing too fast, still dust-streaked, but your gaze held steady in truth.
Peter reached up and tugged the mask just high enough to bare his mouth and jaw.
Only that.
The reveal was smaller than you had imagined and somehow more intimate for it. A cut marked his lower lip. His jaw was tense, faintly shadowed, skin flushed from exertion. He looked painfully real in pieces.
You didn't reach for more despite your inner voice.
His mouth found yours before you could say anything.
The kiss was not gentle at first. It was too full of everything that had nowhere else to go: anger, fear, adrenaline, the weeks of him telling you to run and you refusing, the awful second when he had seen you frozen in the path of the blast. Peter kissed you like he was still furious with you for almost dying. Like he was furious with himself for caring. Like the only way to stop the argument was to take it apart with his mouth.
You made a small sound against him when he nipped at you with the sharpened corners of his teeth, and he pulled back immediately. “Too much?”
You shook your head, fingers curling into the front of his suit. Your eyes were blown wide by the chain of actions and the unmistakable grip of him on you. “No.”
“You sure?”
You nodded again, almost embarrassingly eager and his breath left him unevenly. “You are so bad at self-preservation.”
“You keep saving me.”
Peter pulled away despite his best efforts to stand still, and felt that familiar pathetic exasperation creeping back in. “That is not a plan.”
Your lips pulled into a lazy grin as you tried to chase the space he made away. “It’s worked for me so far.”
He gave you a look, or he tried to. With the mask half-up and the lenses still covering his eyes, the effect should have been ridiculous. It wasn't because his mouth was still too close for your to.focus on anything else. His hand at your waist was too warm and his voice had dropped into something lower, rougher, stained by the night.
“You’re so not funny,” Peter shut his eyes behind the mask and looked back to the sky as if that would prove his point more heavily.
You disagreed with that. “I made you pause.”
His scoff came absentminded, and so did his words. “You make me do a lot of stupid things.”
You smiled despite the tremor still living under your skin, and Peter was already weary of that smile even more now. The path you fingers trailed up on his abdomen was careful, as if trying to coax a street cat into staying longer. “Like what?”
He answered by kissing you again.
This time, it built slower. Still hungry and edged with frustration, but less like impact and more like surrender dragged unwillingly into the open. His gloved hand slid along your waist, then stopped, fingerpads flexing once as if he had to remind himself of the shape of restraint. Your hands moved over his chest, careful around the torn places, less careful when he made a quiet sound into your mouth and pressed closer.
The tile was cold through the back of your jacket. His body was warm everywhere he touched you. Smoke clung to him and rainwater dripped from the ends of your hair. New York kept shouting above, honking, and demanding. Down here, your world shrank to the scrape of his breath, the brush of his bare jaw against your cheek, the strange intimacy of being kissed by a man who still wouldn't even let you see his eyes.
When he pulled back, his forehead almost touched yours. The mask’s fabric brushed your brow.
“You have to stop chasing me,” Peter found the words finally after catching his breathe.
The words were softer now, which made them harder to deflect. You looked down at your fingers that were still hooked in his suit, holding on like he might disappear if you didn’t. “I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I get it.”
“You could’ve died tonight.”
You sighed with your head tipping back against the solid frame behind you. “I said I get it.”
Peter exhaled through his nose, frustrated by your agreement because it left him nowhere to put the rest of his fear. His thumb moved once against your waist before he seemed to realize he was doing it.
“You can’t know me by getting yourself killed,” he said and you looked back up at him.
There it was again. Not the superhero or the symbol, just the simple person beneath the suit, saying the closest thing to please that he would allow himself.
“Then let me know you another way,” you let out quickly and instantly regretted it when you saw his mouth tighten alongside his jaw.
For a second, you thought he would step back. Pull the mask back down. Make a joke mean enough to end the moment. It would have been easier for him, maybe even kinder in the long run.
Instead, he lowered his head until his mouth brushed the corner of yours.
“You don’t even know what you’re asking,” Peter murmured and found himself crazy for even leaning back in.
You closed your eyes for half a breath. “Then tell me.”
His silence moved over you slowly.
He didn't tell you his name or give you any truth clean enough to hold. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe that kind of trust did not arrive all at once in a stairwell after sirens and smoke.
But his hand left the wall and settled against your cheek, careful of the blooming scrape there. His thumb hovered near the bruise without touching it. The tenderness of that restraint did something to you more than the roughness had.
“I’m not good at this,” Peter finally spoke up once more when he realized you were waiting.
Your reply came back softer. “At what?”
“Letting people stand this close.”
Your fingers loosened against his chest and a stupidly placed smile grew on your lips. “Yeah, I can tell.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound was tired and real against your ear drums. “That obvious?”
You gave a merciful nod. “A little.”
“Great.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s really not.”
You smiled faintly because you knew what he meant. “No. Probably not.”
That earned you another silence, but this one was different. It was less defensive. He stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.
“I’ll take you home,” Peter inhaled once, quickly and reminding.
A lighter breath left you alongside the silent, almost wondrous laugh that bubbled from your throat. “You know where that is.”
He groaned and did that thing where his jaw tensed and head tilted back in resignation. “Please never say that with that tone again.”
“What tone?”
“The tone that says you’re about to make my severe boundary issues into some sort of a compliment.”
You bit your lip, mostly to stop the small smile that grew because there was no telling if he wouldn't run off just yet. “You have severe boundary issues?”
Peter fought and lost the urge to throw you a disbelieving glance. “I wear spandex and fight strangers on rooftops. What do you think?”
“I think you’re avoiding.”
“I think you’re concussed.”
“You asked if I was hit.”
His words came back mumbled. “And I’m revising my assessment.”
You laughed then, breathless and completely unsteady, and some of the tightness in his shoulders eased.
He looked at your mouth again.
You noticed.
This time, Peter didn't pretend he hadn't.
The kiss that followed was quieter than before, but it carried more danger because it felt less accidental. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, feeling the strength there and the tremor of fatigue beneath it. He leaned into you for one brief second like he needed the support, then seemed to hate that he needed it and kissed you harder.
You gave back as much as he took.
That surprised him. You felt it in the way his breath caught, the way his fingers tightened at your waist, the way his mouth paused against yours before continuing with darker intent. He was careful with his strength, but not soft. He let some of the frustration show in the press of his body, in the angle of your chin guided by his gloved hand, and in the low sound he made when your fingertips traced the edge where his mask had been pushed up.
“Careful,” he said again.
This time, you understood he was not only warning you about him. You were both quiet for a moment. Then you decided to break the silence, “I don’t need to be another person with a video of you.”
His hand stilled on impact of your words.
“I don’t want proof,” you continued bevause it felt necessary. “I don’t want your face because I won some game. I just…” You searched for the right words and found none that didn't sound too exposing. You tried again. “I wanted you to feel real. And then you did. And I didn’t know how to stop wanting more.”
Peter listened without interrupting.
That felt worse to him somehow. It was easier when he was joking. Safer when he was pushing back. But he only stood there with the mask covering most of him and his bare mouth pressed into a line, taking in what you said like it had cost him something too.
Finally, he cursed faintly and tried to circle back, “You can’t use danger to get close to me.”
“I won’t.”
His voice came low and questioning. “You mean that?”
You nodded with more energy than you'd expected. “I mean it.”
He studied you for another long second. Then, he leaned in, not quite kissing you yet, and said, “If I see you at another active crime scene—”
You cut him off with that all too familiar pleased look. “You’ll lecture me?”
Peter scoffed at your sheer ability to get on his nerves all over again. “I’ll web you to the nearest bus stop.”
“That seems really excessive.”
“Yeah? I’ll leave a note too.”
You tilted your head, the movement making his own tip into yours. “What would it say?”
“Please return reckless civilian to sender.”
You smiled against his mouth before he kissed you again, and this time there was something almost relieved in it. It was still heated and messy. Still far too much for a subway stairwell while police lights strobed faintly above. But beneath the hunger, there was a fragile shift, a thread pulled taut between warning and permission.
Peter did take you home.
Not immediately, though.
The route blurred into faint fragments: his firm grasp around your waist, the startling lift of your feet leaving the ground, and your face tucked against his shoulder because the height stole the breath from you. Wind tore tears from your eyes and the city flashed beneath you in streaks of light and shadow, rooftops silvered by old rain, and apartment windows glowed with lives that had nothing to do with yours.
Peter moved differently while carrying you.
Less flashy and more controlled. He avoided the busiest streets and landed twice to check his side, though he insisted he was fine both times in a tone that made the lie obvious.
By the time he reached your building, your nerves stopped feeding into the adrenaline.
Mostly.
He landed on the fire escape outside your apartment window with a soft metallic creak. You stared at him, then at the window, then back at him.
A laugh escaped you before you could control it. “You really do know where I live.”
Peter scrubbed a palm at his temple. “I am begging you to focus on the part where I brought you here safely.”
Your brows twitched together slightly. “You brought me to my window.”
“It seemed less awkward than the lobby.”
The question came with instinct now. “You’ve thought about this?”
“No.” A pause. Peter cursed when he met your diluted pupils. “Not in a way I’m discussing.”
You laughed softly, and he looked away toward the alley like the brick wall had suddenly become intently more fascinating.
The window stuck, as usual. You had to shove it twice before it groaned open. The ordinary annoyance of it grounded you so abruptly that you almost felt embarrassed. Your room waited beyond the sill, cluttered and warm, a sweater thrown over a chair, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, even shoes abandoned near the closet.
Evidence of a life Spider-Man had no business knowing and yet somehow did.
You climbed in first, turning back when he remained crouched on the fire escape.
“You’re not coming in?”
Peter looked at the window frame, then at you with clear weariness. “That is a bad idea.”
You pointed it the obvious. “You’ve had a lot of those tonight.”
“You were most of them.”
“Still.”
His mouth twitched up before he willed it away. The mask was still pushed up just enough to show it.
You reached out before you could overthink it, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. Peter could have resisted without any real effort on his part. But instead, he let you draw him closer to the window.
“Just for a minute,” your lull came strong.
Peter knew that was how bad ideas survived. They dressed themselves as small things. One minute. One kiss. One exception. One person who looked at him and didn't ask for the mask.
He really should have said no.
But your room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and whatever candle you had burned earlier. Your cheek was scraped because of him and not because of him. Your fingers were warm around his wrist. The city had spent the whole night taking pieces out of him, and here you were, offering one quiet moment where he didn't have to be a symbol or a headline or a blur in someone else’s footage.
Peter climbed through the window before reason could take hold of him.
The room felt too small with him in it.
Not because he was larger, though he seemed broader here than he did against the skyline. It was the impossibility of him among ordinary things. Spider-Man standing beside your desk. Spider-Man ducking slightly to avoid the curtain rod. Spider-Man glancing at a stack of books and a mug with chipped paint as if he had crossed into a place more dangerous than the street outside.
“You’re nervous,” you couldn't help but gape at the clear display of nerves bundled in red and blue.
“I’m injured.”
You made a face and tilted your head with an all too pleased expression. “That’s not what I said.”
Peter scoffed with little humor. “It’s what I’m choosing to answer.”
You stepped closer.
He watched you do it.
The air changed again, slower than before. There were no sirens here. No crowds. No urgent reason to pretend this was only adrenaline. Your radiator hissed, a car passed below in the street, and somewhere in the building, a neighbor’s TV murmured through the wall.
Your hand rose to his chest, then paused.
“Is this okay?” you asked hesitantly, more hesitant than you'd have imagined.
Peter looked at you for a long moment, then he covered your hand with his.
“Yeah,” he cleared at his throat, rough and quiet. “It’s okay.”
The kiss in your room felt different from the ones taken in the subway, less stolen from disaster and more chosen in spite of it. Peter backed you toward the edge of your bed, stopping when your knees touched the mattress, giving you that narrow sliver of space again. You took it away yourself, pulling him closer by the front of his suit.
A low sound left him.
“Still terrible at self-preservation,” he muttered when your hand reached for anything that could be used to pull him in closer.
Your hand landed on the back of his neck, with your thumb pressing into his collar to bring him in nearer. “You like it a little.”
The refusal came expected once again. “I absolutely do not.”
Peter kissed you before you could smile any wider.
His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, careful but firm, angling you up to meet him. The mask stayed where it was, bunched above his mouth and tight over his nose, his eyes still hidden behind white lenses that made every exposed inch feel more deliberate. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the cut on his lip lightly enough that he went still.
“That hurt?” you whispered against him.
“No.”
A laugh escaped you, all quiet and breathless. “You liar.”
“Maybe.”
Your thumb brushed his jaw and he turned his face into the touch despite himself, and the motion was so tired, so unguarded for one brief second, that your chest ached.
Then his hand caught your waist again, and the softness sharpened into heat.
He kissed you deeper quickly after that. Your back met the mattress, and he followed only as far as you pulled him, bracing one hand beside your shoulder so his weight didn't crush you. The suit rasped beneath your palms. His breath came unevenly against your mouth. Every time you touched too close to an injury, he flinched and pretended he had not, which made you slow down until he grew impatient and kissed you harder for it.
“You’re impossible,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation.
“You keep kissing me.”
His mouth hovered above yours.
For a moment, neither of you moved after that.
The truth of that sat in the dim light between you. He had come back. Again and again. To warn you, to argue, to make sure you got home.
Peter lowered his head until his covered forehead rested near your temple.
“You can’t chase me anymore,” he said it softer this time, catching your attention more than any other shout could.
Your tongue slid over your teeth and finally exhaled when his silence felt defeating. “I won’t.”
Peter pushed. “You swear?”
“I swear.”
“And if you see me on that app—”
You turned your head up to point a finger up at him to answer. “I’ll close it.”
He lifted his head slightly, giving you a such a pointed grasp of his silence that you could only sigh. “I’ll delete it.”
“Now.”
You blinked, his request caught you off guard. “Now?”
“Yes.”
Your tongue looked at the inside of your cheek now, clearly trying to stall under the weight of his stare. “You’re very demanding for a man bleeding on my comforter.”
Peter didn't take the bait just yet. “I’ll bleed less judgmentally after you delete it.”
You stared at him in confliction, and despite everything, you laughed.
He climbed off you enough to let you reach for your phone with begrudging fingers. The screen was cracked from where it must have hit the pavement, but it still worked. You opened the app under his silent, watchful stare. For a second, your thumb hovered over the icon of the app.
It felt strange to let it go.
Not because you needed the app itself, but because deleting it meant admitting that what you wanted from him could no longer be taken by chasing red dots across a map. If he came back after this, it had to be because he chose to.
You deleted it.
Then the second one.
Then the third.
Peter said nothing while you did so.
When you set the phone down, he was looking at you with an unreadable stillness that made your pulse climb again.
“There,” you let an exhale of breath out and narrowed your eyes at him with no real spite. “Happy?”
“No.”
You rolled your eyes at that. “Of course not.”
“I’m…” Peter stopped, like the word he wanted to find was difficult to translate through the mask. His bare mouth pressed together, then softened. “Slightly less actively horrified.”
Despite your better judgment, you let your grin form again. “That’s romantic.”
“I’m known for that.”
You reached for him again and this time, he came willingly.
The kiss deepened slower, then became not slow at all. His restraint was still there, visible in every careful placement of his hands, but the darkness you had sensed in him edged closer to the surface. It was something more conflicted than plain cruelty or defensiveness. It was hunger tangled with fear.
He held you like he was still deciding whether he was sure he could and you kissed him like the decision had already been made. And for you, it had.
Peter's mouth crashed back into yours with a low sound that vibrated through the mask and straight into your chest. The second your lips parted he pushed his tongue in, deep and wet, tasting every inch like he was starving for it. Your back sank deeper into the mattress under his weight, the mattress springs creaking as he braced one hand beside your head and let the other slide down your side.
His suit scraped against your palms when you grabbed at him again, your fingers curled into the textured fabric over his ribs. You tugged hard, trying to work it up, but the material barely budged. Peter made a rough noise into your mouth and suddenly caught both your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.
"Nuh-uh," he muttered against your lips, his voice low and amused. "You don't get to strip me just because you're feeling greedy."
“That can't be fair.” You scoffed and tried to twist free, your hips rolled up to grind against the hard line of his cock through the suit. The pressure dragged a hiss out of him. He pressed his hips down in answer, grinding slow and deliberate to let you feel every inch of him trapped behind the fabric. The suit was warm from his body heat, slightly rough where it rubbed your inner thighs.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathed out with forehead pressed to yours. "Already trying to climb me like you can't wait five seconds."
“You're hard, isn't that contradicting?” You bucked harder, chasing friction and he smacked your hands away again, this time letting them fall to the sides so he could shove his knee between your legs and grind it up against you through your clothes. The pressure was perfect and not nearly enough.
You gasped into another kiss and Peter swallowed the sound, and had his tongue sliding deep again while his hips kept that slow and punishing roll.
Every time your fingers crept back toward the edge of his suit he caught them, smacked them away, or pinned them down. The teasing only made you even more worked up. You could feel how pent-up he was in the way his breathing stuttered every time you ground up against him. It was in the little involuntary jerks of his hips when you would moan into his kisses.
"Fuck," you whispered with your voice shakier than you'd meant it. "Please—"
"Please what?" He dragged his mouth down your jaw and had his teeth scraping against your skin. "Please let you rip my suit off so you can ride me? Not happening. You get what I give you."
Peter rocked his hips harder, grinding the thick line of his cock right against your clit through the layers between you. Your back arched and he caught the movement and pressed you flat again with his body, one hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you squirmed.
"You're so fucking eager," he groaned and his voice cracked with how turned on he was. "Been driving me crazy for months and now you're just—fuck—spreading your legs the second I touch you. You like this? Like me holding you down, keeping the suit on, making you work for it?"
You nodded frantically and had your hips jerking up to meet every grind in tandem. Peter kissed you again, deeper and messier this time, the mask brushed against your cheek every time he tilted his head too high. His free hand slid down to grip your thigh with his fingers digging hard as he rocked faster, keeping the friction building until you were panting into his mouth and clutching at his shoulders.
"That's it," he whispered against your lips, though it was followed by a chuckle that had your stomach tightening. "Be a good girl and take it. Show me how bad you want it. Maybe if you keep being this eager for me I'll let you come like this, grinding on my cock through the suit. Maybe."
He kissed you again before you could answer, he tried to swallow every desperate sound you made while his hips kept that relentless rhythm that had you completely at his mercy.
“You're annoyingly mouthy.” A weak scoff escaped you and your fingers found the hem of your shirt. You peeled it upward in one impatient motion, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed. The cool air hit your skin just before his palm did, landing firm and flat against your ribs.
"Slow down," Peter muttered, the words half-laugh, half-warning. His hand slid lower, smacking lightly at your hip. "Lift."
You lifted up obediently, hips rising off the mattress. He hooked his fingers into your waistband and dragged the fabric down your thighs in one slow, deliberate pull, leaving your panties exactly where they were. The cotton clung to you, already damp, and Peter made a low sound when he saw it.
"Look at that," he inhaled with his voice tight. "Soaking through already."
"Maybe stop teasing me then," you shot back, breath hitching when he pressed his palm flat against your sternum and shoved you back down flat. The mattress dipped under your weight. His hand stayed there, pinning you in place while his other hand worked the last of your bottoms off your ankles.
"You're the one who can't keep still," he only answered, reaching for the pillow beside your head. He shoved it over your face without ceremony, muffling your next protest. "Keep that there. If it comes off, I'm gone. You won't see me again. Understand?"
You nodded hard against the pillow, fingers clutching the fabric on either side of your head. The threat landed somewhere between fear and heat, making your thighs press together. Peter watched the movement, then pushed them apart with his knee again.
"Good girl," he repeated quieter now. His hand left your sternum. You heard the faint rustle of fabric shifting, then felt the mattress dip as he settled lower between your spread legs.
The first press of his mouth landed through the thin cotton of your panties. Hot, open, and unhurried. He licked a slow stripe from bottom to top, pressing the fabric against your clit until it was plastered to you. The wet heat of his tongue dragged again, firmer this time, soaking the material until it clung obscenely. You moaned into the pillow, hips twitching up toward his face.
Peter cursed under his breath, the sound was rough and conflicted. His tongue flattened and dragged again, then curled, tracing the shape of your folds through the soaked fabric like he was trying to memorize it. Every pass made the cotton wetter, until you could feel every ridge of his tongue pressing through. Peter sucked at the fabric, pulling it tight against you, then released it with a wet sound that made your face burn.
"Fuck," he hissed, pulling back just enough to hook two fingers into the side of your panties. He tugged them aside, exposing you to the cool air for half a second before his tongue was back. This time there was nothing between you. The flat of his tongue dragged up through your folds in one long, messy stroke, then curled at the tip to flick over your clit. He did it again, slower with his lips sealing around you while his tongue worked in deep, filthy strokes.
“Fuck, woah—don't, don't do that!” Peter breathed out a chuckle when he felt you shake under him, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. Your grip on the pillow tightened until your knuckles ached. Every time his tongue curled just right you whined into the fabric, hips rolling up to chase the pressure. Peter didn't let you have it easy. He pulled back when you got too close, licked around your clit instead of on it, then dove back in with that same hungry rhythm.
The mask came off.
You felt the shift in pressure first, the way his hand shoved the pillow harder against your face as he used the other to yank the fabric up and over his head. The sudden absence of the mask's texture against your inner thigh made you gasp into the pillow. Your body went loose for a second, boneless, before instinct kicked in.
One hand stayed obedient on the pillow. The other reached out blindly, fingers searching for his shoulder, his hair, anything. You barely brushed skin before his hand snapped around your wrist, grip tight enough to make you still.
"No," Peter stopped, and had his voice raw and mean. "You don't get to touch. Keep that hand on the pillow or I stop."
“Fine, whatever. Just, fuck—don't stop.” You nodded frantically, pulling your hand back to clutch the fabric again. Your whole body trembled as he lowered his mouth once more, tongue dragging through you in those same messy, desperate movements. Peter groaned against you like he hated how much he wanted it, the sound vibrated straight through your core.
Your moans came out muffled and broken now. Every time his tongue curled just right your hips jerked, and every time he pulled back you whined like you were begging without words. He kept you right there, shaking and soaked until your thighs were quivering and your grip on the pillow was the only thing keeping you from reaching for him again.
“Holy shit, I'm so close—” Your fingers dug into the pillow, flexing and twitching as you tried to form words, but every attempt dissolved into broken moans that the fabric swallowed whole. Your hips rolled up against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and the tension coiled so tight in your belly that when it snapped it hit like a live wire.
You came hard, thighs clamping around his head as your whole body jerked. The orgasm tore through you without warning, soaking his face in a sudden rush that hit his cheeks and chin, dripping down his jaw. Peter groaned against you, his tongue still working through the mess, and his lips parting to lick at the slick coating his mouth.
Every flick of his tongue sent another twitch through your over-sensitive folds, and he gave your clit a few light, wet smacks with his fingers, watching the way your hips jumped at each one and the slick connecting at his fingertips before breaking apart in stands.
The sound of fabric shifting reached you through the haze. His suit peeled away in sections, the material sliding over skin until you felt the sudden press of bare warmth against your inner thighs. His chest, his stomach, the hard line of his cock brushing your slick folds. You reached again, one hand lifting off the pillow in desperate need to touch, and he caught your wrist with a low, raspy laugh.
"Fuck, you're shaking," Peter breathed out with his voice turning rougher by the second. He brought your palm to his mouth and kissed it, lips dragging over your skin before he let your hand slide down his side. Your fingers traced the hard muscle of his abdomen, feeling the heat of him, the faint tremor in his body as he held himself back. He let you explore for a few seconds longer, then shoved your hand back to the pillow and pressed down harder on the fabric covering your face.
"Keep it there," Peter warned, though the edge in his voice wavered. "Didn't I tell you that already?"
“Shit, sorry—” The apology came mindless, distracted by the frantic muffled agreement vibrating against the pillow. He shifted between your legs, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your soaked slit in one slow, teasing pass.
The contact made him hiss through his teeth, and had hips jerking forward like the restraint was finally cracking. He pushed in deep on the next stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one rough thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.
The pace turned brutal fast. Deep, heavy strokes rocked you up the mattress, each one forcing a broken sound out of you that the pillow barely contained. He watched the way your body jolted with every thrust, the way your tits bounced, the way your thighs trembled around his hips. Peter's hand stayed firm on the pillow, keeping you blind and muffled while he fucked into you like he'd been starving for it.
"God, listen to you," he murmured with a humorless chuckle. "So fucking wet. You like this? Being held down, can't even see me, can't touch?" He drove in harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. "Been holding back too long. Lonely too long, God I'm going insane. Fuck—"
Your hands went slack against the pillow, fingers twitching uselessly as the intensity built again. He noticed the moment your grip loosened and pressed the pillow down harder, the fabric smothering every whimper. The control should have felt demeaning, but it only made the heat spike hotter, making you clench around him like your body was begging for more even as your mind spun from the overwhelming sensation.
Peter kept the rhythm punishing, having hips snapping forward with a desperation that matched the conflict in his voice. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge again, and every time you tried to reach for him his free hand caught your wrist and pinned it back down. The threat hung between you, unspoken but heavy: touch him and he'd stop. Don't touch and he'd keep going until you couldn't think straight.
Your moans turned frantic, muffled and wet against the pillow and he answered with a low groan that vibrated through his chest as he drove into you again, chasing the feeling without letting himself finish just yet.
He finally pulled out with a wet drag that left you clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making your hips twitch back toward him. And before you could even form a protest his hands were on you, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks as he flipped you onto your stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight when he pressed your knees apart and yanked your hips up, forcing your hips into the air while your face stayed buried in the pillow.
"Fuck, look at you," Peter exhaled, and his voice cracked between a laugh and something unintentionally darker. "So eager. You want it this bad?"
You tried to push up on your elbows, twisting to look back at him, but one of his hands slid up your spine and pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you back down. The other hand gathered at the base of your neck, tugging just enough to arch your neck as he leaned over.
"Can't fault you. I'm not doing much better," his voice hit your ear though the words came out shaky. His cock dragged through your folds again, the head catching on your entrance before he sank back in with one rough thrust that stuttered the air away from your lungs. The angle was deeper like this, hitting something that made your thighs shake. "God, you're tight. Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave."
His hips snapped forward in a punishing rhythm, skin slapping wetly against skin while his free hand roamed under your body to grab at your tits, squeezing hard before sliding lower to rub tight circles over your clit. Every thrust rocked you forward, your muffled moans vibrating into the bedspread as he fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside.
"This is so fucked," Peter breathed out against your spine with his lips dragging hot and open-mouthed down the curve of your back. He kissed each vertebra like he was apologizing for how hard he was pounding into you, even as his cock kept driving deep enough to make your vision blur. "I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be doing this. But fuck, you feel too good. Can't stop."
You managed to prop yourself up on your elbows again, and your voice was hoarse when you gasped out, "Then don't stop. Please, keep going—"
His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back as he slammed into you harder, the pace turning almost frantic. "Don't say it like that," Peter groaned to himself, conflicted and desperate all at once. "Makes me want to stay. Makes me want to ruin you."
The hand under you kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles while his cock pistoned in and out, the wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room. Every time you tried to push back against him he shoved you forward again, controlling the angle, the depth, the pace. His breath came in ragged pants against your skin with his lips still trailing kisses down your exposed skin even as his thrusts grew rougher and more desperate.
"Been too long," Peter admitted between thrusts, and he could hear his voice turn thick with frustration. "Lonely too long. And you—fuck—you're so wet. So fucking perfect. I can't—"
His words cut off into a broken moan as you clenched around him. Your body responded to every rough stroke with another rush of slickness. He pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, having his hips stuttering for a moment before he caught himself and started at you even harder, like he was trying to outrun whatever guilt was eating at him.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped, even as his hand in your hair pulled tighter and he drove in deeper. "Tell me this is wrong. Because I can't make myself leave."
“Told you, don't stop—” the words hung there frantically in their plea, and you pushed back against him, meeting every thrust with a desperate roll of your hips. The sound he made was half-laugh, half-groan. "Yeah," Peter breathed against your shoulder. "That's what I thought.”
His fist tightened in your hair again, yanking your face up from the pillow until your neck arched and your spine bowed. The sudden pull made your vision swim, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut, forcing yourself to obey even as every instinct screamed to look back at him.
"Good girl," he rasped against the shell of your ear and his voice shredded. "Keep those eyes closed. You feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am?"
You nodded frantically, a broken whimper escaping as he dragged out slow and deliberate before slamming back in. The angle had you seeing stars, each thrust punching the air from your lungs in sharp little gasps.
"Fuck—I'm—"
"Don't look," Peter tried to warn again, but his voice cracked on the words. His lips found the back of your neck, having his teeth scraping before he sucked hard enough to bruise. The wet pull of his mouth made your clench around him, and the groan that tore from his chest vibrated straight through your spine. "Christ, you're squeezing me so tight. Like you want me to lose it."
You tried to be good. Really tried. But when his teeth sank into the side of your throat, just below your ear, your hand twisted back on instinct. Your fingers found his hair, soft, sweat-damp curls that brushed against your knuckles, and you buried your hand in them, tugging him closer even as your eyes fluttered open for half a second.
"Fuck, I knew it," Peter breathed, catching your wrist and pinning it to the small of your back. His pace never faltered like his voice, hips continuing to snap forward in that relentless rhythm that had your thighs shaking. "Told you not to touch. Told you to be good. But you can't help yourself, can you?"
"I'm sorry," you gasped and your voice was hoarse, you shook your head at nothing as you continued. "I won't look, I swear! Just—please don't stop. Please, I need—"
His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades again, his exhales came breathless and ragged against your skin. "I shouldn't have taken the mask off. This is so fucking stupid. You could—god, you feel too good. Been too long since anyone—fuck—"
The words dissolved into a guttural curse as you clenched around him again, your second orgasm building fast and sharp in the pit of your stomach. Every thrust dragged across that perfect spot inside you, and the lack of allowance from him made it worse. It made every touch electric. You could feel his cock throbbing, feel the way his rhythm stuttered when you squeezed him, and feel the desperate way his free hand grabbed at your hip hard enough to bruise.
"You're close," Peter groaned into your ear, and he sounded completely wrecked now. "I can feel it. Fuck, you're dripping everywhere. Making such a mess."
Your eyes rolled back despite yourself, and a broken moan tore from your throat as he bit down on your shoulder. The sensation of his teeth marking you while he relentlessly pounded into you pushed you right to the edge. Your hand twisted in his hair again, fingers tightening in frenzied motion and this time he didn't stop you.
"That's it," Peter panted and cursed wordlessly when his hips stuttered at the feeling. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Been so fucking lonely, and you—god, you're just fucking insane—"
His words cut off into a choked groan as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt pulsing around him in rhythmic waves. Your whole body seized; your thighs shook violently as you came with a broken cry, and the feeling of you clenching around him dragged a wrecked sound from Peter's chest.
"Fuck—fuck—fuck—" His hips jerked erratically, his pace faltering as he fought to hold back. "You're gonna make me come. God, I can feel every fucking pulse. Don't—don't look back, fuck."
Peter buried his face in your neck, sucking another bruise into your skin while his cock throbbed inside you. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping your face turned away even as his body trembled against yours, every muscle tight with the effort of holding back his own release.
"You're too good," he whispered against your ear, all hoarse and desperate. "Too fucking perfect. I can't—"
His hips snapped forward one more time in a loss of control, burying himself to the hilt as he fought to regain control, his breath coming in harsh pants against your marked throat.
A broken gasp tore from your throat as his hips stilled, the thick length of him buried to the hilt inside you. Instead of pulling back, he ground forward, rolling his pelvis in a slow, deliberate circle that forced another inch of him deeper. Your walls fluttered around him, oversensitive and raw, and the sensation made your vision blur even with your eyes squeezed shut.
"Fuck, too much—" The words came out ragged and barely coherent. Your body had gone limp in his grip, head only held up only by his fist in your hair and the arm banded around your waist. Every nerve ending sparked like live wires, the stimulation making your head spin.
"I know," Peter groaned against your ear with overwhelming rasp. "I can feel you shaking. God, you're so fucking tight around me. Can't stop—need to feel all of it."
You tilted your head back desperately, blindly seeking his mouth. "Please, need—"
His palm came up rough and warm, fingers splaying across your eyes to keep you from looking, and then his lips crashed into yours from the side. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and shared gasps. Peter swallowed your whimpers as he started to grind again, short, shallow rolls of his hips that kept him buried deep while the head of his cock dragged against that oversensitive spot inside you.
"Fuck, fuck—I'm—" His voice cracked. You could feel it happening from the way his abs flexed hard against your back, the tremor that ran through his thighs, and the way he throbbed inside you like a heartbeat. His rhythm stuttered with his hips jerking in shallow pulses as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through your spine.
You felt every pulse of it. Hot, thick spurts flooding you, filling you until it leaked out around his cock with each weak thrust. Peter kept fucking it deeper, grinding the mess back into you while his hand stayed clamped over your eyes and his mouth devoured yours in desperate, open-mouthed kisses.
"God—god—" He panted against your lips, and his hips kept twitching in movement.
Your hand reached back blindly, fingers finding his hip and your nails dug into his skin as you held onto him. He was shaking against you, every muscle tight, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. The hand over your eyes softened, thumb stroking your temple as he slowly came down, his cock still twitching inside you with aftershocks.
"You okay?" Peter whispered with his voice strained after the moment quieted down, his high climbing down in shallow breaths. His forehead dropped to your shoulder against your marked skin. "Did I—fuck, tell me you're okay."
You nodded weakly, still floating in feeling, still feeling the slow leak of him between your thighs. "Don't pull out yet," you managed with your voice barely audible. "Just—stay. Please."
Peter's arm tightened around you, pulling you closer even as his own breathing started to even back out. The hand he had over your eyes slid down to cup your jaw, gentler now, and his thumb brushed your bottom lip. "Yeah, okay," he murmured. "Just for a while."
The room was quiet except for your mingled breathing and his lips pressed soft kisses along your shoulder, soothing the bite marks he'd left, and you could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of his body as he held you through the afterglow.
The last thing you registered was the slow drag of his cock easing out of you, the wet slide of his cum following in its wake, and the gentle press of his lips against your shoulder. Then everything went soft and dark.
You didn't even feel yourself slipping under.
Consciousness returned in pieces.
Firstly, it came with the weight of the sheets tucked up to your chest, cool cotton against your bare skin. Then, with the faint ache between your legs, a deep, pleasant throb that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. Your thighs felt sticky, but when you shifted, the sensation was clean. There was no dried mess, just the ghost of it cleaned away.
Your eyes cracked open.
The room was dim at first, the only light filtering in from the streetlamp outside your window. The space beside you was empty, the sheets cool. And he was gone.
You pushed yourself up on one elbow, wincing at the pull in your hips, and spotted the bottle of water on your nightstand. Beside it, a folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across the front in handwriting you recognized: messy, rushed, and unmistakably his.
You reached for it, unfolding the note with fingers that still trembled.
Drink water. Eat something. Don't let me see you at any more crime scenes.
Beneath it, smaller, almost an afterthought:
P.S. If you behave, maybe you'll see me without those stupid apps.
A laugh bubbled up in your throat immediately after reading it, all hoarse and disbelieving. You pressed the note to your chest, letting your head fall back against the pillows with a soft thud.
"Well," you muttered to the empty room, voice scratchy from use, "guess I finally deleted the right thing."
Your body sank deeper into the mattress, sore in all the right places and light in a way that made no sense. The ache between your legs was a reminder, the faint scent of him still clinging to your sheets. You closed your eyes, the note crinkling softly against your skin, and smiled.
The ball was in his court now, and you couldn't wait to see what he'd do with it.
Everyone forgot who spiderman is—including his girlfriend Y/N. But her body remembers something her head can't. She wakes up in the middle of the night craving something she never knew she had. Peter ensures they find their way back to each other (very smutty)
WC: 16.4k, unprotected sex, restrained by Spiderman's webs during sex, dirty talk, kinda Dom!Peter, sex dreams (memories), reader is horny af, casual mentions of sex throughout the entire story, this is the same as my NCT Donghyuck story, this is a MCU ver! Part 1, part 2 at the end
----------------
Spiderman slips onto the fire escape outside Ned's apartment, the city humming below him like a heartbeat he can't quite feel anymore. He's not here to spy—he tells himself that. He's just checking. Making sure she's safe. That's what he does now: patrols her life like a ghost, invisible and aching.
But then he hears Ned's voice through the cracked window, and Y/N's laugh—that soft, familiar sound that used to be for him—and he can't tear himself away.
He crouches low, listening.
"So you're telling me you haven't gotten laid in, what, three months?" Ned's voice is teasing, light. He's sprawled on his couch, a beer in hand, grinning at Y/N like they're having the most casual conversation in the world.
She's curled on the other end, legs tucked under her, a throw pillow hugged to her chest. "That's not what I said."
"That's exactly what you said. You said you're 'too wound up, stressed, can't sleep.' That's textbook horny, babe."
"Ned!"
"What? I'm just saying." He takes a lazy sip of beer. "You're way too tense these days. You need to hook up with someone. Let off some steam."
She gasps, swatting at his leg. "I absolutely am not."
He grins, eyes glinting. "Yes you are. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem so restless lately. Like you're crawling out of your skin."
"It's just stress over work." She pulls the pillow tighter. "Writing for the New York Chronicles is a lot of work. Deadlines, interviews, fact-checking—"
"Uh-huh. And when's the last time you got properly fucked?"
"Ned!"
He laughs, full and unbothered. "I'm serious. Maybe some good dick will help you. Relax those shoulders, clear that head of yours. You're practically vibrating."
On the fire escape, Peter's hands tighten into fists.
She's mine.
The thought crashes through him, possessive and raw. His jaw aches from clenching. He watches her through the window—her flustered expression, the way she hides her face in the pillow, the way she doesn't deny it. She's restless. He knows. He's seen her pace her apartment at 2 a.m., seen her press her thighs together in the bathtub, heard the soft, frustrated moans she thinks no one can hear.
And he knows Ned is right. She needs release. But the idea of her finding that release in someone else—some stranger's hands, some stranger's mouth, some stranger's cock inside her—makes his stomach twist with something dark and violent.
"You're impossible," she mutters, throwing the pillow at Ned.
He catches it easily. "And you're in denial. But okay. Keep telling yourself it's deadlines."
She stands, smoothing her shirt. "I'm leaving before you say something even more embarrassing."
"Text me if you change your mind! I know a guy—"
"Goodnight, Ned!"
The door clicks shut. Ned chuckles to himself, shaking his head.
Peter stays frozen on the fire escape long after she's gone, her scent still lingering in the air, her laugh still ringing in his ears.
He knows what he has to do.
He has to reintroduce himself. Casually, carefully. Slide back into her life before she finds someone else to release those frustrations on. Before some other man touches what's his.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he watches her walk home from a rooftop three blocks away, her silhouette moving under the amber streetlights. He watches her pause at her door, glance over her shoulder like she feels something watching her. She hugs herself, shivers, and disappears inside.
Soon, he tells himself, pressing a hand over his chest where his heart used to belong to her. Soon I'll make you remember. Or I'll make you want me again.
But for now, he waits.
Peter stands outside the coffee shop, his reflection staring back at him from the glass door. He checks his hair three times—runs his fingers through it, smooths the front, tucks a stray strand behind his ear. The black shirt hugs his shoulders just right, and the glasses frame his face in a way that used to make Y/N bite her lip and look at him twice.
She loved these glasses, he thinks, adjusting them once more. She used to say I looked like a secret librarian. A hot one.
He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks in with a confidence he's been practicing for weeks.
The bell above the door chimes. Y/N looks up from the counter where she's been scribbling in a notebook—probably working on another article for the New York Chronicles. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a simple apron over a cream sweater, and when she sees him, she smiles.
It's polite. Professional. The same smile she gives every customer working at her parent's cafe.
But it's still her smile, and his heart stumbles.
"Hi," she says, setting down her pen. "What can I get started for you?"
He steps up to the counter, leaning an elbow on the polished wood. "Hey. I'll take an iced americano and a chocolate donut."
She nods, writing it down. "Anything else?"
"No, thanks. That's perfect."
She turns to prepare the coffee, and he watches her movements—efficient, practiced. The way she scoops ice, pours the espresso, reaches for the donut with a tissue. When she turns back and hands him the cup, their fingers brush.
It's barely a second. Just a whisper of contact.
But she pauses, her eyes lifting to his face. A flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?—passes through her gaze before she blinks it away.
"Here you go," she says softly.
He takes the cup, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks."
She smiles again, a little different this time—warmer, a hint of confusion. Then she turns back to the sink where a few dishes are waiting, rolling up her sleeves.
Peter takes a seat by the window, sipping his americano, watching her from behind his glasses. She's humming softly, something he doesn't recognize. From the back room, he hears Ned's voice, humming some pop song, the clatter of boxes being moved.
Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.
He comes in every other day, sometimes every day. Always orders the same thing—iced americano, chocolate donut. Sometimes he grabs a table and pretends to work on his laptop, but really he's watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she bites her lip while reading. The way she laughs at something Ned says, bright and easy.
Their interactions are casual. Limited.
"Morning Peter." She learns his name.
"The usual?" She asks.
"You know it."
A smile. A quick exchange. Then she's busy, and he's left with the ghost of her attention.
It's not enough.
So one afternoon, when the shop is empty and Ned is in the back, he makes his move.
He walks up to the counter, coffee in hand, and as he reaches to pay, he lets his wrist go slack. The cup tips. The lid pops off. Brown liquid splashes across the floor, a puddle spreading near his feet.
"Shit," he mutters, a little too loud.
Y/N spins around from the espresso machine. "Oh no! Don't worry, I'll get it—"
She grabs a roll of paper towels from under the counter and moves to crouch down, but he's already there. He takes the roll from her hands, his fingers closing over hers for a brief, deliberate second.
"It was my fault," he says, meeting her eyes. "Don't worry about it."
"Really, I can—"
"Nope. I got it." He kneels, wiping up the mess quickly, ignoring her protests. "You have enough to do. Let me take care of this."
She stands there, hands on her hips, watching him clean up her floor with an expression caught between amused and impressed.
"You're not going to let me help, are you?" she asks.
"Nope." He finishes, tosses the wet paper towels in the trash, and straightens up. "See? All good."
She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're stubborn."
"I prefer determined."
"A determined mess-maker."
He laughs—a real laugh, not the careful one he's been using.
They stand there, the air between them easier now, the tension cracked open. She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, studying him with fresh eyes.
"You come here a lot," she says.
"I do. Good coffee. Good donuts." He pauses, letting his voice drop just a fraction. "Good company."
Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then back up, a spark in her gaze. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Born and raised. Just... been away for a while."
"Ah. A returning native."
"Something like that."
She tilts her head. "What do you do, Peter? Besides cleaning up your own messes?"
"I'm a freelance photographer. I take pictures of the city, the people. Try to capture moments that don't last."
Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."
"It has its moments." He holds her gaze. "Maybe I could show you sometime. If you're interested."
The offer hangs in the air, soft and deliberate. She bites her lower lip, considering, and he feels his pulse quicken.
"I'd like that," she says quietly.
A bell rings from the back—Ned calling something about a shipment. The moment breaks, but it doesn't shatter. It settles into something warm, something potential.
"I should let you get back to work," Peter says, stepping back. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"
"Same time," she confirms, her smile lingering.
He walks out of the coffee shop, heart hammering, a grin threatening to break across his face. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't need to.
He knows he has her attention now.
Ned slides up beside Y/N the moment the door swings shut behind Peter. He nudges her shoulder with his, a knowing grin already spreading across his face.
"Okay, so that guy? Exactly your type."
Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can feel the heat creeping up her neck. "Peter?"
"Obviously Peter." Ned leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Like, I get it. He's attractive in that nonchalant way. The whole I just rolled out of bed but I'm still hotter than you vibe. And that confidence? It's practically dripping off him." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Makes you horny, doesn't it?"
"Ned!" She smacks his shoulder, but she's laughing. "Shut up. He's just a nice guy."
"A nice guy who you've been staring at for three weeks straight."
"I have not—"
"You literally watched him walk to the door just now. Like a sad puppy."
She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. She did watch him. She always watches him.
Ned groans, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "When you two finally hook up, I'm going to be right there to say I told you so."
"He's just a customer, Injun."
"Mhmm. Sure." He pats her shoulder and heads toward the back room, already humming again, leaving her standing there with her thoughts.
She bites her lip.
He's just a customer, she tells herself. But her mind drifts anyway, unbidden.
His voice—low and warm, with a teasing edge that makes her stomach flip. The way he carries himself, relaxed but aware, like he knows exactly what he's doing at all times. His baggy clothes, the way they hang off his frame, hiding and revealing at the same time. The silver rings on his fingers. That little smirk he gives her sometimes, like he's in on a joke she hasn't heard yet.
Her exes were... fine. Nice. Respectful. Boring.
They held doors open and said please and thank you. They kissed her forehead and asked if she was comfortable. They never made her pulse race. They never made her wonder what it would feel like to be pushed against a wall and taken.
Peter does.
He gives her mystery. Maybe even a little danger. The way he looks at her sometimes, like he's holding something back—something intense.
She shakes her head, physically trying to dislodge the thought. Crazy. You don't even know him.
But the thought lingers, hot and stubborn, all the way through the rest of her shift. It follows her home, past the subway, up the stairs to her apartment. It settles in her bones the moment she closes her door.
---
She's restless.
The apartment is quiet, dark except for the lamp by her bed. She changes into a tank top and shorts, lies down, tosses, turns. Her body feels tight—a coil wound too tight, needing release.
She gives in.
From the nightstand drawer, she pulls out her vibrator—a sleek pink thing she's had for years. She lies back, spreads her legs, and lets the hum of the motor fill the silence.
Her mind drifts to him.
To Peter. To his hands. Those rings. What they'd feel like gripping her thighs. His voice, low in her ear, telling her exactly what he's going to do to her.
She presses the vibrator harder against her clit, her breath hitching. She thinks about his smirk, his confidence, the way he holds her gaze a second too long. She chases the image, lets it build—
And then she comes.
A sharp, quick release. A gasp. The tension snaps, but it doesn't dissolve. It just... scatters. Falls apart unsatisfyingly.
She sighs, letting the vibrator drop onto the mattress. Her body feels hollow. Empty. Like the orgasm barely scratched the surface of what she actually needs.
"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.
She lies there, staring at the dark, her skin still buzzing with unresolved heat. She wants more. She wants him. But he's a stranger. A customer. Nothing.
She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and tries to sleep.
---
Outside her window, perched on a fire escape three buildings over, Peter watches the dark shape of her bedroom through the gap in her curtains.
He didn't look. Not directly. He swung toward her building on instinct, drawn by the familiar pull of her presence, and he landed on the adjacent rooftop just in time to hear it.
The buzz of the vibrator. Her soft, breathy moans.
His name. She whispered his name—Peter—on a desperate exhale.
And then the sigh. That disappointed, hollow sigh at the end.
He heard it all.
His fingers curl into a fist against the brick wall beside him. A smirk spreads across his face, slow and predatory, mixing with the ache in his chest.
You're not satisfied, are you, baby?
He knows the feeling. He's been unsatisfied too—in a different way. Hungry for her touch, her voice, her warmth. But that hunger is about to be fed.
He pushes off the ledge, letting the night air rush past him as he swings into the darkness.
Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.
Below him, the city blurs. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Another night of crime waits for him—thugs to stop, civilians to save. The usual.
But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.
———
It starts slowly.
A whisper of warmth against her skin. The weight of a body behind her, pressed close, solid and familiar. She can't see his face, but she knows him—or rather, her body knows him. Her back arches into his chest instinctively, seeking more contact.
His hands. God, his hands. Calloused palms sliding up her thighs, fingers digging into her hips with just enough pressure to bruise. She feels the cool bite of metal rings against her overheated skin. A low chuckle rumbles against her ear.
"You've been so good for me, baby. But I'm gonna take what's mine now."
She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already rolling her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up, positioning her on her knees. The sheets are soft beneath her palms. She can feel his cock—thick, hard, pressing against her soaked entrance—and she whimpers, pushing back against him.
"Please," she breathes. "Please, I need—"
He cuts her off with a sharp thrust. He slams into her to the hilt, and she screams, her body clenching around him immediately. He doesn't stop. He fucks her like he owns her, like he's been waiting for this, each stroke deep and punishing, hitting a spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.
"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."
His voice is low, rough, almost unrecognizable through the fog of lust. She can't think. She can only feel—the stretch, the burn, the relentless pounding. He wraps a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding, tilting her head back so he can whisper directly into her ear.
"You missed me, didn't you? Your tight little pussy missed me. Say it."
"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"
He groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through her bones. His pace quickens, his grip on her hip bruising. She feels the coil building, tighter and tighter, her moans turning into desperate sobs—
And then she wakes up.
---
Gasping.
Y/N bolts upright in bed, her tank top soaked with sweat, her thighs sticky with arousal. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, so empty it almost hurts.
She blinks at the ceiling, panting.
What the fuck was that?
The dream is already fading, slipping through her fingers like water. She remembers heat. A deep voice. Being pinned down and fucked senseless. But the face—she can't remember the face. Just a blur of dark hair, broad shoulders, a cruel smirk.
She presses her palm against her cunt, gasping at the sensitivity. She's soaked. Her thighs are slick. Her hole flutters, desperate to be filled.
"Fucking hell," she mutters, flopping back onto the pillows.
It's been like this for almost a week now. Every night, another dream. Some nights she's on her knees, sucking a thick cock while a hand tangles in her hair. Some nights she's tied to a bed, spread open, being fucked so slowly she can feel every inch drag against her walls. Some nights it's just a voice—a low, possessive voice—calling her filthy, desperate, mine.
She always wakes up the same way: wet, aching, unsatisfied.
She reaches for her vibrator on the nightstand, but even as she presses it against her clit, she knows it won't be enough. It never is anymore. She comes—hard, fast, grinding into the plastic—but the release is hollow. An echo of what her body actually craves.
She doesn't know what that is.
Her exes were boring. They never made her feel claimed. They never made her scream.
But her body wants something more, something she's never experienced. Or so she thinks.
She sighs, tossing the vibrator aside. Her cunt still throbs, still clenches, still weeps for something she can't name.
Why does this feel like grief?
---
Across the city, perched on a water tower overlooking her block, Peter watches the distant glow of her window with a dark, hungry expression.
He knows.
He's been watching her sleep through the gap in her curtains. He's heard her moans, her whimpers, the desperate sounds she makes when she's lost in a dream he put there—not consciously, but through the lingering threads of the spell that binds them. She can't remember him, but her body can. Her body is a traitor, whispering his name in the language of her muscles, her slick, her trembling thighs.
He clenches his fists, his cock hardening painfully in his suit.
He lets out a slow, shaky breath.
I'll give you what you're craving soon.
He pushes off the water tower, swinging into the night, leaving his mark on the rooftops like a promise.
But he doesn't go far. He lands on the fire escape just outside her window—close enough to hear her frustrated sigh, the rustle of sheets as she rolls over, the quiet, desperate whisper she thinks no one hears:
"What do I need? What's wrong with me?"
He presses a hand to the glass, his rings glinting in the moonlight.
Nothing's wrong with you, love. You just need me.
————
The morning rush at the coffee shop had been mercifully slow, leaving Y/N and Ned with nothing better to do than wipe down the already-clean countertops in a lazy, synchronized rhythm. The TV mounted in the corner murmured in the background—some local news broadcast about a bank robbery in Midtown. The anchor's voice was tinny, almost an afterthought.
"...and witnesses report that Spider-Man intervened just moments after the robbers entered. No casualties reported. The web-slinger made a quick escape as usual—"
Y/N didn't look up. Neither did Ned. It was New York. Spider-Man stopping a robbery was as routine as a subway delay. They'd both heard the name so many times it barely registered anymore—a ghost in red and blue, flickering across screens, saving lives, disappearing.
Ned hummed a tune under his breath, rubbing a smudge off the granite with his thumb. Y/N's mind was elsewhere. Still half-lost in the hazy aftertaste of another dream from last night—the echo of a deep voice, the phantom weight of hands on her hips, the ache between her legs that hadn't fully faded even after she'd come twice this morning.
She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.
Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.
The little bell above the door jingled.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Peter stepped inside, and she felt the air shift. He was breathing hard, his black t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, dark patches of sweat spreading across his chest and under his arms. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in messy waves, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened over his neck and collarbones.
He looked exhausted. But also... good. Really good.
"Hey," Y/N said, her voice coming out a little too breathy. She cleared her throat. "You okay?"
He offered a tired smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just tired. Killed it at the gym today." He let out a huff of laughter, rolling one shoulder like it ached. "Didn't realize I pushed myself that hard."
She nodded, already moving to make his usual ice americano. Her body went through the motions automatically while her eyes trailed down his frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the tanned skin. The sweat highlighted every contour—the arch of his biceps, the column of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.
Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.
Her gaze dropped lower, catching a glint of silver at his wrist. A bracelet—woven black cord with a small metallic charm, a roughly shaped star. It looked handmade, well-worn, the edges smooth like it had been touched a thousand times.
She slid the cup across the counter toward him. "That's pretty," she said, nodding at the bracelet.
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. A flash of emotion too fast to name—hope? Pain? He opened his mouth, and she could've sworn she saw him about to say something, his throat bobbing with a swallow.
Do you remember that you gave this to me?
But the words didn't come. He just watched her as she pulled away from the counter, already turning back to the rag in her hand.
Of course she didn't remember.
"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already distracted, moving toward the back to restock napkins.
Peter stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The star charm. She'd made it for him on their six-month anniversary, clumsily braiding the cord while sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing about how she'd never made jewelry before. "So you don't forget me," she'd said, pressing it into his palm. "Wear it even when you're being Spider-Man. I want to be with you, always."
He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache down his throat.
She doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't. You knew that.
Ned slid off his stool and walked over, holding out a napkin. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "Your forehead's bleeding a bit."
Peter blinked, reaching up. His fingers came away with a smear of red. Shit. Must've caught a stray piece of debris during the takedown. He'd been too focused on getting there fast—on changing out of the suit in that alley, on making it to the shop before she closed—that he hadn't bothered to check for damage.
"Ah, that." He took the napkin with a casual shrug, pressing it to the cut. "Tripped on the way here. Almost ate pavement. Stupid, I know."
Ned's eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a quiet skepticism behind his gentle gaze. He didn't say anything, but Peter could feel the weight of his unspoken question.
That's a weird place to trip. And you're too banged up for just a fall. And you showed up right after Spider-Man was seen.
But Ned just nodded, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Be careful," he said simply, and walked back to the counter.
Peter exhaled slowly, pressing the napkin harder against his temple. He watched Y/N move behind the counter, her hair tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was his. And she didn't even know it.
He took a long sip of the coffee she'd made him, letting the bitterness ground him.
He smiled against the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the curve of her back as she bent down to grab more cups from the low shelf.
The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.
The morning air in Manhattan carried the usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, pretzel cart steam, and distant sirens. Y/N walked with her messenger bag slung across her body, earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats keeping her grounded. The New York Chronicle skyscraper loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the pale winter sun. She was running a little early today, which meant she could grab a decent coffee from the lobby cart before heading up to her desk.
She was two blocks away when the screaming started.
At first, it was distant—a ripple through the crowd ahead. Then it grew, a wave of panic rolling toward her. People began sprinting in her direction, faces twisted with fear, elbows knocking pamphlets and coffee cups out of the way. A woman clutching a toddler nearly collided with her.
"What—" Y/N pulled out her earbuds, heart lurching. "What's happening?"
No one stopped to answer. The tide of bodies pushed past her, and she stumbled sideways, grabbing a lamppost to steady herself. Then she saw it: a column of smoke rising from the base of the Chronicle building. Orange flames licked at a collapsed awning. Glass littered the street like crushed diamonds.
Oh god. That's the lobby.
Her feet started moving before her brain caught up. She had to get in there. Had to see if her coworkers—her editor, the layout team, Maria from HR who always gave her extra granola bars—were okay. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.
"HEY!"
A blur of red and blue dropped from above, landing in front of her with a soft thud that cracked the asphalt. She yelped, skidding to a halt.
Spider-Man.
His lenses narrowed, body angled like he was about to grab her.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was modulated, sharp with urgency. "There's a gas leak—could blow again any second. Get back."
"I have to see if the people in that building are okay!" She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, a wall of spandex and muscle.
"I'll check. You stay here." He pointed a gloved finger at the sidewalk behind her. "Don't move."
She barely registered that she'd just been ordered around by a superhero. Her heart was hammering. The smoke stung her nostrils. "I'm not just going to—"
He was already turning, preparing to leap. She took a step forward, following him.
A sharp thwip sliced through the air.
Something snapped around her right wrist—a rope of white webbing, sticky and warm, yanking her arm sideways. She stumbled, grunting, and found herself anchored to the handle of a police cruiser parked at the curb. The web held fast, elastic but unyielding.
"What the hell?!" She yanked at her wrist, but the webbing stretched and held. "Are you serious right now?!"
Spider-Man paused, tilting his head. She could almost hear the smirk behind the mask. "Nope. Wait here. I'll free you after I'm sure it's safe."
And then he was gone, a red streak disappearing into the smoke-filled doorway.
Y/N stood there, arm stretched awkwardly toward the cop car, jaw hanging open. People were still running past her, but the immediate panic was thinning. She looked at her wrist, at the white strands wrapped snugly around it, and felt a jolt—not of anger, but of something else.
The texture. The pressure. The slight give when she pulled.
Her breath caught.
She was in her bedroom. The lights were dim. Her wrist was bound to the bedpost with...not a rope...not a scarf...something else entirely. Her arms stretched above her head and a dark figure hovered over her. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his weight, his heat, the deep rumble of his voice against her ear.
"Stay still, baby. I'm not done with you yet."
The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping on the sidewalk, knees weak.
What the fuck?
She shook her head violently, pressing her free hand to her flushed cheek. "I'm starting to feel like a fucking sex addict," she muttered under her breath. Of all the things to think about right now—tied to a car by Spider-Man—her brain was conjuring erotic flashbacks? With...Spider-Man? For all she knew, the guy was a forty-year-old accountant underneath that suit. He could be balding.
But he didn't move like a forty-year-old. And his voice, even through the modulator, had a certain quality—young, confident, teasing.
She shook her head again, harder. Stop it. Focus. The building.
A few minutes passed. The fire trucks arrived. EMTs started setting up a triage zone. Y/N strained her neck, trying to see if anyone was being carried out. She pulled at the web again, frustrated, but it held true.
Then Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, walking casually now, hands on his hips. He jogged over to her.
"Building's clear. No casualties. Gas leak was contained before it got worse. Minor injuries, but everyone's out." He reached for the web on her wrist and gave it a sharp tug setting her free.
She rubbed her wrist, red and slightly raw. "That wasn't cool. You could have just asked me to stay."
"I did. You didn't listen." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the suit's padding. "You should be more careful. People get hurt when they run toward explosions."
"I work there." She glared at him. "I was worried about my friends."
He was quiet for a second, his head tilted. She could feel his gaze through the white lenses, studying her. There was something familiar about the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.
Then he straightened. "Bye."
And with a single leap, he was gone, swinging between buildings, disappearing into the Manhattan skyline before she could even respond.
Y/N stood there, mouth half-open, hand still rubbing her wrist. The phantom sensation of the web lingered—soft, taut, possessive. Her skin tingled where it had been wrapped.
Why does that feel like a memory I can't reach?
She stared up at the empty sky, the smoke still curling into the gray clouds.
And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.
Get a grip, Y/N. He's a stranger in a mask.
But her body didn't believe that. Not for a second.
The evening air did nothing to cool the heat lingering beneath Y/N's skin. After the chaos at the Chronicle building, after being webbed to a police car like some disobedient puppy, after the shredded remains of her dignity scattered across Sixth Avenue—she'd gone through the motions. Talked to her editor. Confirmed everyone was safe. Filed a preliminary report on the gas leak. Smiled at Maria's thanks.
But all the way home, her wrist tingled. The ghost of that webbing refused to fade.
Now she stood in her apartment, shoes kicked off, coat thrown over the armchair. The city lights bled through her window, painting amber stripes across her wooden floor. She should shower. Eat something. Answer the three texts Ned had sent asking if she was okay.
Instead, she grabbed her laptop and collapsed onto her bed, flipping it open.
YouTube.
Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it. She typed in the search bar: Spider-Man New York 2024.
The results flooded the screen. News clips. Fan edits. Compilations titled "Spider-Man's Top 10 Saves" and "Spider-Man Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight." She clicked the first one—a news report from two months ago, shaky cell phone footage of Spider-Man webbing a falling construction beam before it crushed a bus.
She watched it twice. Then a third time.
The comments section was a battlefield.
"whoever is under that suit is DEFINITELY packing i'm not taking questions"
"imagine getting railed by spider-man... the grip?? the stamina???"
"he literally fights crime every night and still has time to help old ladies cross the street... husband material"
"plot twist: he's actually a 50 year old dude with a beer belly and we're all just simping for spandex"
"even if he is 50 i'd still let him web me to the bed 🥴"
Y/N snorted despite herself, scrolling deeper. The thirst was real, embarrassingly real. These women were out there, posting paragraphs about what they'd let Spider-Man do to them. What they'd do to him. She felt a pang of something—not judgment, because who was she to judge—but recognition.
She'd felt that web around her wrist. She'd felt the possessiveness in that single thwip.
And God help her, she wanted to feel it again.
She clicked on another video. This one was different—a street interview, low-budget, filmed by someone's phone. The camera focused on Spider-Man, standing casually beside a hot dog cart, and standing next to him was a little boy—maybe eight years old, holding a notebook.
The interviewer says, "We've got a special guest today—this is Liam, and he wanted to ask Spider-Man a few questions."
Spider-Man crouched down to the boy's level. His lenses softened, tilted—the body language of someone genuinely engaged. He reached out and patted the kid's head, a casual, affectionate gesture.
"Go ahead, Liam. I'm all ears."
And he laughed—a low, warm chuckle that cut through the modulator like a blade through silk.
Y/N's breath hitched.
That laugh. She knew that laugh. It tickled something deep in her chest, a phantom sensation, like a voice calling from underwater. Her fingers tightened on the laptop. She replayed it. Once. Twice. Three times.
"I'm all ears."
The way he said it—teasing, gentle, familiar.
She shook her head, hard. You're projecting. Every guy laughs. It's not him. You don't even know who "him" is.
But her skin was prickling. Her thighs pressed together under the laptop.
She kept scrolling.
There was a Reddit link. r/SpiderManFantasies (NSFW). Her thumb hovered over it for a full ten seconds before she clicked.
The forum was a treasure trove of desperation. Women (and some men) posting photos they'd taken of Spider-Man mid-swing, or perched on a rooftop, or standing in the middle of a street after a rescue. The photos weren't explicit—they couldn't be, he was fully suited—but the captions were anything but.
"If I ever meet him I'm dropping to my knees immediately. That suit does NOT hide what he's working with."
"Imagine him pinning you down after a fight, all that adrenaline still pumping... you'd feel the bass in his chest."
"I don't even care what he looks like. I just want one night. ONE. NIGHT. With whoever is under that mask."
One post showed a blurry shot of Spider-Man crouched on a fire escape, his legs spread, the suit stretching taut across his thighs. The caption read: "I want to sit on his face and never get up."
Y/N closed the laptop so fast the screen clicked shut.
Her heart was hammering. Her cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning.
"I'm not above this," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm so far below this it's embarrassing."
She threw the laptop aside and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside—distant sirens, a neighbor's TV, the low bass of a car passing by. Her skin felt too tight. Her cunt ached, a dull, persistent throb that had been living in her bones for weeks now.
The clock on her nightstand read 11:47 PM when Y/N finally collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her jeans and a thin camisole.
Sleep came heavy and reluctant.
---
She woke with a gasp, thighs pressed together, a dull throb between her legs.
The clock read 2:47 AM.
Her skin was damp with sweat. Her nipples were hard, rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. She'd been dreaming again—fragments of a body above her, weight pressing her into the mattress, a warm mouth trailing down her stomach. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his hands. Strong, calloused, knowing exactly where to touch.
"I've got you, baby. I've always got you."
She threw an arm over her eyes, breathing hard. She was wet, aching, clenching around nothing. She slid a hand down her belly, into her underwear, her fingers finding her clit swollen and desperate.
She rubbed herself slowly, trying to chase a release that never came. She imagined the web wrapped around her wrist again. Spider-Man's lenses staring down at her. The low laugh from the video.
"Fuck," she whimpered, fingers moving faster. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She could feel a shape just out of reach.
Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.
She pressed her palm harder, hips bucking, but the orgasm hovered like a mirage, untouchable. She let out a frustrated sob, pulling her hand away, her chest heaving.
Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.
Peter pressed his back against the brick wall, his own breathing uneven. He'd heard her whimper through the glass. Heard the wet sound of her fingers working. The whine of her frustration when she couldn't finish.
His cock was hard, straining against the suit. He'd come here to check on her after the explosion—to make sure she was safe, to watch her sleep like he did most nights. He hadn't expected this.
But he couldn't leave. Not while she was aching.
Not when he was the only one who could fix it.
He pressed a palm against the cold glass of her window, the mask hiding the anguish on his face. Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll find a way.
But for now, he just listened to her breathe, and hated the spell that kept them apart.
———
The knock that rattled Ned's door at 11 PM was frantic—three sharp, pounding hits, then a pause, then another. He barely had time to unlatch the lock before Y/N pushed past him into his apartment, her eyes wild, her hair a mess, her chest heaving like she'd run the whole way.
"Okay," she said, hands on her hips, pacing his narrow living room. "You were right. You were fucking right."
Ned closed the door slowly, crossing his arms. He was in sweatpants and an old band tee, clearly winding down for the night. "Right about what, exactly? Because I'm right about a lot of things."
She whirled on him, jaw tight. "The sex thing. The needing-to-get-laid thing. The I'm crawling out of my skin thing." She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots. "It's not just being horny, Ned. It's like—" She stopped, struggling for words. "It's like my body is craving something specific. A specific touch. A specific rhythm. A specific person. But I don't know who or what. I don't remember. I just feel this ache that nothing fills."
Ned's teasing demeanor softened. He gestured to the couch, and she collapsed onto it, head in her hands.
He sat beside her, voice careful. "An ex? Someone you dated before? Maybe your brain locked away a breakup that hit you harder than you think."
She looked up, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "No. It's not an ex. I don't have any traumatic breakup memory. It's—" She groaned, frustrated. "I don't know. It feels like a ghost. A phantom limb."
Ned was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe you don't need to find that specific person. Maybe you just need to try someone new."
She blinked at him. The idea hung in the air, fresh and foreign.
"Someone new," she repeated, tasting the words.
"Someone who doesn't come with baggage or memories. Someone who can just—" He made a vague gesture. "Fuck you into forgetting whatever's haunting you. A clean slate. A hot body. A night of no strings."
She stared at him. Then, slowly, a nod. "Maybe you're right."
His grin spread wide. "I am right. And I know exactly how to start." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "There's that new nightclub in midtown. Opened last week. 'Velvet Underground.' It's got black lights, VIP booths, and supposedly a very attractive bartender who does body shots. I've been dying to go."
"A club," she said flatly.
"A club where you can find a guy—or girl, no judgment—who will take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. That kind of club."
She chewed her lip. The idea terrified her. Thrilled her. She thought of her empty bed, the wet sheets, the incomplete orgasms. She thought of the phantom hands in her dreams.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Let's do it."
Ned clapped his hands together. "Yes. I'll text you the details. Wear something slutty. I'm talking a dress that says 'I'm here to get railed.'"
She laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "You're such a bad influence."
"Someone has to be."
They spent the next hour planning. What time to arrive. Which drinks to order. An exit strategy if the guy was a creep. Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, a fragile hope blooming in her chest.
---
Outside, pressed against the brick wall of the adjacent building, a figure in red and blue watched through the sliver of curtain left uncovered.
Peter's hands curled into fists.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
Someone new.
The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a knife twist. She was going to let some stranger touch her. Some random guy from a club. He'd put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat...
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled by the mask.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
He pushed off the wall, landing silently on the fire escape below. His mind raced. He couldn't stop her—not directly. He couldn't reveal himself, couldn't break the spell. But he could intercept. He could follow. He could make sure that no one—no one—got close enough to touch what was his.
Even if she didn't remember it.
He swung into the night, a plan already forming. The club. He'd be there. Not as Spider-Man—too obvious. He'd ditch the suit, put on something tight, something that would make her look. He'd find her on the dance floor, buy her a drink, let the night unfold.
The hunt was on.
The strapless bodycon dress was a weapon, and Y/N knew it.
Black velvet hugged every curve from her collarbone to mid-thigh, the hem riding up just enough to make men's eyes glaze over. She'd paired it with strappy heels that made her legs look miles long and a thin silver necklace that caught the light. Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup smoky and deliberate.
Ned let out a low whistle when she stepped out of her bedroom. "Holy shit."
"Too much?" She tugged at the neckline nervously.
"Not enough. You're going to break necks tonight. Possibly some hearts too, but who's counting." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
She took it, laughing. "Let's get me laid."
---
The Velvet Underground lived up to its name. The interior was all dark burgundy and dim gold lighting, with a massive dance floor pulsing under black lights that made white fabrics glow. Bodies moved together in a haze of sweat and bass, the air thick with perfume and alcohol.
They claimed a spot at the bar, and Ned ordered them both shots of tequila. "Warm-up," he shouted over the music.
Y/N downed hers, grimacing at the burn. A second followed. Then a third.
By the fourth, the edges of her anxiety had blurred into a pleasant haze. The bass thrummed through her bones, and she found herself swaying, scanning the crowd. Potential candidates everywhere—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders, confident grins.
None of them made her stomach flip.
But then the door opened.
And he walked in.
Peter had planned this.
Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.
Her favorite outfit.
He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."
And she had. For hours.
He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.
There she was.
Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.
He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.
Then Ned spotted him.
"Hey! Peter!"
Peter turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."
Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."
Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.
Ned gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."
"A mission?" Peter raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."
She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."
Ned sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."
Peter smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.
"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."
Ned looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."
They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—
Right into Peter's arms.
Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."
His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.
He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"
She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."
If only you knew.
Ned was already heading for the door, waving them along. Peter kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.
The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.
"You smell... familiar."
His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"
"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."
Ned shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Peter just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.
They reached her building. Ned held the door while Peter helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.
When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.
"Thank you," she mumbled into Ned's shoulder. "You're the best."
She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Peter.
Her eyes met his.
The air between them thickened.
"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."
The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.
Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.
But not yet.
Not yet.
He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."
She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.
The lock turned.
Peter stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.
"She say something?" Ned asked from behind.
"Just saying goodnight."
Ned hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."
Peter turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."
"Uh huh." Ned didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Peter."
"Yeah. See you."
When Ned disappeared down the stairwell, Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.
But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.
That was enough.
For now.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.
Peter stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.
But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.
And he was out here. Alone. Again.
He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.
It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.
He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.
"Fuck."
He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Peter saved no one. Not even himself.
He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.
But Peter deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.
He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.
"You're so good, Peter. Fuck—don't stop—"
His hand curled into a fist.
Then his spider-sense flared.
Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.
He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.
---
The city was cruel tonight.
He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.
Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.
A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.
A break-in at a convenience store.
A fire on the Lower East Side.
He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.
But it didn't.
Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Peter. One day you won't come back."
And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.
Now she didn't even know to wait.
---
He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.
The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.
He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.
"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.
He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.
He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.
Soon.
Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.
Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.
But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.
For her. Always for her.
The bell above the door chimed, and Peter walked in like he owned the place.
Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Ned had convinced her to take.
She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.
"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.
He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."
"Someone regrets everything."
He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."
She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.
Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.
A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Peter had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Peter's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.
"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.
Peter just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.
Y/N froze.
The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.
She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.
But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.
Peter straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"
She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."
She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.
She needed to get this over with.
"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Ned was being an ass, and—"
"Cute."
She stopped. "What?"
"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."
Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.
He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."
He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.
She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.
Fuck.
She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."
She shook her head, turning back to the register.
But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Peter. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.
Maybe I have a crush on him.
She bit her lip.
Or maybe I'm just that desperate.
But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.
And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Peter smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.
Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.
The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Peter—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.
She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.
A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"
Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.
"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.
Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.
She followed without hesitation.
The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—
And then he was gone.
No. Not gone. Pinned.
A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.
"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.
Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.
She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—
A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.
She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.
"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"
"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.
Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.
She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.
He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.
"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."
She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"
She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"
She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—
And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.
She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.
Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.
And something clicked.
The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.
She looked up.
The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.
Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.
I know you. I've felt you before.
She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—
He stepped back.
Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.
"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."
And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.
She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.
Why does he feel so familiar?
She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.
And yet, he's a stranger.
She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.
Who are you?
The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Peter watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.
——————————
The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.
Peter walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.
"Morning, Y/N."
She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.
Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."
He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."
She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.
She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.
"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.
She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.
The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Ned was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Peter settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.
He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.
After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.
"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.
The moment the door clicked shut, Ned emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Okay. Now's my chance."
Y/N frowned. "What chance?"
Ned didn't answer. He darted to Peter's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.
"Ned, what the hell—"
"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."
Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"
"Relax, I'm just looking." Ned's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"
"Ned, I swear to God—"
He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."
He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.
It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.
Ned held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."
But Y/N wasn't listening.
She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.
The same texture.
Her blood ran cold.
She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.
This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—
She looked up. Ned was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
She was holding Spider-Man's mask.
Peter's mask.
Peter is Spider-Man.
The realization hit her like a freight train, knocking the air from her lungs. She stood there, frozen, the fabric clutched in her hands, the truth burning through her.
He's the one who saved me. He's the one who webs me to walls. He's the one who watches me from the shadows.
He's the one I've been dreaming about.
She thought of the dreams—the vivid, explicit dreams where Spider-Man's voice had whispered filthy things in her ear, where his hands had pinned her down, where his body had moved inside hers like he knew every inch of her. The dreams where she had arched into him, moaning, pleading, coming undone.
Her face flushed, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.
Oh God.
She had been dreaming about him. About the man who had been coming into her café, smiling at her, teasing her, touching her—and she hadn't known.
But her body had.
Her body had remembered.
"Y/N?" Ned's voice was sharper now. "Put it back. He'll be out any second."
She forced her hands to move, folding the mask roughly and shoving it back into the bag. She zipped it closed just as the bathroom door creaked open.
Peter emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. He glanced at them—Ned standing awkwardly by the table, Y/N frozen behind the counter—and his brow furrowed.
"Everything okay?"
"Fine!" Ned said, too quickly. "Great. Just—telling Y/N about a thing. A thing I saw. Bye."
He scurried back to the stockroom, leaving Y/N alone with Peter.
He walked to the counter, picking up his coffee, his eyes studying her. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off today."
She couldn't look at him. She stared at the counter, at the espresso machine, at anything but his face.
"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just tired."
He didn't push. He just nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Alright. I'll see you later, then."
He turned and walked out, the bell chiming behind him.
Y/N stood there, her heart pounding, her mind racing.
Peter is Spider-Man.
And she had been dreaming of him fucking her senseless.
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something hot and hungry—coiled in her stomach.
She had questions. So many questions.
But more than that, she had a need.
A need to find out if the dreams were somehow real.
----------
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Peter Parker / We don't have to be lonely ── 18+ (MDNI)
Summary ⟅After Spiderman saves you yet again on one of your dangerous investigative journaling missions, you find yourself connecting with him in a way neither of you expected.
Peter Parker x Journalist!reader / ⟣ SMUT / 5.5k ⟢
Warnings: No spoilers! BND!Peter, slight angst (they are both lonely again), enemies to one night stand, big cock!peter, switch!Peter (but he's mostly subby), porn with plot, sensory deprivation (reader wears a blindfold), reader kisses him mask on 😵💫, switch!reader but leaning dom, blowjob, praise, throat fucking, more dry humping, fingering (fem receiving), peter whines and whimpers duh, penetration, riding, machinery, creampie, cockwarming, that must be everything....
Lily's note — 🪷 mind you this was supposed to be 2k words max... yeah okay anyway i'm lowkey proud of the dialogue in this i feel like it's very peter-like... if u enjoyed don't be afraid to like, reblog, or drop a comment to fuel me :D
"We have got to stop meeting like this!" you shouted into Spiderman's ear, clinging onto him tighter as he shot out another web, swinging you between the high-rise buildings.
"’Ya think?" he sneered back, his New York accent thickening with annoyance.
You yelped and closed your eyes in fear when he swung a sharp left. A moment later you exhaled a sigh of relief when you felt his feet connecting with the ground.
You opened your eyes to take in the familiar sight of your apartment building's rooftop, quickly detaching yourself from the masked hero to plant your own feet on the ground beside him.
"Thank god. I seriously don't think I will ever get used to that,” you muttered out, doubling over with your hands on your knees to try and force the nausea spell away.
“Yeah, well I hope you won't have to.”
You glanced up at him with a raised brow at his annoyance, slowly rising to stand straight, your hands settling on your hips. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“That means,” he began, chuckling without an ounce of humor in his voice. “You can't keep putting yourself in danger like this.”
“Look spider-boy, danger finds me,” you said defensively, ignoring his weak “It’s Spiderman.” “And I never asked you to keep saving me.”
“If I don't you’ll get hurt. You almost got killed back there! Don't you get it?”
“Oh, are you starting to care about me, Spiderman. What happened to hating me?” you cooed with a flirty tilt of your head.
“I-I never hated you…” he paused, his breath hitching when you stepped close enough for him to reach a hand out and touch you. You leered at him expectantly, waiting for him to say what he was really thinking.
“...I only disliked you. Mildly.”
“There it is!”
“Well what would you do if someone wrote a smear campaign against you?” He retorted, leaning in to try and intimidate you, his plan failing when you met him head on.
“You’re still on that? I already apologized to you and took back my article,” you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest protectively.
Yes, it was true that you did write an article detailing how you didn't think Spiderman should be praised for “saving the city,” when he contestantly left it in a state of destruction, leaving regular civilians to pay the price for his damages.
Yes, it did garner enough public attention to have a lot of New Yorker’s turn their backs on him, but after he saved you the first time (and all but practically forced you to listen to his defenses), you were able to admit that you were speaking from a place of rage fueled bias, since your apartment was destroyed when he flung a car into it.
But you apologized. So all should’ve been well.
He backed down from your stare off, raising a hand to awkwardly scratch the top of his head. “You’re right I’m sorry…”
“Look,” you started, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry you have to keep saving me, but if it's so much of a hassle you can stop… It's fine.”
“Wha—no!” he blurted, rushing to grab your arm to stop you from turning away. “No! It’s not that I just… What if I’m not there one day and you—”
“Get killed?” You cut him off sharply. “So be it then.”
Peter froze in place, his grip on your arm loosening slightly as your words settled uncomfortably in the air between you. His hand slowly slipped off until it hovered awkwardly, his eyes boring into yours through the suit.
“Kidding!” you interjected before the moment could grow too serious, despite meaning your words.
“Gosh, Spidey. Lighten up. I’m alive, you’re alive. All is well in the world,” you quipped sarcastically while making your way to the stairwell.
You turned around when you didn't hear his footsteps following, waving your hand to urge him forward. “Come on, so I can thank you properly. You must be hungry.”
He hesitated, debating the idea in his head. It had been almost a year since he first saved you on one of your investigative journaling missions, and this was the first time you ever actually invited him down to your apartment instead of parting ways with him on the roof like usual.
He was fully intending to reject your offer, seeing no point in spending any extra time with you than necessary, but then the sight of his bleak apartment rushed through his mind, along with another lonely night of testing his tech and wallowing in his misery.
Or maybe it was the faint look of hope he saw in your eyes that convinced him, your hand resting on the door handle, waiting for his reply.
The response fell from his lips unconsciously.
“Sure.”
Sat at your small round kitchen dining table, he stared down at the plate in front of him, the sad slice of pizza steaming from where you’d heated it up in the microwave.
The eyes of his suit narrowed, glancing from the plate up to where you were already halfway finished with your own.
“This is my thanks?”
“Mhm,” you hummed through your chewing, jerking your head up at him. “You don’t like leftover pizza?”
This situation was so absurd, he couldn’t help but let out a breathy chuckle. He lifted the mask above his lips, carefully trying to obscure as much of his exposed face as he could, and took a bite of the pizza, lowering the mask back down to chew.
You watched him with a bewildered stare, your chuckles escaping you in short bursts before you let the laugh fully escape free. You raised a hand to your mouth to try and conceal the sound, but the sight was just too ridiculous for you to do so.
“W-What? What’s so funny?”
His confusion only made it worse, your laugh transforming to a full body giggled as you struggled to breathe.
He stared at you like you were crazy, your laughs eventually dying down enough for you to speak. “Do you seriously eat like that?”
That’s what you were giggling about?
“What? No, no I—obviously when I eat at home I don’t wear the mask.”
“I mean in public.”
“I don’t usually eat out as Spiderman… You know, too busy saving lives, fighting crime.”
You nodded at him, the last of your chuckles dying down as you considered his words. It was easy to forget that there was a person beneath it all. Your curiosity brewed as you tried to imagine who it was behind the mask, who the city’s masked vigilante really was.
You didn’t realize you were staring until he cleared his throat. You tore your eyes away, taking another bite of your soggy pizza.
You finished your food in a silence that was surprisingly comfortable despite your histories, and when he finished swallowing his final bite, an unexpected pit settled in your stomach.
Peter pushed his plate forward, slowly standing from his chair. “Well, uh, thank you for the food. I should go now, don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
You picked at your cuticles without looking up at him, contemplating why the thought of him leaving made you feel so disappointed. It was the same feeling you had on the roof when you thought he was going to reject your invitation.
You would never admit it out loud, but something about his presence was comforting. You weren’t sure if it was because he was always saving you from harm’s way, or if it was because he was the only sense of consistency in your life, the only person you’d formed a relationship with—albeit it being dysfunctional—within the past year.
Whatever it was, it had you saying, “Stay.”
His suit eyes widened in surprise, your picking halting when you realized what you just said.
The comfortable silence was replaced by a thick tension as you glanced up at him. “Stay,” you repeated.
“Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“Why not? It’s not like you have anywhere else to be.”
Peter’s brows furrowed beneath the suit, trying to gauge what you were playing at. “How would you know that?”
“Am I wrong,” you shrugged, giving him space to correct you, then continuing when he didn’t. ”You don’t seem like you have any friends, maybe a girlfriend? I don’t think so. You just seem pretty… lonely.”
He gripped the top of his chair, the memories of MJ and Ned painfully resurfacing after he’d successfully blocked them out for the last few hours while caught in the whirlwind of saving you.
“How would you know? You don’t know anything about me,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a low, careful tone.
“Because you remind me of me,” you murmured, rising from your chair, rounding the table to stand in front of him. “And I’m pretty lonely, Spiderman.”
His grip on the chair tightened as he breathed in a shaky breath at your proximity. “I-I’m sorry to hear that. It sounds tough.”
“You understand how it feels? Don’t you?” You take a step forward as he takes one back, then another, until his back is pressed against the wall. “I can only imagine how it must feel, having to keep this secret. Being the world's hero, admired by millions, then having no one to share that burden with.”
His chest rose and fell with frantic breaths. You were right, you read him like an open book. He should have denied it, denied you, but he couldn’t.
“What do you want?” he whispered, the words coming out strained.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered back, your voice a soft counterpoint to his.
He tried to force the words out, but he was never a good liar. Your hand rested on his chest, feeling the fabric of the suit beneath your fingertips, and the wild beat of his heart. You moved it up, testing the waters, feeling the sculpted muscle until your fingers found the base of his neck.
“We don’t have to be lonely,” you mumbled, your thumb stroking below his jaw. “At least… not tonight.”
He swallowed the thick lump in his throat, shaking his head. “I-I can’t. I’m sorry.”
A flicker of hurt flashed over your eyes that you tried to mask by looking down. “Why? Is there someone else? Or… do you just not want me to know who you are?”
“I-I…” his voice trailed off as the guilt flooded his stomach like an expanding black hole. MJ. MJ. MJ. Her name lived like a ghost in his brain, a phantom pain in his chest. To do this—reveal himself to you—somehow felt like letting her go in a way, the final cut across the already frayed thread holding him to her. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to do that.
“I can keep a secret,” you said with a bitter chuckle. “I have no one to tell.”
He stood with your words, trying to make sense of them when he realized, that’s why. That’s why on the roof you were so casual about the prospect of death reaching you. You had no one in your life to mourn you. It was startling, how you reflected him like a mirror.
His heart hammered harder against his sternum when your hands slid to cup his cheeks through the mask.
“Is this okay?”
Words were beyond him. He could only give a singular nod so subtle, you almost missed it.
You smiled, so tender and full of care and unlike the rough around the edges journalist he was so used to encountering in the streets of New York. You gave him every chance to pull away as you slowly leaned in.
He stood frozen, letting you carry out your experiment, his eyes slipping shut when you placed your lips over where his would be on the fabric.
The kiss was chaste and over within a second. You opened your eyes, searching the white lenses of his mask before kissing him again, a little firmer, a little longer.
Your warmth managed to seep into the thick layer of fabric, reaching and flooding his body. Loneliness reached for loneliness, desperation seeking solace, he didn’t stop you when your fingers found the bottom of his mask.
With a careful tug, you pulled it up just enough to reveal his pale skin, his lips pink and shiny from where he’d ran his tongue over them. Without wasting another moment, you leaned in again, pressing your mouth to his.
The kiss was hesitant at first, your lips simply touching, until his parted with a sharp inhale, his body jumping back to life under your touch. He kissed you back, a little clumsy and hungry, the urgency fueled by a year’s worth of banter and his craving for human connection. You tugged him harder against you, his hands finally leaving the wall to settle on your hips.
Drunk on the sensation, you nudged the fabric higher, intending to pull it fully off when his hands shot up to encase yours, stopping you dead in your tracks.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, breaking the kiss, his breath brushing your cheek. “I… I just can’t.”
Your blood ran cold, the disappointment returning, though you understood. Of course you did. You were a journalist and only within recent months were you cordial with each other. Of course he couldn’t trust you. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.
You nodded, your hands going limp in his grip.
The guilt laced through him again at the resignation in your eyes. A part of him begged himself to let go, just let go, but the better part had already decided that he wasn’t ready. Even after four years.
He began to pull the mask back down, his movements signaling an ending you weren’t ready for. “I should—”
“It’s okay,” you whispered, cutting him off. Your hand gripped his wrist, tugging gently. “Follow me.”
He let you guide him, the yearning part of his soul willingly going along, until you were both standing in your bedroom. You released his hand to rummage in your closet, emerging with a sleek black tie you pulled from one of your suits.
You stood before him, smoothing the fabric in your hands as he watched, unsure of what was about to happen.
“What are you doing?” he questioned, his voice raspier than it was in the kitchen.
You answered him by raising it to eye level, securely tying it around your head, engulfing your vision in darkness. “This way,” you reassured, “I won’t be able to see you. Your secret’s safe.”
A breath he didn’t know he was holding escaped him. Just like that, the panic in his stomach began to dissipate, replaced by a heat, simmering low and insistent in his belly.
“You’re serious?” he asked, still slightly in disbelief by the display.
You nodded, lacing your fingers behind your back, offering yourself wholly to him. “You can leave now and we can forget this ever happened. Or…”
“...We can not be lonely for the night?” Peter finished.
You nodded, and waited.
The silence stretched as your pulse roared in your ears. You waited with a bated breath as the dread began creeping in. You were convinced he’d left and were seconds away from tugging the makeshift blindfold off when you felt the air shift in front of you.
His hands brushed your cheeks. You held your breath when he cupped your face, his palms holding you steady to connect your lips once more.
You sighed into the kiss, an exhale of pure relief and surrender as you let him take the lead, his mouth learning yours with a newfound confidence. He tilted your head, slipping his tongue in to deepen the kiss.
You moaned softly into his mouth, your hands releasing their grip to hold him at his waist.
You tugged at the textured fabric, allowing your hands to roam, sliding over his shoulders, down his back in search of a zipper, or anything to release him.
Your lips, in their distracted state, stilled on his. He broke the kiss, breathless. “What’s wrong?”
“How do you take this damn thing off?”
You missed the fond smile that touched his lips at your frustration. He kissed you again, a quick, hard press, before you heard a distinctive whoosh of air followed by the sound of the fabric falling to the floor.
You cautiously placed your hands back on his chest, your fingers meeting warm, soft skin.
You spread your palms over the muscle, mapping the planes of his chest while trying to visualize him in your head. You moved up over the column of his neck, holding his jawline in your grasp. You traced his features—his lips, still damp from your kisses, over the bridge of his nose, his brows.
He struggled to hold back his moan as you explored him with your touch, something about the careful caress feeling even more intimate than being seen.
Your fingers slid into his hair, tangling in the curls as you carded them down to gently fist the strands at the base of his neck, giving a tentative tug.
He whimpered as goosebumps brushed up his arms, any remaining restraint shattering.
He dove back in, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, all tongue and heat and desperation while you tried to keep up. He explored your body freely, his hands landing on your waist to pull you flush against him, erasing every last inch of lonely space between you.
You pushed him back, hoping you were on track for your bed. When you felt him fall down to the mattress, you sank to your knees on the floor between his parted legs. You bit your lip at his needy little pants while you ran your hands along his thighs, trailing higher until you felt the elastic of his underwear.
You hooked your finger beneath it, tugging to pull them down when he stopped you, panicked and fidgety. His hand in yours was fever-hot.
“What?” You asked.
“Nothing I just…” he stammered.
Your lips curved into a sly smile. “Has no one done this for you before?”
“What? Haha, no, of course I just—”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
He was glad you couldn't see the hot flush that painted his chest, rising up his neck. His hands fell away from yours, surrendering, almost regretting it when he saw your smug expression.
“Lift your hips for me.”
His heart did a little flip as he obeyed your order, his lips falling open when you freed his aching cock from the tight restraint.
He held his breath as you reached out, his cock pulsing at the agonizing wait until finally, your fingers wrapped around his tip.
A broken whimper escaped him, unrestrained and full of need, his hips bucking involuntarily up into the tight ring you created.
“O-Oh f-fuck…” he gasped, fisting the sheets on either side of him until his knuckles turned white. You began stroking, small little movements that explored lower and lower, feeling him twitch in your grip.
“Spiderman—” you cut yourself off with a chuckle, not being able to take the name serious in a moment like this. “Sorry, it’s funny calling you that right now.”
Peter could barely hear you over his distracted state, all of his senses zeroed in on your soft hand gripping his cock so perfectly.
“Hey,” you called to get his attention. “I can't see you. The only way I can tell you’re feeling good is by hearing you. Okay?”
He nodded, forgetting that you couldn't see him, letting out a choked mix of a hum and whine. You smiled, satisfied with his response, and leaned forward till your breath brushed over his tip.
“Let me hear you, then.” You parted your lips and took him into your mouth.
You wished you could have preserved the sound he made, a loud, punched out whimper that had you pressing your thighs tighter together, trying to give attention to your throbbing, neglected clit.
His back arched when you circled your tongue around his slit, tasting the thick beads of salty precum. You sucked gently, drawing out a litany of oh god, oh fuck from him.
Struggling to accommodate his thickness, you hallowed your cheeks, pushing further down his length until he was poking the back of your throat, triggering your gag reflex.
“Fuuuuck—” he cried, his hand shooting to rest on your head, his fingers tangling in the strands.
You pulled off with a soft pop, heaving in a deep breath. His hips thrusted to chase the warmth of your mouth, his eyes scrunching shut at the sudden absence of pressure.
They shot back open when you placed a delicate, open-mouth kiss over the tip. “I can tell you’re holding back.” Another kiss, his fingers gripped your hair tighter. “It’s okay… you can fuck my throat if you want…”
His face scrunched in pleasure, a high, wanton whine leaving him at the sound of your offer alone.
You wrapped your lips back around him, taking him all the way in, relaxing your throat around his size.
Forgetting his own strength, he pressed you down to take his cock deeper, forcing his length down your throat, his eyes rolling back when it contracted around the intrusion.
Below the blindfold your eyes watered as you coughed, but you fought through it, determined to take everything he gave you.
“Oh my fucking—mngh!” he choked out.
You focused on relaxing your muscles as he began bobbing you on his cock, setting a frantic, desperate rhythm.
He took a deep breath, taking in the smell of your intoxicating arousal with his heightened senses, the strain of your throat, the sloppy sounds, overwhelming in the best way.
He steadied a hand behind him on the bed, bracing himself to snap his hips up into your mouth with shallow thrusts.
“‘S so good,” he chanted, “God your mouth—o-oh fuu-ah!”
His moan tapered off into a silent shriek, his stomach clenching as the pressure built, threatening to snap.
With a pained groan he pulled you off. You sputtered out a series of coughs as you sat back on your heels, saliva coating your chin. His eyes widened as you brought a hand to rub over your throat.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I don't know what—”
“Why’d you pull me off?” You interjected.
“W-Why? Um, I uh… ‘Cause I was gonna come….” he said shyly, his bravado disappearing.
“Okay…” you started with a small smile spreading on your lips. “That’s the point.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah, well I didn't want to before… you…” he trailed off, cringing, unable to finish the sentence.
“Wow, even during sex you’re annoyingly sweet.”
He tilted his head back with a groan. “Shut up.” But he was smiling too now, bright and bashful.
He watched you rise to your feet, unbutton your jeans, and pull them down. Next you tugged off your shirt, carefully pulling it over your head to not move the blindfold.
The small, mindful act sent a jolt of tenderness to his heart amidst the lust. His eyes widened at the sight of you in nothing but your undergarments as you held a hand out for him, silently asking to lead you to him.
He took your hand in his, his grip firm as he pulled you forward until your legs were bumping his. You pushed him further back on the bed, following along to straddle his waist and settle back on his cock, pressing him against the damp fabric over your heat.
You sighed at the contact, his hands gripping your thighs, fingers digging deep into the flesh as his eyes screwed shut from the pressure on his cock.
You leaned down to kiss him, while subtly grinding down, making him moan through the kiss. You reached back to unclip your bra, separating from him to let it fall away.
He stared, mesmerized, at the newly exposed skin as you sat back, looking down at him with a challenging look, the same one you’d used on him countless times before.
Maybe he hadn’t misread the tension between you?
He sat up urgently, gripping your body to pull it back against his, kissing you messily while he flipped you over. He laid you down gently beneath him, kissing down your neck to your collarbone, until he reached your chest.
He glanced up to make eye contact with you, his expression falling when he forgot you couldn't see him. He shook his head, pushing the thought to the back of his mind, and kissed over the swell of each breast, his tongue darting out to lick one of your nipples to a stiff peak before fully taking it in his mouth.
“Mmm, fuck…” you moaned, arching into him as he flicked and sucked, releasing it with a wet sound to give attention to the other. “You’re good at this,” you breathed, your fingers curling into his hair.
He smiled against your skin, delighted by the praise.
“Thank you,” he said gently.
A smile bloomed on your lips at how adorable he was, thank you with a proud earnestness that made your heart swell with affection.
He trailed a hand down your stomach, settling it over your clothed mound, reaching lower to rub a single finger over your soaked slit. He took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling your scent as he slipped his hand into your panties, his finger dipping into your arousal. He parted your folds, slipping through them to collect your slick only to rub it over your swollen clit, tracing it with soft circles.
“Shit—Spider—,” you cut yourself off with another breathless laugh.
He hesitated for a second, whispering, “Peter,” before he could think twice.
Your surprise was interrupted when he pressed a finger into your entrance, curling his fingers to draw a moan out. “P-Peter?” you gasped.
His fingers stilled in you when he realized what he let slip. He’d given his name to you, willingly. He swallowed down the nerves clawing up his throat, reassuring himself that there were hundreds of Peters in the city. It didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. He kissed you to convince himself that it was okay, mumbling “Peter” against your lips again as he slipped in another finger.
“P-Peter!” you cried out, the melody of your voice calling his name an angelic symphony to his ears. He whimpered in response, pumping his fingers deeper into your tight entrance.
“Sound so pretty, feel so… mnghh—” Peter whined, his forehead dropping to yours when your cunt gripped his fingers.
“F-Feels so good, Peter.” A shudder ran through you as the pressure in your stomach built, your clit aching to be touched. The second his thumb ran across it, you were grabbing his wrist, pulling his fingers out and away from your dripping cunt.
“Look who’s stopping who now,” he said cockily with a teasing smirk.
You scoffed and shoved him off. He laughed, free and unbothered, the sound sending your heart soaring with joy as he fell back against the bed. You tugged your underwear off and sat back over him, taking his wrists and pinning them above his head. His cock twitched against your thigh at the dominating display.
You slid your pussy over his cock, nestling him between your folds, rolling your hips and shuddering as the head nudged your sensitive clit with each pass. He cursed, his head thrashing side to side as your silky skin hugged his length.
“P-Please… can’t… I n-need more—”
You crossed his wrists, holding them with one hand. The other fell to his throat, holding him there and cutting off his train of thought. Your fingers curled, holding him tighter, his eyes fluttering shut with a helpless whimper.
“Yeah, you like that?” You smiled.
His skin burned hotter. He pushed against your hand at his wrist, a weak attempt at a warning despite both of you knowing he could overpower you in a second. But he didn’t, and the thought made a warm, fuzzy feeling expand in your chest.
You released his wrists to grip his cock, rising on your knees to position him at your entrance. You sank down slowly, your pained moans coming in tandem when the head of his cock slipped in. You paused there, trying to adjust to the uncomfortable stretch.
“Just give me a second,” you panted, lowering yourself slowly. You could feel how much he was holding back, his hands returning to grip at your thighs. “Fuck, Peter, you’re so big.”
He whined, his hands shifting to your hips, squeezing hard as he ignored every instinct to fuck you dumb.
You grinned at his obvious restraint. “Good boy,” you cooed.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he gasped, his head digging into the mattress when you took him halfway.
“You think so, Spiderman?” you taunted. He bit his lip at the way you said the name like an endearment, his cock twitching insistently inside you. You sank all the way down, taking him fully in your cunt. His hand reached to rest over yours braced on his stomach, needing the comfort to keep him grounded to earth as he felt himself slipping away, his brain going fuzzy.
“I knew you’d be this big,” you murmured, “The suit really does you justice.”
“H-Huh—”
Before he could question you, you were pulling out until only the tip remained inside, then sinking back down in one slide.
A choked string of whimpers left him as his eyes glazed over. You steadied both hands on his abs, using him as leverage to ride his cock, rocking your hips earnestly to feel every inch of him press into your velvety walls. You looked like a vision above him, your breasts bouncing with every thrust, your mouth hanging open in pleasure.
“Yes,” he gasped, guiding you harder over his cock. “Just like that, o-oh fuck—you feel incredible.”
His eyes threatened to close when your walls fluttered around him, but he forced them open, determined to watch you come undone. Your nails dug into his muscle, leaving red angry scratches on his skin, the slight pain combining perfectly with the pleasure.
He could feel the pressure building, faster and deeper in his gut than the first time. “P-Please, please—”
God, he needed more. He flipped you over once more, slipping between your legs the second your back hit the mattress. He started thrusting into you with a pace you couldn’t fathom, raw and primal, each drive of his hips reaching a new depth as pure need took over.
You gripped his shoulders, your mouth falling open in a silent cry as the head of his cock slammed repeatedly into that spongy spot inside over and over again. Your world and thoughts narrowed down to him and the dizzying, coiling pressure dangling over the precipice.
“You’re c-cunt—fucking perfect,” he whimpered a desperate little cry into your ear, driving in harder with his enhanced strength, pushing you off the edge.
Your orgasm exploded with a violent, blinding force. You bowed off the bed, a fucked-out scream tearing from your chest as your cunt spasmed around him, the final trigger for his own release.
“Gonna come—f-fuck ‘m so close—I—”
He buried himself to the hilt, his whole body tightening as his release cut through him. “Coming! I-I’m coming!’
Thick ropes of cum shot deep inside your cunt, your releases mixing as your body shook with aftershocks of pleasure, his cock prolonging your orgasm.
His hips bucked lazily into you to milk out every drop of cum from his cock until there was nothing remaining.
He collapsed on top of you, panting with exhaustion, his weight barely braced on his forearm by your head. He looked down at your swollen lips, your blindfold still in place, and kissed you again without another thought, soft and languid.
Right as he moved to pull out, you stopped him with a hand on the small of his back. “Wait,’ you whispered, your voice spent and hoarse. “‘S-Stay?”
His eyes softened as he looked down at you, sensing your vulnerability in the question. You tried to find the words to explain, but you didn’t have to. He understood without explanation; you weren’t ready to let go of the temporary bliss of being this close to another person, and neither was he.
He moved gently with a pained moan, his over sensitive cock twitching inside you, still half hard.
He turned you onto your side to slide in behind you, tugging you back snug into his chest. When your breaths finally settled, he carefully tugged the knot of the blindfold free, pushing it off. You were facing away from him, anyway, he told himself.
Your eyes widened at the loss of the barrier, but he just pulled you in closer, burying his face into your hair, his arm secured around your waist, silencing any lingering thoughts.
Your mind was already drifting to the next morning when you’d wake up and inevitably find him gone. The hero would have slipped back into the night, leaving only the warm bed and his scent in your sheets as a reminder.
You closed your eyes anyway, deciding to pretend all was well for a little while longer.
Comment or message to be added to the spiderman taglist <3
𑁤 boyfriend peter parker/spiderman x reader, smut 18+, gain muscles, peter can shoot organic webs, improper use of organic webs, vaginal fingering, hair pulling, oral sex (male reciving), cumming, unprotected sex, pet name (baby, sweetheart), dirty talk, reader is obsessed with Peter's back, don’t be picky please . . .
You didn't know what had happened to your boyfriend, you really didn't have the faintest idea.
But you definitely loved it.
You and Peter had been together for two years, even though you had known each other for at least four years and Peter had always been in a certain shape. From the time you first saw him until a couple of months ago, he always had abs and fairly big biceps, maybe not exactly a gym rat or only muscle but you could definitely tell he worked out.
Unlike him, you weren't a gym person at all. Sure, you had plenty of passions but the gym just wasn't your thing and above all your boyfriend was advantaged -i mean, he was Spider-Man, he’d spend his time swinging from one skyscraper to another like Tarzan.
And that was exactly why you didn't understand what was happening to your boyfriend, you didn't understand anything about the gym world so consequently you didn't understand anything about what was going on.
Peter had gone from being a guy who was visibly working out to a guy people thought trained like a monster.
And that completely threw your self-control out the window, when you woke up the next morning in his bed and saw him shirtless at his desk -broad shoulders and muscular back fully exposed, you were practically drooling, not to mention his biceps -you could see just how massive they were with the slightest movement, all those veins pumping, or those sculpted pecs that made you want to bury your face right in them.
In short, the situation had become truly dangerous, because even when he made a slight movement -like, I don't know, just breathing and you saw his muscular chest rise and fall, it made you clench your thighs and sent a pulse throbbing through your core.
You practically couldn't see your boyfriend without being horny as hell and it made you feel like a serial pervert, the kind who ends up in rehab.
It had all become too much -especially in that day.
There was literally no fucking reason for your boyfriend to be that hot -none at all. He was sitting at his desk working on his costume, as usual, but you had an incredible view in front of you, his broad shoulders were completely bare, you could see the muscles in his back and the way his hands moved over the equipment in front of him, making those bulging biceps -the ones that drove you crazy, stand out, the visible veins pulsing across them and his moving hands.
"Have you been trying something different at the gym?" you asked, sounding almost innocent as you sat on the bed behind him.
Peter let a soft, surprised laugh escape his lips, "Why? Did you notice something different?" he asked, turning his chair toward you -distracting you with his exposed chest, well-defined collarbones, toned abs and that knowing little smile playing on his lips, because he knew perfectly well that something had changed.
"You're like, huge now," you said without thinking twice, "I mean, not that way -I just mean you're more muscular because... well, you know," you said awkwardly, already feeling yourself getting too embarrassed.
With that satisfied smile, he rose from his chair and positioned himself directly in front of you, you were practically at the level of his sweatpants' crotch and it would have taken very little time to pull them off, "More muscular baby?" he whispered, repeating your words as his veiny hands touched your hair and tucked it behind your neck.
"You know perfectly well that you are," you said, gazing at him enchanted as his hand moved to your cheek and his fingertip traced your rosy lips, "I know perfectly well sweetheart, but hearing you say it is three times better."
It took him just a moment to lower his trousers, leaving you practically face to face with his half-hard cock. Wasting no time, you rested your hand on his toned thigh and began to planting kisses on the pink, glistening tip, then shifting your hand from his thigh to the base of his cock, you ran your tongue upward along the length and as soon as you reached the tip you took it straight into your mouth, knowing his impatience. With his now full hard cock almost entirely inside you throat, you began moving your head back and forth, whenever you had nearly the whole length in your mouth you always tried to take even more, quickly finding a rhythm that let him explore the depths of your throat.
While you were working hard, Peter was completely lost, soft moans of pleasure and barely audible whispers escaped his red lips, the more you took into your mouth, the louder his voice became, "You're so good for me, baby -you take so much of it in your mouth" he whispered, gripping your hair firmly in his palm, he knew how much it turned you on having your hair pulled gently during sex, so he did it at every opportunity.
Then, as you kept up your rhythm, he pulled you away from his cock without a word, "Peter" you murmured softly as he laid you down on the bed, you were wearing only one of his oversized t-shirts that it didn't even reach mid of your thigh.
He climbed on top of you, his erection still glistening with your saliva and his pre-cum and placed his hand on your exposed thigh, sliding it closer and closer to your most intimate area, he kissed you with passion and with his till parted lips, he planted kisses on your sensitive spot behind your ear "Now I’m going to stretch you out a little, baby" he whispered, sending shivers down your spine, completely impatient, you nodded in response.
He slid your panties off your legs and keeping two fingers pressed together, he slipped them inside you without a second thought. You moaned at the immediate contact, feeling your tight walls stretch around his thick fingers.
He began scissoring his fingers to stretch your hole open, then pressed his palm flat against your skin, driving his fingers deep, but between movements, you felt a thick, sticky substance entering your hole.
"Peter, what the fuck was that?" you asked, letting out a soft moan from your lips, "Fuck..." your boyfriend cursed, lowering himself slightly to get a better look at your hole, "Shit, sweetheart I… I accidentally shot some webs inside you, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to..." he said, your cheeks instantly flushed hot as you felt that fluid still inside you, you felt like a pervert for reacting that way to something he was apologizing for but you snapped him out of his thoughts and back to reality.
"Peter, please, just get inside me" you ordered him immediately, "Baby but I just shot webs inside you..." he replied, pulling his fingers out, "And what? You don’t want to get inside me anymore?" you asked, your tone almost sensual, knowing exactly how he’d react.
He aligned his wet tip with your equally wet and sticky opening, "You're absolutely mind-blowing, sweetheart" he said before thrusting deep inside you in one go, you could feel his cock practically touching your lungs and your walls full of his cock and his organic webs.
He began driving into you with slow, sharp and deep thrusts but as the minutes passed, the strokes remained deep but picking up speed, moving in and out to a rhythmic beat.
With his free hand, he lifted your shirt and cupped your breast, running his fingertip over your hardened nipple. "Fuck Peter" you moaned, filled with pleasure.
His increasingly deep thrusts and almost superhuman speed -brutally sliding in and out, made you feel like you were being split in two with his big cock, you moaned his name like a crazy woman while he let out such sweet sounds.
You could feel an orgasm building deep inside you and Peter could sense it too -feeling the way your walls tightened around him, making him feel made only for your hot, tight hole.
He reached and grabbed your ankle with his free hand behind him -without even turning around, lifting it up and driving his cock deeper inside you, he rested your leg on his muscular shoulder -your ankle only highlighting the breadth of his shoulders as he thrust in and out, his skin slick with a light sheen of sweat from all the movement.
Needless to say that, that angle sent you straight into an orgasm and feeling you come around his cock -which was still buried deep inside you, made Peter couldn't hold back either and came inside you.
And fuck, having sex like that was a total release, especially with Peter.
Still breathless, with your chest rising and falling, Peter looked at you and planted a kiss on your lips. Your forehead was slightly damp with sweat and your hands were still gripping the mattress beside you.
"Round two?" your boyfriend suggested with a dazzling smile, "I'll shoot webs inside you again -I've figured out that turns you on, little pervert" he said in a low voice, making your flushed cheeks turn even redder beneath him. "Shut up and fuck me again."
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit sexual content — MDNI , graphic descriptions , excessive cum , kinda gentle to rough sex, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation , creampie, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), porn with little plot, needy peter parker , love confessions , touch starvation , college au , post nwh , smut , fem!reader , pussy drunk peter , first time together , confessions , the L word !!
𝐰𝐜: 4.9k (i think. might be more, might be less. idk.)
𝐚/𝐧: i may have gone overboard with this but it’s my first smut fic. LOL! no spoilers for brand new day! this is semi proofread, so sorry in advance for mistakes. enjoy!!
the thing about Peter Parker is that he doesn't realize how tactile he is.
or maybe he does now, after four years of forcing himself not to be.
you’re sprawled across his dorm room floor, textbooks and notes scattered around you like academic shrapnel. your Organic Chemistry problem set is due tomorrow, and Peter's trying to explain electron orbital hybridization for the third time while you're trying not to notice the way his hands move when he talks.
"okay, so—wait, are you even listening?" he glances up from the molecular model he's been gesturing at, catching you staring.
"yes," you lie. "orbitals. hybridization. very sexy stuff."
Peter's ears go pink. they always do. "it’s actually kind of cool if you think about it. like, the atoms are literally reshaping themselves to form stronger bonds—"
"Peter."
"—which is sort of romantic in a way? no? okay, yeah, I hear how that sounds."
you grin, nudging his knee with your foot. "you’re such a nerd."
the contact makes him freeze for just a second—so brief you almost miss it. but you've been Peter's best friend since freshman orientation, when you found him eating lunch alone in the dining hall, and you've gotten good at reading him. the way his breath catches. how his eyes track the movement of your leg as you pull it back.
"takes one to know one," he manages, but his voice is slightly rough.
you’ve been noticing things like this more lately. the way he leans into your touch when you grab his arm. how he finds excuses to be close—sitting next to you even when there's a whole empty couch, walking you home when your dorm is barely three buildings away. the looks that last a fraction too long.
at first, you thought you were imagining it. Peter Parker, who spent freshman year obviously pining after someone he wouldn't talk about, who kept a careful distance from everyone like he was afraid of breaking something. but somewhere between late-night study sessions and 2 AM bodega runs and him falling asleep on your shoulder during movie nights, something shifted.
now he's watching you chew on your pen cap, and there's heat in his gaze that makes your stomach flip.
"we should take a break," you suggest. "my brain is melting."
"yeah, okay." Peter runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up adorably. "i’ve got—uh, i think there's some leftover pizza? and definitely Red Bull, which is probably not great to mix with the coffee we already had, but—"
"Peter."
"hmm?"
you’re not sure what you were going to say. something about how he's rambling, maybe, or how cute he looks when he's nervous. but you're sitting close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, and the words dissolve on your tongue.
he swallows hard. "you’re looking at me weird."
"weird how?"
"i don't know! like..." he trails off, and you watch his gaze drop to your mouth before snapping back up. "never mind."
the air feels thick suddenly, charged with something that's been building for months. you think about all the almost-moments—hands brushing when passing coffee cups, the time he caught you when you slipped on ice and held on longer than necessary, the way he said your name last week, soft and wondering, like he was testing how it felt.
"Peter," you say again, and this time his name sounds different. heavier.
"yes?" it comes out barely above a whisper.
you lean in slowly, giving him time to pull away. he doesn't. instead, he tilts forward like you're gravity and he's been in orbit too long, and when your lips finally meet, the small sound he makes goes straight through you.
the kiss is soft for maybe two seconds before Peter's hand comes up to cup your face and it turns desperate. he kisses like he's starving, like you're air and he's been underwater for years. his other hand finds your waist, gripping tight enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers.
"sorry," he gasps against your mouth. "sorry, i just—"
"don’t apologize." you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently. the noise he makes is almost pained.
"i’ve wanted—" he breaks off, kissing you again, harder. "god, i’ve wanted this for so long."
you end up in his lap somehow, textbooks scattering as he pulls you closer. Peter's hands are everywhere—your hips, your back, sliding under the hem of your shirt to touch bare skin. when you roll your hips experimentally, he actually whimpers.
"fuck," he breathes. "fuck, you can't—i’m trying to—"
"trying to what?" you do it again, feeling him harden beneath you.
his head falls back against the bed frame. "be good. go slow. not just—" his hips buck up involuntarily. "not just maul you like some kind of—oh fuck, are you taking off your shirt?"
you are, in fact, pulling your shirt over your head. "is that okay?"
Peter's eyes go wide and dark. "is that—are you seriously asking if—yeah. yeah, it’s okay. are you kidding?" he reaches for you with shaking hands, then stops himself. "i need you to tell me this is real."
"it’s real." you guide his hands to your waist. "i’m real. touch me, Peter."
he surges up to kiss you, lifting you and gently laying you back against the bed, he follows you down—his weight pressing you into the mattress. he’s kissing the spot behind your ear now, your neck, your jawline, your collarbone, working his way down with single-minded focus. all he can think about is you. you, you you you you.
"you’re so soft," he murmurs against your skin. "so fucking soft, i can't get enough. so soft, and smooth.”
his hands shake as he reaches for your bra clasp. it takes him two tries, and he laughs breathlessly against your shoulder. "sorry, i’m—it's been a while.”
your heart clenches. you know Peter has secrets—everyone does—but sometimes he lets things slip that make you wonder what he's been through. "we can slow down if you want."
"no." it comes out fierce. "no, i don't want slow. i want—" he drags his hands down your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "i want to touch every part of you. want to taste you. want to—fuck, i want so many things."
he gets your bra off and just stares for a moment, reverent. when’s the last time he’s seen tits up close? then he's ducking his head to take your nipple in his mouth, and the feeling shoots straight between your legs. his tongue works in circles while his hand palms your other breast, and you arch into him with a gasp.
"Peter—"
he’s grinding against your thigh now, seemingly unconscious of it, completely focused on mapping your body with his mouth. when he kisses down your stomach, just above your navel, your muscles jump under his lips.
"can i?" his fingers are on the button of your shorts. "please. pleasepleaseplease."
"yes." you lift your hips to help him, and he drags your shorts and underwear down in one motion like he can't wait another second.
Peter sits back on his heels, just looking, and the expression on his face makes you feel like the most beautiful thing in the world. "holy shit," he breathes. "you’re so—i can't believe you're letting me—fuck.”
"Peter." you reach for him. "come here."
but he shakes his head, lowering himself between your thighs instead. "i need to taste you first. i’ve been thinking about this for months—i felt like a pervert but.. i just couldn’t stop thinking about you. shit, baby.”
the first broad lick of his tongue through your folds makes you both moan. Peter grips your thighs hard enough to bruise, spreading you open obscenely as he buries his face between your legs like a man starving. there’s no technique to it at first, just raw desperate hunger—he's licking and sucking messily, his tongue exploring every fold, every inch of you like he needs to memorize the taste.
"oh my god," you manage, watching him devour you. watching his messy curls between your legs. “Peter, that's—fuuuuck!”
he moans against your cunt, the vibration making your legs shake. his tongue finds your clit and circles it sloppily before dipping lower, the tip of his tongue pushing into your entrance. "fuck," he gasps, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin already shiny with your arousal. "jesus, you're so wet. you’re dripping—all for me?” he dives back in, licking into you deeper, his nose pressed against your clit as he tries to fuck you with his tongue.
you can feel how soaked you are, can hear the obscene wet sounds as he works you over. Peter's completely lost in it, grinding his hard cock against the mattress as he eats you out like it's the best thing he's ever tasted. because you are. if he knew, he would’ve confessed long ago.
"you taste so fucking good," he mumbles against your pussy, words muffled and desperate. "could do this forever. could just live between your legs—fuck, you're getting wetter. fuck, honey."
he slides two fingers into you without warning, and you cry out at the stretch. your walls clench around the intrusion, and Peter whimpers at the feeling. "oh god, you're so tight. so fucking tight and warm. holy fuck.” he curls his fingers, searching, and when he finds that spot inside you, your back arches off the bed.
“there!" you gasp. "right there, Peter, don't stop—"
"here?" he does it again, his fingers pumping in and out while his mouth seals around your clit. he sucks hard, tongue flicking rapidly, and the dual sensation has you climbing fast. you can see him grinding desperately against the mattress, seeking friction, his hips rolling in time with his fingers fucking into you.
"Peter, i’m gonna—"
"please," he begs against your clit, the word vibrating through you. "please cum for me, wanna feel your pussy squeeze my fingers, wanna taste you cumming on my tongue. please? will you cum for me, baby? please, i need it. i need you.”
his encouragements and the fullness combined with his mouth on your clit sends you over the edge. your orgasm crashes through you, and Peter moans like he's the one cumming as your walls clench rhythmically around his fingers. he works you through it, fingers still pumping, tongue still lapping at your clit until you're shaking and oversensitive and have to physically push his head away.
when he lifts his head, his face is a mess—lips swollen and shiny, chin glistening with your arousal, eyes absolutely blown black with lust. he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “that was the hottest thing i’ve ever done," he says, voice completely wrecked. he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, moaning at the taste. "you’re the hottest thing i’ve ever seen. i can’t—i need to be inside you right now or i’m gonna lose my mind."
you reach for his shirt with shaking hands. "off. please."
he strips so fast he nearly falls over, hopping on one foot as he shoves his jeans and boxers down. it’s almost comical, if you weren’t so desperate right now. when he's finally naked, you take a moment to appreciate him—lean muscle, the cut of his hipbones, his cock hard and flushed, curving up toward his stomach. the head is already leaking precum, and as you watch, another bead forms at the tip.
"come here," you say, and he practically lunges back onto the bed.
the first touch of skin on skin makes him shudder violently. "oh shit," he breathes, his cock sliding against your wet pussy. "ah fuck, you feel so good. jesus. your skin. fuckfuckfuck.”
your wrap your hand around him, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily, fucking into your fist. he’s hot and hard and silky in your palm, and when you stroke him once, experimentally, precum leaks over your fingers. the sound he makes is almost pained. he bites his lip so hard, you’re afraid he’ll break skin.
"i’m not gonna last," he warns, voice breaking. "i’m already so close, i’ve been so close just from tasting you, from feeling you cum on my face.”
"it’s okay." you guide him to your entrance, notching the head of his cock against your opening. you’re so wet that he slides through your folds easily. "i want you inside me. want to feel you cum inside me.”
Peter’s hand shakes as he reaches between you, gripping his cock to line himself up properly. "i don't—do you have a—"
"pill," you manage. "i’m on the pill. clean. are you—
"of course i am. i—i mean. yes.”
you’d normally never do this raw. but right now, all you care about is the way he's looking at you like you're everything, as he slowly pushes inside.
the stretch is intense—he's thick and the angle is deep and you're so sensitive from your first orgasm that every inch feels like too much and not enough all at once. you both groan as he sinks in, and you can feel your walls fluttering around him, trying to accommodate the intrusion.
"oh my god," Peter gasps, his whole body trembling. "oh my god, you're so tight, i can feel—fuck, i can feel everything—" his arms are shaking with the effort of going slow, his face buried in your neck. "you’re squeezing me so tight, oh, fuuuuck.”
when he's fully seated, buried to the hilt inside you, he stops, breathing hard against your skin. you can feel him pulsing inside you, can feel how close he already is. "need a second," he pants. "just need a second or i’m gonna cum right now.”
you run your hands down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he's holding himself perfectly still. "it’s okay. take your time."
"don’t want it to be over." he lifts his head to look at you, and his eyes are almost desperate, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left. "feels too good. you feel too good. like—like you were made for me, like your pussy was made to take my cock.”
you rock your hips slightly, and his eyes nearly roll back. "Peter, you can move. please move. i need you to fuck me."
he does, pulling out slowly—agonizingly slowly—and you can feel everything. every ridge, every vein, the way his cock drags against your walls, the way you're stretched around him. the sensation is so intense it makes your toes curl, makes you whimper at the loss of fullness.
"oh, fuck," Peter breathes, watching where you're joined, watching himself slide out of you. "you look so good taking my cock. so fucking good.”
then he slides back in, just as slowly, and you both moan at the same time. the sound he makes is broken, almost pained, like it feels too good to bear. his whole body shudders as he bottoms out again, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. he does it again, pulling out painfully slow—before sliding back in. the feeling is so perfect. yet, your body craves more. he sets a rhythm that's deep and steady, but you can feel him holding back, trying to maintain control, his jaw clenched with the effort.
"can’t—" he gasps. "can’t believe how good you feel. so tight and wet and warm. how are you so tight, baby? god.”
he sets a rhythm that's deep and steady, his cock plunging deep inside of your pussy, over and over. each thrust is deliberate, controlled, like he's trying to memorize every sensation. but you can see the effort it's taking him—his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping, his arms trembling where they're braced on either side of you, sweat already beading on his forehead.
"ah—yes!" you encourage, running your hands up his back. "you feel so good inside me."
his hips stutter slightly at your words, the rhythm faltering for just a second before he regains control. "yeah? you like feeling me fuck you?"
"yes, pete! love it! love feeling you stretch me open—!”
"fuck—" his next thrust is slightly harder, slightly faster, and he immediately tries to slow down again. "sorry, sorry, i’m trying to—trying to go slow but you feel so fucking good.”
"let go," you tell him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "i want to feel you lose control. want you to fuck me like you've been dreaming about."
he groans as he feels your walls clench around him. “i’m sorry, honey. m’sorry. i’m too rough, aren’t i? m’so sorry.”
"don’t apologize." you roll your hips to meet his next thrust, and the angle makes him hit deeper. "want to feel you."
the pleasure is building steadily, a warm coil tightening in your belly with each stroke. Peter's breathing is getting heavier, his control visibly slipping. his thrusts are getting incrementally faster, harder, like his body is moving on instinct despite his attempts to hold back.
"you’re so—ah!—perfect," he pants against your neck, his hips snapping forward a little harder. "so fucking perfect, taking my cock so well—" another thrust, faster this time. "been dreaming about this, about being inside you, about feeling you on my cock.”
his rhythm is getting less controlled now, more erratic. you can feel him starting to lose it, his careful restraint crumbling with each thrust. he’s sweating more, his skin slick against yours, his breathing ragged and desperate.
"Peter—" you dig your nails into his back. "more. need more."
he shakes his head. “can’t—if i go harder i won't be able to stop—" but even as he says it, his hips are moving faster, driving into you with more force. "what are you doing to me? fuuuck, i can't—i’m trying to be gentle but you feel too good.”
“then don't be gentle." you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "want you to fuck me harder."
he makes a sound that's almost a whimper, his hips stuttering before he slams into you harder than before. "like that? you want it like that?"
"yes!—fuck, yes—"
his control is slipping faster now. each thrust is harder, faster, more desperate. he tries to slow down, you can feel him trying, but his body won't listen. his hips keep moving, keep driving into you with increasing intensity.
"can’t stop," he gasps, his voice breaking. "can’t fucking stop, you feel too good, your pussy is so tight—" he’s babbling now, his face pressed into the curve of your neck. "want to fuck you so hard, want to make you feel so good, want to hear you scream my name.”
"m’trying to—trying to hold back—" but his hips are moving faster, pounding into you with a force that makes the bed shake. "don’t want to hurt you—"
"you won't. please, Peter, i need it.”
his next thrust makes you both cry out. he’s completely losing it now, his rhythm getting faster and more erratic, his body taking over despite his attempts at control. you can feel him shaking, trembling with the effort of holding himself back even as his hips betray him.
"i’ll hurt you—i’m stronger than i look—“
"shut up, Peter." you pull him deeper with your legs, and the angle makes you both gasp. "stop—fucking—ah!, stop apologizing. i want all of you. want you to use me, fuck me as hard as you need.”
his eyes roll back at the depth and his fragile restraint snaps. he eyes go dark and feral, and suddenly he's pounding into you, his hips snapping against yours with force that would probably hurt if you weren't so turned on. the bed frame slams against the wall with each thrust, and Peter's completely gone, his filter destroyed.
"fuckfuck, shit, your pussy feels so good," he babbles against your neck, his voice broken and desperate. he reaches up, his hand palming your breast, squeezing the weight in his hand. his thumb circling over your nipple as he moans into your neck. "so tight and wet and perfect—can't believe i get to have this, have you. been wanting to fuck you for so long..” he changes the angle slightly and hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "there? can you feel me there? can you feel how deep i am?"
"yes!" you’re clinging to him, nails digging into his back. "Peter, oh my god!”
"shit—! wanted to bend you over the library table," he confesses, words tumbling out in a rush as he fucks into you relentlessly. "wanted to pull you into the bathroom at that party last month and fuck you against the sink. wanted to wake up with my face between your legs, wanted to fall asleep with my cock still inside you—" he’s rambling now, completely unfiltered, telling you every desperate fantasy as his hips piston. "used to jerk off thinking about this, about how you'd feel, how you'd sound, what your pussy would look like stretched around my cock.”
the world outside his dorm room falls away, all you can feel is his cock pumping in and out of you. you can barely think, he’s barely giving you time to think. all you can hear is his moans, your own desperate cries and the wet slap! of his skin against yours.
you can feel another orgasm building, the angle hitting perfectly with every brutal thrust. your walls are fluttering around him, and you know he can feel it because he moans and somehow speeds up even more. like he’s superhuman.
"Peter, i’m close—"
"i know, sweet girl. i can feel it." he reaches between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit. the touch is almost too much on your oversensitive flesh, but then he's rubbing tight circles and you're flying. "cum on my cock. please baby, need to feel it, need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock. just like you did on my fingers.”
tne combination of his thumb and the relentless thrust of his hips and his desperate words sends you over the edge. your second orgasm hits even harder than the first, your whole body seizing as pleasure whites out your vision. you clench around him rhythmically, and Peter makes a sound like he's been punched, his rhythm faltering.
“oh shit, shitshitshit, you're squeezing me so tight, i can't—i’m gonna cum—where? tell me where. please.”
"inside," you gasp, still riding the waves. "cum inside me, Peter, want to feel it.”
he buries himself as deep as possible and comes with a broken moan of your name.
you can feel it immediately—the first hot pulse of cum flooding into you, but it doesn't stop. it keeps coming, wave after wave, his cock jerking violently inside you as he empties himself. there’s so much—more than should be possible—each pulse filling you fuller, the warmth spreading deep inside as he shakes apart above you.
"oh god, oh god.” his voice is completely destroyed, words slurring together as another massive wave hits him. "i’m sorry, baby. i know it’s a lot—fuuuuck. imsorryimsorryimsorry.”
another pulse, his hips jerking involuntarily, grinding deeper like he's trying to fuck his cum even further inside you.
his arms are shaking so badly he can barely hold himself up. you can see tears gathering at the corners of his eyes from the overwhelming intensity, his face twisted in almost painful pleasure.
when his orgasm finally, finally starts to subside, he collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress because he literally cannot hold himself up anymore. he’s shaking like a leaf, gasping against your neck, and you can feel the obscene amount of cum leaking out of you.
"holy shit," he finally says, voice absolutely destroyed. "that was—i mean, i knew it would be good, but that was—i think i saw the heavens. god, i feel like i’m gonna pass out.”
"that was so hot," you manage, because words are hard right now and your limbs feel like jelly.
he lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is soft and wondering and a little hungry. "i love you," he says. "i know that's probably too soon to say, and we should probably talk about what this means, but i love you. i’ve been in love with you for months, maybe longer, and i thought i’d never get over—someone else—but then you smiled at me in the dining hall freshman year and i just.. i don’t know. you definitely don’t have to say it back, because i sound insane, but i just want you to know that—“
you kiss him, cutting off the ramble. "i know. i think i love you too.”
his answering smile is bright enough to power the sun. "yeah?"
"yeah.”
he kisses you again, soft and sweet this time, and you can feel him starting to harden inside you again, his cock thickening and lengthening where it's still buried in your pussy.
"Peter," you say, mock-stern even as your body responds.
he grins, sheepish and hungry all at once, and rolls his hips experimentally. the slide is easy, slick with cum and arousal. "i have months to make up for. hope you didn't have plans tomorrow."
you definitely don't have plans. and when he starts moving again—slow and deep and perfect, his cum making obscene wet sounds as he fucks it back into you—you can't think of anywhere else you'd rather be than here, in his messy dorm room, with the boy who's been touch-starved for too long finally letting himself feel everything.
the Organic Chemistry homework can wait.
authors note: whewww.. hi guys… yes.. yes.. i’ve been gone for a few weeks but IM HERE NOW! and here with a smut.. wooo!! baby’s first smutfic yum yum. i saw bnd on the 29th and holy fan service.. any who i have a love hate relationship with this. i’m SCARED to post this and i will delete if it doesn’t do well (kidding). i just get embarrassed writing smut so.. hope you love it.. and if you do, i might make more !! bye loves <3
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).
and time, is taking its sweet time erasing you (part two)
part one
pairing: peter parker x fem!reader
word count: 6.2k
warnings: mugging (minor, over quickly), kissing(!)
summary: getting your memories back comes with a lot of feelings, but one thought consumes it all: where is he?
a/n: thought about splitting this into more parts…then decided i didn’t care. thank you for all the love on part 1!! i’ve had the best time reading your comments and seeing all the reblogs!! tried to tag as many people as i could!! don’t hate me if this sucks okay byeeee
Well, would it even be going crazy if you were suddenly having memories that you were sure were yours, and sure had been taken from you somehow? Is that going crazy, or is it going uncrazy?
Whatever.
After your dream, you spend the day with the worst headache you’ve ever had in your life. You think you take about ten Advil to get through the day (screw the warning labels), hating your stupid job and the stupid 90-day policy before you can take PTO because the last thing you want to do after remembering a name that makes your heart feel like it’s flying out of your chest is sit at a desk and look at code for a stupid, dumb app.
On a Friday.
You spend your entire shift staring at the wall in your cubicle where you’d pinned a picture of you, Ned, and MJ from high school. By twelve, you’re one hundred percent certain that there had been someone else there. Someone next to you, arm around your shoulder, a smile that makes you feel jittery just thinking about it. You know what that smile looks like. You know.
Peter Parker, a constant mantra in your head. You’d written it on sticky notes you’d slapped on twenty different things in your room, filled an entire page of your work notebook with it. You would not forget again.
You couldn’t.
By two, you remember his Aunt May and her warmth, the way she’d always feed you and always treat you like one of her own. How she’d always teased Peter but never, ever hesitated to protect him.
By two-thirty, you remember that she’s dead. You look up her obituary on your work computer—screw it—and read through it, sniffling and aching and destroyed when there’s no mention of a nephew anywhere on it.
Peter Parker, you write again on a sticky note, then under it, Aunt May.
By four, your memories of high school have reshaped, the blurry remnants of them you’d had remolding like wet clay, and Peter is everywhere.
The first day of freshman year, debating with you on the subway about who was going to be more popular (neither of you).
Laid across your bed with chemistry textbooks open, wearing sweats and a hoodie and looking so soft. You remember wanting to kiss him, feeling ashamed because of it.
All the times he’d started disappearing, missing classes. When you’d invite him over for dinner and he’d never show. When your study sessions turned from the two of you laughing and not really getting any work done, to just you. Alone.
Following him after school, knowing something was up, wanting to be there for him. Watching him strip to his boxers in an alleyway, tug on Spider-man’s suit and launch himself onto the rooftops.
Sneaking into his window and waiting in his bedroom, so angry he’d never told you. Deflating immediately when he’d slipped in later that night, wide and pleading brown eyes, a bruise on the apple of his cheek, looking so vulnerable in a suit that meant anything but.
Your first kiss. The pink of Peter’s cheeks, the way his breath caught, stuttering through telling you it’d always been you. That he couldn’t imagine another day where you didn’t know. How couldn’t you have known?
Sitting on rooftops, going to dances, learning the ways his body responded to your touch, looking up how to do stitches for when Spider-man would come tumbling through your bedroom window, scaring you to death—that’s how you knew how to do stitches! Dates where he’d hold you to his chest and take you swinging around Manhattan, wind in your hair and laughter in your throat.
God, you’d loved him. You’d loved him more than anything else in the world.
More than anything.
And you still did. Still had, all these years. Felt it in your chest, curled up and ever-present. Felt it expand when you’d seen him again, light you up from the inside without warning.
But how had you forgotten?
By five, when you’re on the subway home, you know.
The memory bleeds against your eyelids. Peter, beaten and bloodied, eyes red from crying and busted blood veins. Your Peter, telling you that you would forget everything, wiping your tears and promising that he’d come find you. That he’d come get you and make you remember.
You telling him you would never forget.
But you had.
And he’d let you.
You’re so angry at the thought that you have to take a lap around your block before you enter your apartment. So angry that you end up going to your favorite bodega on the corner and getting your favorite sandwich even though you're supposed to be saving money. And then you get annoyed on top of that because the second your order leaves your lips you suddenly remember that it had been Peter’s favorite too.
That you both used to split one from Delmar’s on Wednesdays and eat it on the roof of your parent’s apartment.
You must look downright furious, because Jay, the cashier that’s been there every time you’ve come since you moved in, slides you a chocolate bar on top of your finished sandwich and doesn’t charge you for it.
You eat the whole thing while you take the stairs up to your apartment, muttering to yourself.
Then you see all your sticky notes. Peter Parker on your lamp, your closet door, on the coat hanging from your bed frame, on your window and pillow, where you’d scattered a handful of them at 3am.
You were mad. You were pissed.
But you wanted to be mad at him to his face. To see him and yell at him until you lost your voice. To watch the way his eyes would change from your words, so easy to read. To hug him and kiss him and touch him. To throw things and watch him dodge them effortlessly, to let him calm you down, to let him.
You wanted to know if he still had the same sandwich order.
Did he even want you to remember?
You think about the look on his face the night before—he’d been right there next to you after all that time, and you’d let him slip away. The way he’d looked at you when he’d knocked on your door, how he’d held your hand when he’d helped you up, how he’d let you talk to him about the dreams you’d already shared with him in the dark with this calm, serene look on his face.
And you didn’t care if he wanted you to remember him or not.
You were going to find him.
The next day, after a night filled with dreams about calloused hands and hushed whispers, after waking up with tingling lips and a hollowness to your chest, you start your search with a sudden kind of desperation.
Ned had gone to visit his grandma for the weekend, so you plant yourself in his chair and spend hours searching the internet for any trace of Peter Parker.
You even search for Maynard—absolutely ridiculous name—and then spend ten minutes crying over how Peter it was to use a dumb fake name, and how you miss him so much.
You find nothing.
The spell had worked. Peter Parker was nowhere. No one.
You sit back in the chair and try to breathe through your disappointment.
How were you going to find a ghost? How would he ever know that you remembered?
A notification sounds through the computer. Discord, from Ned’s Spidey Tracker server. You silence it absentmindedly.
Then you sit up.
Peter Parker was nowhere.
But Spider-man…Spider-man was everywhere.
And you knew how to track him.
You move so fast you hit your knee on the underside of the desk, and curse your way through pulling up the app files. You’d helped Ned code the app, so you knew it was based entirely on community sightings of Spider-man, constantly taking in reported locations and spitting them back out for the users.
Which meant you knew how to compile a list of his most common locations. Maybe if you could narrow it down enough, you could figure out where he could be.
You make a mental note to talk to Ned about how dangerous this app could actually be, and then you get to work.
You can’t believe how many people have been using the app. There are hundreds of thousands of sightings and photos and videos to sort through. It takes you hours.
Which is definitely attributed to you constantly getting distracted by videos of Spider-man after fights, heaving chest and weak knees, swinging off all alone.
How many wounds had he had to treat by himself?
How lonely he must be.
You don’t narrow it down to a few specific locations until close to midnight. Queens (of course), a five block radius of sightings going back to when Ned officially published the app. You compile the time stamps.
Most of them are in the middle of the night, into early morning.
“God, Peter, when do you sleep?” You mutter to the screen as your code spits the times back at you. You’re almost sick with how much you want to hold him.
It’s late. It’s late and you should wait until tomorrow. At least until the sun comes up. But you dismiss the thought as soon as you have it. You feel like you’ll die if you wait any longer to find him. Plus, it’s the perfect time. The app said so.
And you’ve never been a very patient person.
So you go to your room to get ready, and you hesitate. Should you…look nice? What if you don’t even find him? What if you find him and he says he doesn’t want you—
No. You’re not going there. This is Peter. Yes, you’d forgotten him. You’d forgotten him and the guilt was eating away at you for it. But you knew him. Even through the haze, you know him.
As angry as you are, you know why he did what he did, self-sacrificing idiot.
You hated that it made you love him even more.
In an effort to be quick, you just throw on a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. You grab your mace and make sure your keys are poking through your fingers, just in case. Small crimes have practically disappeared over the past four years, but you were going to a part of Queens your mom and even Peter had once warned you about, so you weren’t going to take any chances.
Plus, a crazy part of your brain whispered, if you get mugged, maybe he’ll come save you.
Yep. Definitely losing your mind a little.
You ride the subway with tunnel vision. Mapping where you’ll go, how long you’ll look, how much it’ll take before you give up. It’s quiet on the subway, only the occasional sleepy passenger and drunk college kids going home in crowds. But once you get to your stop in Queens, you exit alone.
You take a deep breath, and you start walking. Eyeing alleyways and rooftops, ears perked for any movement. Keys in one hand, Spidey Tracker open in the other, map devoid of any spider symbols.
You loop the blocks slowly, one direction then the next. It’s probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, being out so late on your own, but you had that feeling. The only one you’d trusted since college Since, now you knew, you’d forgotten everything.
The feeling of being right. Of being sure.
So you keep walking, holding on to hope that the stragglers you avoid on the sidewalks will see something you don’t and set off the app. You keep staring at the screen, at the void of streets with no red icons, urging one to pop up.
Which, in the end, was the thing that actually took first place for the stupidest thing you’d ever done.
Because you hadn’t been paying attention. If you had, you’d have heard the footsteps. You’d have heard the schlick of the pocket knife being cracked open.
You would have been able to close your hand around the mace on your keychain before you’d been pushed into an alley, face pressed hard into the brick wall, until it stung.
The man holding you grunts as he slams your wrist against the wall to get you to drop your phone. You try not to cry out at the pain, to not show them how scared you are as it clatters to the ground.
Your mind goes somewhere very, very far from your body.
Another pair of hands wretches your keys from your grip, and then there you are, defenseless. The one holding your wrist yanks you back around and slams your back against the brick. He keeps one hand firmly on your shoulder and brings the other up to your throat. You feel the prick of the knife against the underside of your jaw, and grind your teeth against the whimper that wants to escape.
You can barely see the man’s face under his hood in this darkness, barely make out the shape of his eyes. He must see the screen of your phone on the ground, because he snorts. “Looking for Spider-man?”
His friend chuckles.
“He’s not here,” He continues, his tone mocking. He runs a finger down the side of your face, and you think you’re going to throw up. “It’s just you. And us.”
Your phone vibrates from where it’d fallen, still open to Spidey Tracker. A notification brightens the screen, then:
New Spider-man sighting! Location: Queens.
The one holding you freezes a second before a web wraps around the knife he’s holding against you and drags it up into the darkness.
“I’m sorry,” A voice calls from somewhere above, hiding where the light doesn’t touch. “Were you using that for something?”
Your body crumples against the brick in relief. It’s him.
The man doesn’t even have time to move before he’s getting jerked back, so hard his body goes flying into the adjacent wall. Before you can even blink he’s encompassed completely in webs, eyes and mouth obscured.
The other one starts running immediately, but a figure swings from the shadows, kicking him straight in the chest and sending him sprawling against a dumpster with a deep clang. You have one second to let out a breath before he’s enveloped, too.
It all happens so fast. Them getting webbed, Spider-man talking through the mask like he’s on a phone call, saying the words mugging and two males, early 20s, she’s safe. Then picking up your phone and keys, pressing a gentle hand into your upper back, and guiding you back out onto the street. The glow of the lights almost blind you, and you blink.
You’re…okay.
You look back into the alley, your attackers groaning into the dark.
Wow, you think.
“Are you okay?” Spider-man—Peter—asks, keeping his distance now that you're safely in the street and can see him fully. Cloaked in red and blue, the white eyes of the suit expanding and contracting as he takes you in. As he, no doubt, realizes who you are.
You know exactly when he does, because his entire body tenses up and goes still, easy to see under the material that hugs every single muscle that has only grown bigger since you’d last seen him this close. You watch, slowly, as his free hand clenches into a fist, and then he’s crossing over towards you, fast.
Fingers on your chin, turning you to face the light, to check for damage. A small, choked off sound when he must see something there. Now that your adrenaline is fading, you can feel the pain against your cheek, the way your knees are shaking, the other hand he’s put against your side to hold you up. He’s so warm, is your first coherent thought, so warm and here.
“I’m okay,” You manage. Your voice sounds breathless, scared.
Spider-man’s fingers leave your jaw, move up as if he means to press them against what you assume is a cut on your face, but then stop. You feel him take a breath, so close to you, then pull away. He takes a step back, two. Your body goes cold. “What are you doing here?” He asks you, his voice desperate and wounded under the mask. You don’t have to see him to know the quiver in his lip, the worry that has to be shining in his eyes. But he clears his throat and backs up even more, almost completely out of the light now. “I mean…uh…why are you out here this late? Alone?”
There’s a roughness on the alone, an anger you know from when you’d tried to help him stop a car jacker in junior year and gotten thrown to the ground, hard. The memories come easier now, a constant stream of pieces that leave you disbelieving that this man loved you. That he’d cared for you and you’d cared for him. Peter Parker. Spider-man.
You hadn’t planned what to say. You sure as hell hadn’t actually planned on getting mugged, despite the real possibility. Your mouth feels dry and your body is buzzing with nerves, battling with the need to touch him. You open your mouth, not even sure what will come out—
New Spider-man sighting! Location: Queens.
You both jump.
Across the street, you see a flash, and a voice yells, “Spider-man!” Your phone vibrates and sounds another notification, and you see the spider icons start popping up, reflecting against the material of his suit where he’s still holding your phone. “Spider-man, could I get a picture?”
Spider-man looks at the person starting to cross the street, then looks at you, then back. The eyes of his suit are impossible to see through, but you can see the indecision in every line of his body.
Whether he should leave you for the police. Whether you want him to.
You think back to the other night, the urge to tell him wait for me despite not knowing him. What had happened when you didn’t do it.
You’re desperate. You have this feeling that if you let him walk away now, you won’t have another chance. That he’ll swing away or the cops will come and you’ll lose him, anyway. You grab at his arm, the hard line of his bicep, and all you can say, all you can whisper, is, “Peter.”
His head whips over to you. Those eyes contract in, out, in, out. He goes utterly, completely still. You wish you could see his face, see what he was thinking. How he was looking at you.
There’s a whoosh of breath from under the mask. He takes a step closer to you and your heart has enough time to jump into your throat by the time he hands you your things, wraps one arm around your waist, and tells you lowly, “Hold on to me.”
So you do. Hands around his neck, so close to the line of his mask, as he shoots the two of you up and away from the pedestrian who throws his hands up, away from the incoming police sirens, and across the rooftops. You feel the wind in your hair for just a moment, enough time for you to smile, to let the part of you that’d forgotten everything remember what it had been like, before you’re on concrete again, however many stories up.
Spider-man lets you go like he’s been burned, pacing a few steps away and running his hands over his mask, where you know he’d be pulling at his curls if he could get to them.
All at once, he turns to you. “What did you say?”
Quiet, nervous, as if he’d heard wrong.
It’s a slow thing, dropping your things to the ground and walking over to him. He tracks your every movement carefully. Tracks it as you bring your hands up, across his shoulders, up to where the mask meets the neck of his suit. You run the pads of your fingers under the material, finally finally against his skin, and he shivers against you.
You wait to see if he’ll stop you, but he’s practically swaying on his feet under your touch. You don’t think he’s breathing, don’t think he lets out a breath until you pull off the mask and your eyes meet.
There’s a scratch across his forehead, right over his eyebrow. A bruise on his jaw. His eyes are glistening as they take you in, running over and over your face, searching. Hopeful.
Perfect.
The mask thudding to the ground sounds like it’s miles away.
“Peter,” you murmur. You press your hand to his cheek, and he leans into it, melts into it.
He laughs, a disbelieving thing. A tear falls from his eye and curls around your thumb as he loops his fingers around your wrist, loose and distracting. “You remember.”
You feel like there are a thousand little stars in your chest, shining and imploding. You nod, and with a sniffle, realize you’re crying, too. Smiling, too. So hard you feel the strain of it. “I remember.”
You look at each other, twin tear-stained cheeks, and then Peter is pulling you close, into his chest. You throw your arms over his shoulders, run a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. He shudders, ducks his head into your collarbone, and bunches his hands into the fabric at your waist as if he’s scared you're going to disappear.
You stand there for what feels like hours, breathing each other in. The smell of the wind on him, so familiar to you, so similar to how it was before everything happened. Like nothing had changed, like you hadn’t spent four years feeling his absence without knowing why.
But he pulls away from you, sudden. Far enough to look into your eyes. “Tell me you’re okay.” His hand lifts to run against the cut on your cheek. Moves down to your arms, the redness of your wrists. You feel his touch rattle into your bones. “I hate that this happened to you.”
“I’m okay, Peter. Promise.” You can’t stop saying his name, marveling at the feel of it on your tongue after not saying it for so long.
The look he gives you is so pained. “Let me fix this for you.”
You shake your head, even as your stomach twists pleasantly at the tone of his voice. “It’s nothing.”
He grips your chin, and you wish you could feel his fingers without the suit. He makes you look at him, to see the emotion in his eyes. He says your name, low and sweet, and you feel like breaking apart. “Please.”
“Okay.”
You would’ve gotten mugged a thousand times—hell, you’re scared of what you’d be willing to go through—if it meant it would end with you right here, with Peter leading you down into his apartment.
It’s a mess of tech: a line of monitors on a large desk, a fancy-looking printer lasering up something you can’t see, a treadmill shoved into a corner. The bed is a mess of threadbare sheets, and the kitchenette is bare, just a couple of chip bags and protein powder sitting on a shelf by the fridge.
It’s…honestly, it makes you feel unbearably sad.
You’d been going to college, learning about computers and SQL and Python, meeting Ned and MJ to study on the quad, making friends and new memories.
And he’d been here.
“Here,” Peter says, tugging you over to sit at the edge of his bed. He leaves you there, taking off his mask and throwing it haphazardly onto his keyboard, bending to tug out a giant first aid kit from underneath the desk. When he returns, he kneels between your legs, still in his suit, thigh muscles rippling and bulging against the fabric.
A secret you hadn’t even told MJ and Ned: you’d had a crush on Spider-man. Crush sounded ridiculous, but it was the only way you could describe it. Even at MIT, you’d watched any video you could of him swinging around New York, thinking about the man under the mask. Could you be blamed, seeing how he filled out that suit?
It’d made a lot more sense in the past couple of days. Maybe you didn’t remember Peter Parker, but your body sure as hell remembered Spider-man.
It’s a little overwhelming, Peter looking up at you tenderly through his lashes, clad in something almost obscene. Two sides of the same coin.
Very overwhelming, actually.
He gets to work cleaning your cut, standing between your knees. He holds one hand against your jaw, fingers reaching into your hair, as he gently dabs it with alcohol. You sigh into the touch, and wait until he’s finished putting tape on it to say, “I missed you, you know. I might have forgotten you, but I don’t think my body ever stopped wondering where you were.”
He must have been waiting for you to say something first, because he lets out a deep, shuddering breath. He tilts your head up with the hand still in your hair, and with the other, traces the line of your bottom lip. You feel like you’re on fire, hot under the touch. He’s looking at you like he had the other night, like he’s scared you’re going to disappear from right under his hands. “I missed you, too. So much. Every day.”
You want to ask, then why? Why did you let me forget?
But you’ve spent so much of the last forty eight hours angry, and right now, you want to be relieved.
The anger can come later. It will come later.
Peter is doing this half-smile, gaze still caught on your face. “I was always—“ a huff, another graze against your lip that leaves you reeling. “I was always thinking about you. It was distracting. I couldn’t—I couldn’t do anything.”
You run your hand up his abdomen, clad in red. It pulses under your touch, and Peter’s breath hitches like he’s in pain. You stop at the spider on his chest, drag a finger across the surface. “You seemed like you were doing just fine.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “There’s so much to tell you. But I don’t want to drag you back—“
“Do not finish that sentence.”
Suddenly you’re standing, finger pointed at his chest. You clench your teeth against the anger that hits you, white-hot. You’d been doing so good, forgetting it. You try to breathe, breathe through the reality that he’s trying to do this to you again. “Peter,” the way his face crumples under you saying his name again almost gives you pause. “I’ve lived without you for four years. And I’m so pissed at you for doing that to me. Thinking about you in this shithole—sorry—all alone for all that time makes me so angry. Thinking about you leaving me and Ned and MJ in a world where we think you don’t exist is—is so—“
You have to break off to breathe. Peter is following every word you’re saying, even as his eyes grow red with tears again.
“I’m mad, Peter. I’m heartbroken that you did this to me. But now I can tell you that I do know what it’s like to live without you. Whatever life you wanted for me, away from you, from all of this, I got it.
“And I hated it. I spent every second feeling like something was missing. You know the first date I tried to go on, I puked twice before I even made it out the door and had to cancel? Everything was so wrong all the time. You said you were always thinking about me? Well I was always thinking about you and I didn’t even know why.
“Peter.” You touch his face, and you feel your expression shift, recognize it from your dreams. The soft slant of your mouth, the warmth of your eyes. “I’d rather be in danger every day of my life, every second, than to keep living it without you. I can’t do it anymore, and I won’t do it.”
And Peter, through his tears, through the lump in his throat starts to say, “I don’t—“
You cut him off. “Do you love me? Still?”
Even though you’d known the answer, known it since he’d knocked on your door as a stranger, it’s a relief when he immediately nods his head. “Yeah. Yes. You know I—yes, of course. Always.”
Always.
“Do you want to be with me? I’m talking about Peter Parker. No Spider-man, no multiverse bullshit. You.”
You watch, transfixed, as his defenses lower. As he’s left deflated, nothing but messy curls and sad eyes. “Yes.”
“Then be with me.”
“I can’t—“
“If you want me out of your life, you’re gonna have to get Doctor Strange to make me forget again. I mean that. I love Peter Parker, and there is no Spider-man without Peter Parker. And if Peter Parker loves me, and Peter Parker wants to be with me, I’m gonna let him.” For good measure, you add, “Fuck Spider-man.”
It gets a surprised laugh out of him, as watery as it is. The smile stays after, too. Even through it, through how much you’re sure he’s heard you, you know you haven’t completely convinced him. You see the hesitation behind his eyes.
Stubborn, stubborn man. You could get him to change what kind of candy he wanted at the store, but when he came to what he thought protected you, it was like talking to a wall.
And unsurprisingly, you were failing.
“Just,” you touch his hand, revel in how it immediately envelopes yours like second nature. “Be with me. At least for tonight. No Spider-man, no memory curse that I’ll definitely need to talk to you about later, just Peter. You and me.”
He squeezes your hand once. “You and me.”
Your chest feels like it could cave in with the relief. You’d do it. You’d convince him, some way.
For now, you just wanted to see him.
“You want to change out of the suit?” You ask him, “I wanna…feel you.”
It comes out…not how you intended it. You just meant you wanted to feel the skin of his hand when he touched your face, the jut of his collarbone under your touch, the stretch of his bicep.
But he gulps, hard. “I, uh—Yeah. Yeah, I can go—“ He throws a thumb over his shoulder, looking panicked, and honest to God stumbles over his feet. “I have—clothes, bathroom. Yeah. Be right back.”
You laugh into the dark, and you think the lightness of your chest could fill the entire room. The entire city.
When Peter returns in a hoodie and sweatpants—looking so much more like the boy you fell in love with—his cheeks are still red. He comes to stand close to you, chest to chest, and lets out a breath like it'd been hard to be so far from you for that small time.
This was your Peter. Say all you want about Spider-man, but Peter would always be yours, tucked against your ribcage like a secret just for yourself. Whether he liked it or not.
He leans his forehead against yours. Already, being out of the suit has made him softer. More honest. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’m scared I’m dreaming.”
You do what you’ve been dying to do since two nights ago, even if you’d been avoiding the feeling. Run your hands under the bottom of his hoodie, splay them against his lower back. He’s so warm, and just touching him makes you feel too full, a soda can shaken too much just before opening. His content sigh, the way his body slackens the smallest bit, the heavy blink he gives you.
“Me too. It’s how I remembered you—a dream.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Us on the roof. I was saying your name. I was happier than I’d been in years. When I woke up I just…kept remembering. Stole Ned’s computer to try and find you.”
“Spidey Tracker…you coded it, didn’t you?”
You nod against him, pleased he’d noticed. “Totally dangerous, by the way. Someone could track you down easily.”
“Someone did.” He smiles at you, not at all threatened by someone using it to hurt him, not afraid.
You roll your eyes, and his crinkle at the corners, running over your face, catching on your lips.
Staying there.
“Hey, Peter?”
He makes a humming sound, distracted.
“When are you gonna kiss me?”
There’s a soft, startled gasp in the back of his throat. He looks back at you, eyes a little wide. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”
“I’ve been waiting four years to kiss you.”
He licks his lips, blushing at your words. He brings his hand to cradle the back of your head, just how you like it, and keeps the other under your chin to angle you so all you see are his eyes. “Can you say my name again?”
You wonder how long it’d been since he’d heard it. His name, meant for him.
“Kiss me, Peter.”
And he does, groaning softly against your mouth, tightening his grip on your hair just enough to have you sighing into him. He breaks away, tilts your face just the slightest bit, and meets you again, devouring.
This had been one of your favorite things, when Peter shucked off the awkwardness and became a mix of demanding, gentle, and eager.
It’s one of the last memories that come to you, how your body responds to him. Where to touch him so that his breath stutters, his fingers flex against your jaw. You run your hands up the notches of his spine and suck on his bottom lip, knowing the low groan that will come after. Trace your thumbs up the ridge of his abs, knowing his hips will twitch towards yours, knowing it makes him pull your head back to lick deeper into your mouth.
But he knows you too. Knows to put a hand on your lower back to arch you into him. Knows to, when your kisses start to get sloppy, spin you so that he can sit on the bed and pull you with him. Your knees on either side of his hips, him looking up at you.
Kiss-swollen. Dazed.
“I love you,” Hands teasing under the hem of your sweatshirt, he kisses your cheeks, your forehead. His thumbs are white-against the skin of your stomach as he presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers, “I’m sorry.”
He tells you twice more, hugging you to him, sucking spots into your neck, the underside of your jaw.
“Peter,” You say his name again just to feel him sigh into your neck. Card your fingers through his curls and tug him where you want him. “I’ll always love you.”
You sound so much like the girl in your dream. The past, happy version of you, with no missing pieces in your brain. This time, just a little breathless.
Feeling Peter’s lips lift into a smile against your skin.
When he pulls back, all heavy lidded eyes looking up at you, hands halfway up your sweatshirt, splayed over your bare ribs possessively, you have an all-encompassing fear that you are dreaming. That there’s no way this is happening, this beautiful man pliant beneath you, absolutely lovely.
But he’s so solid under you, under your mouth. The small sucked and bitten marks on your neck feel real, the coiling warmth in your stomach that spikes the longer he looks at you with those dark eyes, as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, feels real.
The fondness, the relief threatening to rip you apart feels real.
You put your palm over his heart, just to feel it racing.
The both of you breathe in the dark.
He tucks your hair behind your ear. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. Then, absently, like he doesn’t really mean to say it, “You said you couldn’t live without me.”
“I said I don’t want to live without you.”
He shrugs a shoulder, smirking now. “Same thing.”
You pretend to think. “On second thought—“
He makes a noise that sounds a lot like nu-uh, rolling you onto your back in the bed and blowing air into your neck. It makes you laugh and completely stops you from finishing your sentence. You’re so, blindingly, happy.
He looms over you, arms bracketed on each side of your head. Smiling. “Stay here tonight.”
“Um, was that a question, or?”
He says your name again, slow. Savoring it. “Stay here with me tonight, please?”
And it really hadn’t been a question because obviously you would do it. You didn’t want to let him out of your sight. “I would love to,” you answer. “But I have a question for you, too.”
“Okay.”
You grin at how attentive he becomes, eyes curious.
“Who the hell is Maynard?”
Peter buries his head into your shoulder with a groan.
content/tags: peter helps you settle after a tough mission, mentions of blood, he helps bathe you (☹️), hurt/comfort, cuddling, fluffy as can be!!
wc: 954
a/n: this is my favourite thing i’ve written so far, i love soft peter. it consumes my whole brain. i imagined this happening in the avengers tower btw!
peter’s voice was soft, calling your name to signal the bathroom was ready. gritting your teeth, you pushed off the mattress, the swift movement sending a sharp pain coursing through your side. “hey, take it easy," peter murmured, his hand hovering near your elbow, ready to support you the moment you reached the en-suite.
"i’m fine, pete," you tried to convince him, as you reached for the hem of your suit. the fabric was caked with dried blood and torn in numerous places, letting the gashes and bruises on your skin peep through.
"no, you aren't. that’s why i’m here.” peter’s voice was firm. “let me help you, y/n.” as a response, you simply stepped back and lifted your arms, indicating he could finish taking off your gear.
peter’s fingers hooked into the collar of your suit, carefully easing the fabric down your shoulders to avoid catching on your grazes. you leaned on him for balance as you stepped out of the mess, kicking the bloodied cloth into the corner. the confidence in peter’s hands vanished when he realised you remained in only a black sports-bra and a matching pair of spandex shorts.
he cleared his throat, gaze snapping to the wall. "you, uh... you can handle the rest.” a tired chuckle escaped you at the sight of his blush. “just close your eyes.”
navigating the last of your clothes with a wince, you eased into the steaming tub — the soak instantly melting the sharp ache in your limbs. once settled deep in the bubbles, you let out a long, shaky exhale. “okay. you can look.”
still a dark shade of crimson, peter knelt by the tub and reached for your strawberry-scented shampoo. a quiet “thank you for doing this” left your lips, making peter pause, his fingers hovering over the lid of the bottle. “always,” he murmured. his voice was steady despite the flush now staining his neck. “you don't ever have to thank me for that.”
the tension in your shoulders dissolved when he leaned forward, his fingers finally meeting your scalp and lathering the shampoo with a soft pressure. he worked in silence for a long time, his movements incredibly careful as he tried not to hurt you any further. once the soap was rinsed away, he picked up a washcloth, soaking it in the warm, lavender-scented water.
“i’m just... i’ll help with the parts that are hard to reach,” he murmured. he wiped the dried blood and grime from your shoulders and the small of your back with a gentleness that made your own cheeks stain red. after a final, lingering pass over your side, peter set the cloth down and stood up, clearing his throat.
“i’ll wait in the bedroom so you can finish off,” he said, ears still tinged pink. “just shout if you need anything.”
you finished the rest as best as you could, the reality of your exhaustion beginning to set in. when you finally managed to drain the tub and stand up, you realised that you had left your towel in your room, obviously out of reach. “peter?” you called out, your voice sounding small. “can you come back? i forgot my towel.”
a beat of silence followed before the door cracked open. “my eyes are closed!” he promised, his hand reaching blindly through the gap with a fluffy white towel clutched in his fist. you took it from him, wrapping yourself up before retreating to your bedroom.
when you returned, your room was empty. assuming peter had left to take a shower of his own, you pulled on some sleep-shorts and an oversized hoodie. by the time he returned, you were already tucked under the duvet, your eyes heavy and half-asleep.
“peter?” you mumbled, reaching out blindly in the dark. you felt the mattress dip as he sat at the edge of the bed, “you okay? i just wanted to make sure you were asleep.”
“stay,” you whispered. you hadn't meant for it to sound like such a plea, but you were so exhausted that you couldn’t bare to feel shame.
peter knew not to ask why. he just rounded the bed and climbed in beside you, the duvet lifting as he settled into place. “always,” he breathed, his voice a low murmur next to your ear. his breath ghosted over the back of your neck, making the tiny hairs there stand on end as he tucked himself against you. “i’m not going anywhere, i promise.”
he reached out, his arm wrapping around your waist, hand grabbing yours. “you’re shaking,” he noted softly. he didn’t push for details or ask how you were feeling —instead, he just let his thumb trace circles on your knuckles in small, steady motion that made your throat feel tight.
you shifted, turning just enough to see the sharp line of his jaw against the faint light of the city in your window. “please... don't leave,” you breathed, the words barely audible.
peter looked down, his brown-doe eyes searching for yours in the shadows. he reached out, his thumb catching a stray, damp strand of hair and tucking it carefully behind your ear. “i’m not losing you. not to anything. you hear me?”
you nodded weakly, the exhaustion finally beating you as your eyes slipped shut. “hear you loud and clear, bug.”
“good,” he whispered. he leaned down, pressing a quiet, lingering kiss to the top of your head, the scent of your strawberry shampoo filling his lungs. “go to sleep. i’ll be here when you wake up.”
“promise?” you mumbled, your voice already trailing off into the dark.
“promise,” he whispered back, his hand continuing that slow, steady motion against your skin until your breathing evened out.
request: from anon, “Peter Parker x reader where reader remembers him because I can't get over that 'I don't love you' 😭”
summary: where peter didn’t come back to remind you what you’d lost, and you confront him for leaving you abandoned too (aka you’re MJ, and you end up remembering him… sorta)
word count: 4.5k
tags: brand new day spoilers!!!! , angst, fluff?, memory loss, literally plucked some lines from the movie, didn’t proof read and idk what else to say
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It's debilitating. He feels so familiar. Like a memory so strong that you can smell the fresh crayons from elementary school without having touched a box of them in the last several years. Or maybe it's more of a muted blur trying restlessly to revive itself. Watching your younger self in the mirror, head bobbing side to side as you feel that humming in your chest even all these years later. When did being seven happen fifteen years ago?
Didn't you know him then? At seven? It's so convincing to go along with the idea that you did. If your brain didn't scream otherwise, you'd go along with the thought. But why is your mind so against it?
His confession is crumpled in your hands, thumb smoothing over the wrinkles and regrets folded into the pages. It stings, or burns, or… ignites something in your person.
"I'm so sorry…" His cheeks are pink, but his eyes can't leave yours. Do you remember? He can't commit to that risk.
He's fully masked, fully guarded, standing across from you and trying his best to come up with something to say. He's had years to consider this conversation. He's replayed it countless times, but it always ends the same. Now that it's happening, now that it's not just a show of puppetry with the strings tied to the ends of hisfingers, there's something more real at stake.
"No, don't apologize." Your reassurance is quick but comes out in a whisper.
Maybe Peter's a fool for letting hope wash in, for focusing on your immediate response rather than the lack of conviction behind it, but he can't help himself. How many times had he passed your place, hoping you'd lock eyes like some clandestine meeting and just… know? And now you're here, just a few feet away and looking right past the Spider-Man mask and straight into his soul. It almost feels like fate.
He's a fool that can't look away, but you're just as much a fool that can't stop seeking.
It's beyond niceties. Confrontation of the letter says something. You didn't awkwardly pretend to never have read it, or offer up a pitiful apology and wish him a good day as you backed out. You're here. Eyes turning glassy, head tilting in some faint recognition—he knows it.
His middle finger taps rhythmically against his thumb, taking the invitation to a conversation. "I should have told you."
It's a hidden apology, an admission of doing something wrong. And it is wrong. Him pulling a trigger that you didn't even know existed, making a call that you had no clue was on the table of possibilities. Entirely unpredictable, and completely unfair. And it just aches.
You swallow, trying to solve the puzzle. "Why didn't you?"
He watches you for a moment. The temptation to run is faint, the need to curl up into a ball and cry is overwhelming. This isn't how it was supposed to be but it's been his own hands making this bed. Avoid the moon all you want, but he'd end up lying in that bed in the end.
"I didn't know how," he admits.
"You wrote a letter," you hold the paper up. "You could've read it to me. You could've reintroduced yourself, or mailed it, or… or sent a fucking carrier pigeon, I don't know!"
Frustration cracks your ribs open, lungs shaking in a broken breath. Are you mad? It doesn't feel like anger. It's almost indescribable, an adjective on the tip of your tongue but you just can't spit it out. It tastes aged and ruined.
Whatever it is, he lets you feel it. He lets himself falter, taking a step back to shadow himself in his shame. Sinking into a depth within his mind where he knows that he'd be digging his own grave the same way he'd made his bed. Where he thinks he deserves to be, but you aren't so sure.
"I'm sorry," you murmur and set his confession letter on the table. "I'm just trying to understand this."
"No, please say whatever you feel." His voice is stronger when defending you than it was for himself. "It was wrong— it is wrong. I shouldn't have kept it from you, and I can't imagine how it must feel."
In theory, you know that his words should anger you. That you didn't owe him any utterance of an apology and that he should be groveling at your feet. In practice, you can tell he's already paid every price imaginable for his actions. You don't want revenge, you just want to fill in that blank page in your memories.
The memories scrawled on those pages are meant to be yours, but he can tell that you don't own them anymore. He sees the desperate search that your mind has been on to somehow plug these memories back into your hard drive. It's exhausting. Something is always wrong about it.
Peter wonders what it was like for you. If he was standing here, face revealed, would it bring back any memory? Right now, even with the mask on, are your memories of him gone entirely? Or filled in with something that never really happened? Stress is written so plainly on your face, he doesn't pry. You rub your fingers into your temples to try and self soothe, but it's a failed attempt.
His fingers twitch, wanting reach out and try to do it for you. He knows better. His palm flattens against his thigh.
For whatever reason, you recognize his distress too. Without a face, without words, without reason. You know him. Of course, all of New York thinks they know Spider-Man.
His attempts to put himself in your shoes, to encourage you to call him out with a vengeance. It's a little ironic after having kept the secret for four years, but he still welcomes you with open arms even if it means accepting harsh words. You see the way he has to keep his hand to himself, the way that he wants to take care of you because it's just in his nature.
"Take off the mask." You say it more like a demand than request.
"I can't—" he pauses.
Can't what? You already knew his name, it's in the first line of his letter to you. But his face is much different. What if it brings light to the shaded parts of your past? Both fear and excitement feast on the idea of that.
"I think I deserve to see the face that wrote me this." Your finger taps the pages on the table. Body feeling weighted like when emerging from water, you force yourself to stand. "To see who would deny me my own memories, who would make such a huge decision for me."
"I wasn't trying to…" Peter's defense falls flat. How can he keep denying? "Does it matter? What I look like?"
"Matters enough for you to hide it." You take a small step forward, hand still on those pages.
His chest falls. You're right. Thinking on it, this is part of why he has avoided you. He has a way of intertwining right into whatever string of reasons you sent his way. Always has.
"It was magic, even if you see me you won't remember." He tries to defend his cause anyway.
You shake your head, "I never said I want to remember, I said I want to see who did this."
"Right." His voice is hardly audible.
You deserve the dignity of knowing, he knows it. Of having a face to pin to the hole inside your head. A visual of who to blame, who to point fingers to. And he deserves the consequence of secrecy. Doesn't mean it didn't sting when you rejected the idea of remembering.
Just as he knows the sun will rise in the east each morning, he knows he will reveal himself to you again. Hesitance feels like some form of self pity. The thing is, he hasn't been the only victim to the avoidance and he can't fathom hurting you any more than he already has.
Gloved fingers rise to his neck, peeling up the fabric of his mask with a movement that he'll label as caution instead of reluctance. It'll meaning nothing, his mind offers. It will change nothing.
Your eyes are carefully kept on his form, capturing each bit of evidence possible. A freckle on his neck, short brown hair poking out from the back, a nose that looked like it had been broken one times too many. Brown eyes filled with worry. With fear. With love. With tears.
Breathing in, your spine slowly straightens. Had you expected some crashing wave? Maybe a visceral feeling that screamed, how could you forget? It just feels blank. But there is curiosity in the unknown.
"Peter Parker," you whisper to yourself.
He feels like he himself has somehow become some personification of a fever. He melts, eyes softening into a brand of resignation he hasn't known for the last four years. Hearing you say his name encourages his heart to be excited. Maybe it's wrong, or selfish, or maybe just morally ambiguous, but he wants to hear it over and over and over.
Of course, he knows you're just tasting it. Trying his name out, or maybe committing his face and name to memory so you know who to avoid from here on out. But at least your eyes are on him again. He didn't know how badly he missed being seen by you.
His hands, unsure of what to do, both hold onto his Spider-Man mask. It somehow makes him feel less vulnerable. How is it possible to feel so naked with 90% of your body covered?
"Why didn't you just tell me?" You ask it again, and answering has become unavoidable.
Saying the wrong thing would be incredibly easy right now. He really, really doesn't want to make you run, but also knows you're halfway out the door. He can't blame you.
"Because I was afraid," he says the truth. He swallows the lump in his throat, teary eyed but refusing to let them fall. "I lost someone very important, and it was my fault. I've been afraid of letting you know me because…"
The holes in his argument are massive, he's just as aware of that as you are. But you let him go on anyway. You offer him a level of patience that doesn't feel deserved.
He continues, "Because knowing me is a risk. And if I lost you, I wouldn't know how to live. I couldn't."
"A risk for me to decide on," you point out.
"I know," he nods, entirely agreeing. "I've been selfish."
"Is you acknowledging that supposed to make it okay?" Your arms cross over, hugging yourself through this uncharted territory.
"No," he says quickly. "No, it just… You wanted to know why, and that's it. It was because I can't lose someone else so important to me. I love you, that's my reason."
His knuckles are nearly white, gripping his mask with an intense concern that he's losing you anyway. Just as the prophecy read, it would be his own fault.
"I love you." He repeats. What if this is the last time he gets to say it?
You're unsure how the new confession hits you. You don't even know what else you could've expected having read the letter. Of course that's his reason or he never would've written the letter in the first place. Some part of you knows that you just wanted to hear him say it.
Those three words ring through you with a vague familiarity. You'd heard them before, you heard them just yesterday when saying goodbye to Ned before his weekend trip. But that was between friends. This just… lingers. Has been lingering. Festering. Eating your brain as you cry for the loss of something you didn't recognize.
Your foot lifts from the metal floor, taking two steps closer to the man standing on trial. He stays planted, like a deer staring into the headlights of a crashing car. He's accepting of his fate.
The proximity feels comforting. Now that you're closer, you see the color of his eyes is brown. That somehow perfectly fits the vision you had of him. A color that is warm and gentle, fitting the persona Spider-Man had to have in order to help civilians feel safe.
His name had been perfect too. An alliteration that scratched every itch when you spoke it. It soaks into your mind, firing off neurons that tell you you aren't supposed to know that. You aren't supposed to know him.
But how can you ignore the simultaneous tug of your heart that is begging you to step closer? Muscle memory takes over, guiding your hand to his face. His eyes watch as you near and he stays still.
You quietly ask, hand frozen less than an inch away from its destination, "Can I?"
"Please." He whispers back. It's all it takes.
Your fingers finally land, brushing backwards on his cheek as your hand simply knows how to find its place there. His jaw unclenches beneath your touch as if his body is allowing him to relax for the first time in ages.
Peter feels sure that he is about to burn up as crashes back into your atmosphere. His eyes are still set straight ahead, locked with yours. But your eyes are still scanning and determining how close you'll let him get.
First, your eyes land on the freckle to the left of his nose. Something that you figure past you had memorized away as a place to put casual kisses. Then, you look at the curls that laid messily against his forehead and can assume your fingers used to coil around them with ease. Last, you see the absolute exhaustion in his eyes that likely always ratted him out for pushing himself too hard.
Thumb smoothing the skin beneath his eyes, you connect your gaze with his again. You see it now. Really, truly see it.
"You look so lonely," you murmur the concern.
Accuracy can be presumed by the way he leans into your touch, head guiding him to press his face flat against your hand. The tips of your fingers brush into the brown curls by his ear. Your fingers know just what to do to hold him properly, relaxing and parting around his ear.
This is his punishment, he imagines. To feel the touch of your skin again, and immediate relief of being back in your orbit. To feel the physical acceptance that your muscles just know you used to give him, but with that reminder that your brain wasn't going to allow it. To know that, eventually, you would push him away and he'd be aimlessly floating.
"Ah, you know… hard to feel alone when I stay busy as Spider-Man." Peter tries to shake it. It's in him to try keeping it light.
You shake your head, thumb moving across his cheek bone now. "Lonely, not alone."
He knows the difference well. Admittedly, though, the call out is right but slightly off. Those tears that had refused to budge before let loose now. No point in avoiding it anymore.
"I think I've been both." He confesses and his chest sputters a breath. "I know I have."
Pulling him in for a hug is careful and smooth, bodies pressing together with ease. Your hand wrapped around, resting on the back of his head to cradle him through this pain. The other hand goes to his back and presses him closer to your heart.
You could tell yourself that it's just kindness. That you are simply comforting another human in a time of need. It's so much more, though.
The beating of his heart makes it feel like it's trying to break through just to be held in the palm of your hand. The hold that surrounds you as his arms wrap around brings a desperate comfort that you recognize as one of those things you knew you were somehow missing. His fingers splay across your back, frantically gripping the fabric of your shirt and pulling you in with a fervor that begged you to stay.
Sobbing tears roll from his eyes before he squeezes them shut, desperate to focus absolutely everything on this feeling of holding you again just in case he never gets to do it after this. Trying his hardest to calm down, to not entirely fall apart in the arms of this person that hardly knows who he is, he takes in slow, staggered breaths that only stab his heart again as he breathes in your perfume. At least it's something else to hold on to.
"I'm so sorry," he cries into your neck. "I'm so sorry, I should've told you. I should've—I'm sorry."
"It's okay," you coo.
"It was so selfish, I'm sorry." He repeats himself, not really sure what else to do. "I love you, and I've been so afraid."
Your eyes close, deciding to be fully present in the feeling of being held and holding him. "It's okay, Pete. I'm here."
There is some sense of overwhelm that is beginning to wash over you. You almost let it scare you, but it's right. It's fucked up, and it's dirty, but it's truth.
You've felt his arms around you before, and not just on the absolutely, mind blowing-ly terrifying web swinging ride here. No. You've felt this desperate claw for comfort. You've held him through tears, and sobbing, and failures to self soothe.
"May," you utter the name. "It was May that you lost, wasn't it?"
Peter freezes, and you do too. The names were spoken before you had even actually processed them. Pete is excused, too common of a nickname to read in to. But May? You don't even know where it came from, you just trusted your heart that it was right.
Pulling back but keeping his hands on your upper arms, he looks at you through his reddened eyes. "Where did you…"
"I don't know." You feel almost guilty for knowing the name. "Your letter must've mentioned her."
"No," he shakes his head. "No, I didn't write her name. I… I wasn't ready to write her name, I've not even been able to say it."
He's not anything but sorrowful, seeking for answers just the same as you. Hoping that he'll find the answer to it all by looking into your eyes, just like you had hoped seeing his face would unlock floodgates. What catches you off guard is that it's not a flood, but a stream.
"It was May, I just remember." Your gaze turns itself away, realizing tears were streaming from your eyes too. Were you ready to remember?
"It was, but…" Peter's chest rises and falls with exaggerated flow. He doesn't want to get his hopes too high. "Did I say her name? Is it because of the name Parker? You helped put at F.E.A.S.T. sometimes, do you just remember her from that?"
He doesn't mean to overwhelm, he really doesn't.
"I don't know," your voice is quiet again.
Gripping his arms, your eyes squeeze shut like trying to regain balance just to find out that your footing is stable. Your brain feels fogged. Which… isn't anything new for these last four years. It's just that now the fog is turning acidic, biting at you and making itself known rather than concealing something's existence.
He reacts, cupping your cheeks and ducking his head to follow your avoidance and be sure that you're okay. Again, meant to comfort you. Physically, you feel his gloved hands brushing over your skin with a tenderness that was well practiced. Muscle memory steps in again, leaning yourself into his touch because your body simply knows that you belong in his hands.
Emotionally, you're coming undone into a million pieces. Working overtime, your brain is scrambling to build up a dam to stop a crashing wave that ends up coming out more like a trickle regardless. Why does it feel like something grand is supposed to happen?
"I just knew," you helplessly repeat. Your brain is throbbing.
"Okay." Peter gently accepts, seeing that it's overwhelming.
Excitement came over him. He wants you to remember, he needs you to remember. But he can't force it.
He's glad to see your acceptance of his touch. He thought that he'd surely never get to hold you again. It's so much sweeter than he remembered, and the memory had been one dipped in honey.
"It's okay." He speaks softly. "I'm not trying to push, I'm sorry. It's just…"
"No, I know." You slowly exhale and opt to keep your eyes shut. It feels nice to just float in his hold.
You're grounding yourself, same method that Peter recognizes from four years ago. Slow, deep breaths, controlling your senses so you can recenter. Letting his hands be a guiding force.
Taking the chance, his eyes scan your face. The way it looks in his touch. The way it looks when standing so close. He's missed you so terribly.
Focus shifts, your hand coming up to press his hand closer into your cheek. The warmth feels just like returning to bed in the middle of the night. His fingertips pressing into the plush apples of your cheeks feels exactly like sipping a hot cup of tea after being showered in a relentless rain. His patient silence fills you with that same exact excitement of clicking the last piece of a thousand count puzzle into place.
"Peter." You say it another time. This time it hurts.
He never stopped crying. Taking one step closer, coming when called upon, the edge of his boot brushes your shoe. He almost lets his forehead rest on yours but that's your call not his.
"Yeah?" His voice is broken, though there's a faint glow of hope.
A laugh breaks through your overwhelming crisis. It's bitter, aimed at your own heart and memory. You want to tear yourself to shreds.
"I've known you," you cry, gripping onto his wrist because you need to his hands to stay there. "I've known you this whole time, haven't I? You've been that void in my head?"
Is it sick to say he hopes so?
Instead he says, "You read the letter." It allows you to process however you need.
You shake your head, sniffling and leaning your forehead against his chest. "But I've known, in some way. I've known something was missing. I know something is missing. I know you, I knew Aunt May."
His hand cradles the back of your head. There's some sort of peace in the fact that him holding you is bringing comfort. You'd feel the pounding of his heart, but he didn't mind the way he used to. He needs to be seen by you, held by you, absorbed by you.
Trying to brush everything off with a quick lash of doubt was becoming increasingly difficult. He had never said May's name to you, and he certainly never told you she was his aunt. How could he keep denying hope entry when the walls were being torn apart brick by brick?
Chin resting ontop of your head, he whispers, "You did. You do."
"Oh my god, I've missed you." You speak as a deep sighed cry comes out, your arms wrapping around him again but this time with a deathly grip.
It would be more lethal… were Peter not genetically enhanced, and if he wasn't so desperate for you to never let go. Weld yourself into his ribs for all he cared, he'd bring the flame if you brought the torch.
"I've missed you so much, this entire time. I knew." You're spewing anything just to talk to him again.
You can't even remember each and every detail of why you missed him, it's just a sense of knowing. You love this man. You have loved this man, prior to these last four years of separation. It's the reason your life feels stalled. The explanation for why things just never felt complete. He has been missing.
"I missed you, I love you." Your heart just lets it all out.
Peter's brain feels nearly as thrown as yours. He can't believe the words he's hearing. It feels like a dream, or a nightmare, or one of Mysterio's cruel trick visions. It feels surreal.
But it's you. You, in his arms, on his chest. You telling him you love him, and remembering May on your own. If it was a dream it would be immediate, and if it was Mysterio it would be over the top. It's real, and it's you. Taking time to mend the broken pieces, but that connection between the two of you letting itself be known.
Still. He has been tricked so many times before. You read him plainly, you called out his loneliness. Was this just a stranger trying to offer someone kindness in their time of grief?
"You don't have to say that." Peter regrets feeling the need to say it. "Please don't say it unless you really mean it."
"Pete, I mean it." You pull your head from his chest, though it longs to stay. "I wish I'd known it months ago, years ago. I wish I'd seen you sooner, or read that letter, or— it doesn't matter. I've missed you."
The more you say it, the more you feel how true it is. It's a fact. You know him, and there is a giant mass of empty space in the life you've been pretending to live while he has been gone. You may not remember his favorite bodega, or how he takes his coffee, but you're absolutely certain that…
"I love you." You say it with a heavenly sigh because you get to say it at all.
Your hands cup his face, coming in for a soft and tender kiss. Peter thinks he's dying. But your lips feel exactly how he remembers. Precisely how they've felt when he has imagined feeling it again. Even if his heart was giving out, the connection of your lips sends a spark to revive him.
"Say it again." He says it almost silently. "Please, say it again."
You do. "I love you." Followed with another magnetic kiss.
It isn't a crashing wave. There are no fireworks, and there is no flash of every single memory that you'd lost in this unfair story. Sure, you could make it something dramatic and theatrical, but at its core it's so simple.
It's just you with him. It's what is right. A blissful, all consuming, lasting love that will take its sweet time to reconnect you. How thrilling, to fall in love again.
summary: 'seeing if he melts into a kiss' trend with your best friend, Peter Parker.
tags/warnings: FLUFF YAY! friends to lovers, first kiss with each other, tooth rotting sweetness, no usage of y/n, both are already in college.
wc: 1k words.
a/n: saw this trend too much. decided to write about it. also i feel like andrew's peter can suit this story really well, but i decided tom's peter it is.
masterlist
You walked in unannounced into Peter's cramped apartment. The air was filled with the aroma of instant coffee, the chinese takeout he ate last night, and his laundry detergent that wasn’t quite doing its job.
You quickly found your way into his humbly sized room. The sticky notes filled walls were familiar now as you had been close friends since orientation week. You drop your bag beside his desk, before settling yourself down onto the thrifted rug you helped choose a few months ago.
He was rambling as usual, of course. He started by complaining about his annoying professors, before switching to talk about a new physics theory he had learned, then continuing to complain about his irritating professors again.
“I swear,” Peter said, tapping his pen on the edge of his notebook as he followed you down onto the floor. “If Professor Connors assigns me another group project on Magnetism, I will freak out–hell, I will drop out!” His brows furrowed like an angry hound—well more of a puppy, really.
“God, Pete. You're being dramatic,” you rolled your eyes, tossing a piece of chip you had stolen from his kitchen cabinets.
He immediately caught it without looking up and popped it into his mouth. “I’m not being dramatic!” He whined. Sounding more like a petulant child. You couldn’t help but snicker.
“Are the people in your class really that bad?” As you continued typing your anatomy notes on your laptop. Munching on those chips all the while.
“Yes they are! I feel like they came in here just to ruin my life sometimes, you know?” He scoffed and stole the bag of chips from you. “Hey!” You protested, before you snagged it back onto your side.
You both continued working on your own tasks for at least two hours after that. Both of you still complaining about the people in your classes, the stupid physiology test you have next week, how Peter’s newest web shooters had broken after only one week of use.
You huffed, “I can’t do this anymore.” Standing up, plopping yourself down onto his double-sized bed.
He looked up, “What?” With a small tilt of his head.
“Tired.” You mumbled to his pillows where your face was smushed. “I’m gonna take a break.”
“Yeah, yeah. Fifteen minutes?” He looked back to his books. Getting a confirming hum in return.
You then pulled your phone from the floor, to check notifications. Replying to your friends’ group chat, seeing reels people sent to your Instagram DMs, before you open up TikTok to doomscroll.
Your For You Page was just like usual—videos of cute cats, makeup reviews, a thirst trap edit of Jonathan Bailey, until a video pops up.
Forever by Barbara Mason was played in the background, the words ‘seeing if he melts into a kiss’ written on the video. The video was of a couple, where the girl lifted her arms out, making her boyfriend follow, before she leaned in closer, caressing her lips onto the boyfriend. And sure enough, the boyfriend immediately wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in closer. Before melting into the kiss.
You clicked on the sound, finding more and more videos of the trend. You sighed as you felt how lonely it was. How you also wanted to be the one on the other side of the screen. Making stupid trends like that with someone.
“You really like that video huh?” Peter’s voice broke you out of your thoughts. You glanced over to him, already looking at you. The gesture of his pen tapping against his notebook was familiar.
“Yeah.” You replied quietly. Holding his gaze for a beat too long before looking back down on your phone.
“Fifteen minutes up?” Finally sitting up on his bed.
“Mhm.” He hummed, back to focusing on his notes again.
You stayed seated on the edge of his bed, your gaze focusing on him. On how his brows knitted with every confusing part of the theory, how he ran his fingers through his soft brown curls as a sign of stress, how his tongue would stick out to wet his lips once in a while–.
“You okay?” As he finally felt your staring, head tilted slightly.
“Y–Yeah.” Your voice squeaked, cheeks heating up at being caught.
“Uh-huh… sure.” His eyes narrowed.
“I wanna try something,” eyes widening as you realize that you said it out loud.
“Try what?” He was definitely more confused now. The pen tapping against his notebook stopped.
“Just—something.” Standing up, you set your phone on his desk. “I’m gonna record this, okay?”
“What? Is this a prank?” But he stood up anyway. Wiping away crumbs of chips stuck on his MIT sweater.
“Do you trust me?” You held his gaze, fingers finding his for comfort.
He held your hand, “I don’t know if I do now,”
“Just trust me.”
“Fine.” He huffed.
You then opened your camera app, making sure that the both of you were in frame, before hitting the record button.
“Follow me, okay?” As you turned your back against the camera, facing him fully.
You then began to do the trend. Lifting your arms high up your shoulders. Him following. Before you carefully drop your arms around his neck, leaning closer to brush your lips against his.
He froze.
“I’m sorry– That was stupid, wasn’t it–” You rambled.
But he cut you off, by pulling you in closer, settling his lips on top of yours. His body molded, melted against your soft curves. Arms wrapping around your body, pulling you deeper and deeper into the kiss.
His lips were soft. It tasted like chips you shared and the vanilla chapstick he likes to steal from you.
You began to forget that you were recording. Only separating yourselves to breathe, before diving back in again.
When you finally pulled back, Peter rested his forehead against yours. A huge grin carved onto his face, making you giggle.
“Where did that come from?” His fingers tucking a stray hair behind your ear.
“TikTok.” You sighed in content.
“Oh you kissed me just for a TikTok trend?” His hands now found your sides, pinching it lightly making you squirm.
“I did.” You chuckled, before kissing him again. And again. Till your lips were swollen and bruised.
Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
Summary: When Doctor Strange's spell made the whole world forget Peter Parker, something went wrong (or very right). Now, you're the only person who remembers him. But it doesn't stop the nightmares from invading Peter's mind about the day where he might wake up and you don't remember him.
Warnings: Panic attacks, nightmares. This does not contain spoilers for Brand New Day but the Peter in this is Brand New Day Peter!
Word Count: 2.1k
A/N: I had an idea for this one the other day and it took me a few days to work on it as it's a pretty intense fic but I'm really proud of how it turned out in the end so I hope that people enjoy it even if it tears your heart out. Title is taken from the song The Anchor by Bastille (one of my favourite songs of all time).
Peter has tried to keep the nightmares a secret from you.
It’s been easy up until now. You’ve only been living together for a few weeks, finally giving up on both of you paying rent on your own apartments in the city when you spend half of your time at each others places anyway. It wasn’t hard for Peter to keep the nightmares to himself when most nights, he was sleeping alone.
What was easier now was waking up and seeing you beside him. He’d lay there staring at your sleeping form, noticing the way you breathed, how you nuzzled your head into the pillow, memorising everything about you as he tried to calm his breathing. Just incase none of this was real and the nightmares were real instead. The nightmares often took you from him.
You weren’t even supposed to be here.
Doctor Strange’s spell had done what it was supposed to do. The whole world forgot about Peter Parker. But something in the spell had gone awry and now you were the only person in the world who remembered him. Peter would never take that for granted.
But the nightmares always remind him of how fragile the world can be. How as quickly as it can give something, it can be taken away.
He wakes up pretty quickly most of the time. After how many of them he’s had by now, his body knows to wake him and get him out of there as soon as possible. It’s the panic that comes afterwards that’s harder to deal with than the nightmare. The crushing darkness of his room, the feeling that everything he’d dreamt might be real. But maybe it’s how comfortable he feels sleeping beside you that keeps him there a little longer tonight, in the world where he lost you too.
You’re used to waking up when you sleep in the same bed as Peter. There have been several times when you’ve slept over at his apartment and he’s gotten an alert on his phone in the middle of the night, causing him to spring out of bed, grab his suit, press a quick kiss to your forehead and go off to do what he does best. But what wakes you up tonight is different.
It’s the sound of whimpers that clue you in to the fact that something isn’t right. Still half asleep, you turn over, blinking your tired eyes to look at Peter. He’s laying beside you, sweat coating his body, head moving side to side. You hear the whimpers for what they are now. Murmurs of “No, no, no.”
Dread fills you. “Peter,” you mutter, sitting up in the bed and reaching out a hand to place on his shoulder to try and gently shake him awake. “Peter, wake up. You’re having a nightmare, sweetheart.”
His eyes fly open, staring up at the ceiling for a split second before looking right at you. He murmurs your name and before you can even think about replying or to ask if he’s okay, he’s wrapping his arms around you and pulling you back down to the bed and into his chest. His body is warm and slick, still coated in sweat that you’re sure would have soaked through a shirt had he been wearing one.
“Are you real?” Peter whispers against your head. “Please tell me that this is real.”
Your heart cracks. “It’s real, Peter. I’m real.” You don’t even know if he can hear you but you try to make your words as loud as you can through the sudden feeling of thickness in your throat. You’ve never seen him like this before.
You can feel his heart racing and slowly you become aware of the fact that his breathing is quickening too.
“Peter, hey,” you gently try and push back from him, though his grip is still tight on you, clearly trying to convince himself that you are real. “Tell me what’s going on.”
His grip loosens enough for you to pull away a little. You reach up a hand to stroke his cheek. His eyes are screwed shut, breathing coming in small bursts. You recognise it for what it is immediately.
“Can you sit up with me for a second?” You whisper, moving to sit up and feeling immediately relieved when he listens to you and sits up too. “I think you’re having a panic attack, sweetheart. Can you open your eyes for me?”
You move to sit a little closer to him so he can see you in the dark room, only lit by the sliver of moonlight coming through the curtains. You reach up and swipe away a tear as it falls from his eye.
“Peter, open your eyes, sweetheart,” you try again.
His eyes slowly open and the sight of them so full of tears breaks your heart even more. That, combined with his still heavy breathing and the fact that he hasn’t uttered a word since he first woke up, worry you even more.
You reach down to take his hands in yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Can you breathe with me, Peter? In for four, out for four, okay? I’ll do it with you. Ready? One, two, three, four…”
Relief fills you as Peter starts to try breathing with you. It’s difficult at first but the more you count out loud, the more you do it with him, the better he becomes at it. His breathing starts to slow and even though there are still tears streaking down his cheeks, it’s progress.
You keep counting for a few minutes even after his breathing has slowed and the tears stop falling. Your hands don’t let go of his, though. You still want to keep holding him, anchoring him to the real world for as long as he needs it, even if he hasn’t asked you to.
“Are you okay?” You eventually ask, voice soft.
Peter nods once and then shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut again. You can’t help but feel the need to get closer to him so you make the split second decision to move to straddle his lap, letting go of his hands briefly to rest them on the sides of his neck, stroking your thumbs back and forth over his skin.
“That was a nightmare, wasn’t it?”
He nods again, hands moving to rest on your waist and pull you a little closer to him. “They’ve been happening for a while,” he replies, voice a little croaky from the tears and the panic attack. In the past, he’s been known to scare himself awake with a scream. Had he done that tonight? No… no, tonight your voice had been what he’d heard when he’d awoken. Your voice and your touch. You had cut through the noise. “And the panic attacks afterwards.”
“You’ve never said anything,” you frown. You’re not disappointed in him. You think you understand why he kept them to himself. But knowing he’s been struggling like this for a while and you’ve been unable to help him hurts a little.
“I didn’t… I didn’t want to seem weak to you,” he admits, meeting your eyes. His eyes are still full of tears, you notice. “I shouldn’t be having nightmares. Not when it was my choice.”
“Everyone has nightmares, Peter. I’d never think you’re weak for having them.”
Peter shakes his head again. “Not nightmares like these,” he continues. “These ones… they’re different. It’s not just nightmares like I used to have. About the blip or about losing fights or… about Aunt May. These ones…” He drifts off, closing his eyes again.
“You can tell me,” you hum, stroking your thumb over his skin again.
“In these ones, you forget me too,” he manages. “I wake up one morning and you’re asking who I am, why I’m in your apartment, in your bed. Or I come home and you tell me to get out of your apartment or you’ll call the cops. Or I try and text you and the message bounces back to me because I’m not in your contacts.”
Tears start streaming down his cheeks again as he tells you about his nightmares. They’re coming too fast for you to stop this time, even though you try. Even though there are similar tears tracking their way down your cheeks too, now. He’s been dreaming about you forgetting him. About Doctor Strange’s spell working on you, like some kind of delay. And you had no idea about it up until now. It’s been over a year since the day that spell worked. Has he been having these nightmares ever since then?
“Peter, I’m not going to forget you,” you sniff, removing one of your hands from him just so you can wipe your own tears from your face this time. “If the spell was going to work on me, it would have worked by now. But it didn’t. It didn’t and I’m still here.”
Peter blinks, finally looking back at you. “How can you be sure of that?”
You wish you could tell him with certainty that you were sure. That there wasn’t a part of you that thought that one day, the spell would take effect. That the delay would finally wear off and you’d forget him entirely. You’d had similar nightmares in the past, but none to the extent that Peter has clearly been having.
“We can’t be sure of anything, Peter,” you admit softly. “But we can be sure of right now. And right now I’m here, and you’re here and we’re together. And I remember you and I still love you like I have all along. That’s not going to change.”
For a few moments, Peter does nothing but stare at you. Even though in the dark room, he can’t see you that well. He focuses instead on what he can feel. The weight of your body atop his. The warmth of your legs over the top of his. The feeling of your shirt and your skin where his hands sit on your waist. He reaches one of his hands up to cup your cheek, wet with tears like his are too. His thumb moves to trace your lips. He works on calming his breathing again as he takes in the feel of you. You’re here. You’re real. You remember him.
He can’t help but lean forward, then, and capture your lips in his. His hand moves to hold behind your neck as he kisses you, still focusing on how you feel, how warm your lips are, the taste of the salt of both of your tears mixing together, the faint taste of your lip balm, the one you always put on before bed. He memorises feelings like this for the next time he wakes up in a panic from a nightmare like the one he’d just had. Feelings like these to remember what it feels like to have you, to hold you, to love you and to have you love him back just as deeply.
Eventually, when he needs to breathe again, he pulls away regretfully from your lips. He rests his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry I woke you, love,” he mutters.
“I’m not,” you say. It’s the truth. You’d rather be here with him awake now than sleeping beside him, unaware of everything he was going through and unable to help him. “Wake me up next time it happens, please. Every time it happens.”
Peter knows better than to argue with you. “Okay,” he agrees. “I will.”
The two of you sit there again for a few moments, soaking in the feeling of each other. You feel closer. Things have changed in your relationship tonight. For the better, you think.
“You think you can try and sleep again?” You ask.
He nods, if only for your benefit. He doesn’t know if sleep will come for him again tonight, but he’ll happily lay with you in his arms, feeling the way you breathe and letting you sleep beside him. “Yeah, I can try.”
Before you can move off of him to lay down again, he leans forward to kiss you again. The kiss is deep but gentle, soft but firm. It’s another attempt to memorise the way your lips feel against his. Something to think about as he tries to sleep again beside you. Something to hold onto.
He wraps his body around yours as you both lay back down to try and sleep again. He makes sure the blanket is pulled back up around you to keep you warm and presses a soft kiss behind your ear as you snuggle back into him.
“I love you,” he whispers, needing you to hear the words since he didn’t say them earlier.
“I love you too, Peter,” you reply quietly. “I’ll love you forever.”
SUMMARY - your neighbour peter parker has a knack for stumbling in past midnight with bruises, offering lame excuses. you only meant to lend a hand, but one thing leads to another and you discover something shocking
CONTAINS - fluff, mild to severe injuries (peter), spoiler-free (?), not proofread oops
A/N - wrote this right after watching bnd. He has bewitched me once more (not that he's ever stopped)
It is twenty past two in the morning. Your laptop screen glows on the kitchen counter, and you are halfway through a cold mug of tea that should have been tipped down the sink hours ago.
A dull thump vibrates right through the paper thin partition wall, followed immediately by the metallic clatter of a bin taking a beating. Then comes a low, winded groan.
You set your mug down before yanking your jumper tighter around your shoulders, and head into the corridor. The hallway smells of damp carpet. You step up to 4B, fold your knuckles, and rap four beats against the door.
A violent rustle erupts inside.
Someone scrambles blindly over a piece of furniture, trips, curses under their breath, and finally unlatches the deadbolt. The door opens a paltry three inches, held fast by the brass security chain.
Peter Parker peers out through the vertical gap. His curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat, a fresh purple streak blooming right along his jawline. He looks as though he had just finished wrestling.
“Hey,” he rasps, voice sounding like he swallowed a handful of gravel. He pulls a faint, utterly hopeless squint, resting his forehead lightly against the edge of the door. “Is... is everything alright out there?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” you say, leaning your side against the doorframe. “Considering you sound like you’re tossing all sorts of things around your flat.”
Peter winces, his hand tightening on the edge of the timber. “Right. Sorry. I just... lost my balance.” he nods, more to himself than to you. “My shoelaces were untied.”
“Your shoelaces.”
“Yeah. Double knot failed me.”
“Right. And the shoelaces hit you in the face?”
Silence fills the corridor. Peter blinks, his brain clearly grinding its gears to manufacture a backup lie, but the bone deep exhaustion in his eyes catches up to him. He lets out a defeated breath that rustles his messy fringe. “It was a very aggressive knot.”
“You are a dreadful liar.” Your eyes drop to his knuckle where he grips the door. “Is everything okay? You look like you’ve been through it.”
“Appreciate the honesty.”
“I’m serious. You look about one breath away from collapsing onto the floor.” You turn on your heel without waiting for his rebuttal. “Don’t lock the door.”
You disappear into your kitchen, grabbing a make shift ice pack that is frozen peas wrapped in a towel out of the freezer compartment. When you return, Peter hasn’t moved an inch, though his eyelids are half closed, his weight propped against the doorframe just to stay upright.
You shove the wrapped pack through the narrow gap, causing him to jolt back to life. He fumbles it, his rough fingers scraping against yours as he secures a grip.
“Hold it against your face.” you order, stepping back. “And if you’re going to keep dragging yourself home in pieces at midnight, at least learn how to fall properly.”
A crooked smirk cuts through his exhaustion, tugging at the corner of his split lip. “I’ll uh add soft landings to my list.”
“Do that.” You tap the wood of his door with a knuckle.
“Night,” he calls out, his tone dropping into something surprisingly quiet as you turn away.
You don’t linger to watch him shut the door, but the click of the lock follows you back to your flat, accompanied by the muffled sound of him finally sliding down against the wall to rest.
Three nights later, the knock comes on your door.
It's a tentative, almost apologetic tap—two soft thuds against the timber at a quarter past one in the morning.
You pull your headphones down around your neck, shoving your laptop aside on the sofa before padding over. When you swing the door open, Peter is standing in the dim light of the corridor, looking remarkably clean compared to his last appearance. His curls are damp from the rain outside, and the purple bruise along his jawline from earlier in the week has already faded to a dull yellow.
A ridiculously fast recovery that you brush off.
In his hands, folded into a neat, lopsided square, is your towel.
“I washed it,” he explains immediately. “And I bought my own ice pack. A proper gel one this time. So your frozen peas are safe.”
You take the laundered cloth with a slow tilt of your head. “You know it’s past one, right? Normal people exchange laundry during daylight hours.”
“Yeah, well, my schedule isn’t exactly normal,” he admits, shifting his weight between his feet. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers tangling briefly in his messy hair. “Plus, I saw the light under your door. Figured you were still awake.”
“I work better when everything else has settled,” you shrug. “What’s your excuse?”
Peter offers a small, self deprecating grin, though his eyes wander past you into the warm glow of your flat. “Odd jobs. Whatever pays cash under the table. Late night shifts keep me out of people’s way.”
He shifts again, and as he does, a sharp wince catches in his throat. His left shoulder hitches up unnaturally high, his right hand instantly snapping up to brace his elbow.
You don’t miss the subtle flinch. “What did you do now?”
“Nothing,” he says a fraction too fast, eyes locking back onto yours. “Just pulled something. Lifting heavy boxes.”
“Heavy boxes.” You raise a brow and take a step back into your entryway, leaving the door wide open. “Come in.”
Peter hesitates on the threshold, his eyes widening slightly. “Oh, no, I really don’t want to bother you–”
“You’re already bothering me by standing there,” you cut in, heading straight for the kitchen counter. “In. Before the cold freezes the whole flat.”
With a quiet exhale, he steps across the entryway. Having him inside your tiny space immediately alters the air. He’s broader than his oversized clothes let on, his presence instantly filling the narrow entry. He stands awkwardly by the coat rack, his lips forming into a thin line as he watches you retrieve a tub of muscle rub from a cabinet.
“Shirt stays on, don’t worry,“ you break the silence, turning back to face him with the jar in hand. “Just turn around and sit on the edge of the sofa.”
Peter blinks, a charming flush creeping up from the collar of his jumper, tinting his face a faint pink. “You really don’t have to do this–”
“I know I don’t,” you answer, gesturing toward the cushions. “Sit.”
Peter sinks onto the cushion, perching on the absolute edge. You sit down beside him on the sofa, unscrewing the small jar in your hands. The crisp scent of eucalyptus instantly fills the space between you.
“Lean forward,” you instruct, rubbing a dollop of the cool cream across your palms. “And try to actually relax for five seconds.”
Peter ducks his head without argument, resting his elbows on his knees. His messy curls drop over his forehead, exposing the skin at the nape of his neck. When you press your hands against the base of his neck, working your thumbs into his left shoulder through the wool of his jumper, he stiffens instantly. A ragged breath hitches in his chest, his whole frame going solid beneath your touch. It’s like pressing your hands into solid granite. Beneath the knitwear, there is no give—just dense hard muscle wrapped tight with strain.
“Breathe, Peter,” you murmur, digging your thumbs in harder to work around a stubborn knot near his shoulder blade. “I’m not gonna break you.”
“Right. Yeah,” he rasps, though his knuckles turn white where his hands grip his knees. He swallows hard, his shoulders slowly dropping under your steady pressure. “Sorry. Just... not really used to it.”
“Not used to what? Basic self care?”
“People…” He hesitates, the word hanging heavy in the room before he quickly catches himself. “People touching my shoulders, I guess. Usually it’s just someone shoving past me on the subway.”
The answer is delivered with a light chuckle and yet it hits with an unexpected sting. At that, you slow the rhythm of your hands, smoothing the warmth of the cream deeper into the stiff muscle.
“Well, you have dreadful posture anyway,” you joke softly, “so you’re going to have to suffer through it.”
Peter lets out a genuine laugh that vibrates right through his back and into your fingertips. His head dips lower, his breath hitching once more, not from pain this time, but from something far quieter, his eyes fluttering shut as he finally lets his full weight sink back against the cushions.
For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. The only sound in the flat is the rhythmic hum of your fridge and the pattern of Peter’s breathing as your thumbs work out the tension in his upper back. The heat radiating through his clothes is almost absurd. Beneath your palms, the stiff line of his spine finally relaxes.
“Better?” you ask quietly, lifting your hands.
Peter turns his head slowly, looking back over his shoulder. Up close, without the shadows of the draughty corridor hiding him, his brown eyes are calm and unguarded. Near his collarbone, a faint, restless pulse flutters, beating far too fast for someone sitting completely still.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “Yeah, actually. A lot better.” He nods.
You wipe the excess cream off your palms onto a tissue, maintaining a steady posture despite the sudden spike in atmospheric pressure. “Good. Because I’m not making a habit of running a wellness centre out of my living room.”
A smile tugs at his lip. He shifts his frame on the cushion, angling his knees toward yours in the narrow space between you. He looks down at his scraped knuckles for a brief second before his gaze travels back up to your face, tracing the line of your jaw before settling firmly on your eyes.
“I could pay you,” he offers, his tone light, though the way he is watching you is anything but casual. “I mean... not in money. But I could do your heavy lifting. Or fix your radiator. It rattles at three in the morning, by the way.”
“You’re listening to my radiator at three in the morning?”
Peter goes dead still, his mouth parting as if to instantly retract the statement. A deep, telltale flush surges right up to the tips of his ears. “I–well, paper thin walls. I just hear things. I’m not... I promise I’m not lingering outside your wall like a creep.”
“I know, Peter.” a quiet laugh bubbles in your throat as you tilt your head. “Relax.”
He exhales a breath that seems half relieved and half flustered, running a hand through his hair. Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he pushes off the sofa with fluid grace that seems too fast for a guy who claims to be clumsy.
“I should um... probably get out of your hair,” he stammers, taking two quick steps back toward the entryway. “It’s late. Or early. Whatever it is.”
You follow him at a more leisurely pace, resting against the archway as he unlatches the front door.
“Try not to fall on your journey back to 4B,“ you call out.
Peter pauses and looks over his shoulder. “No guarantees,” he chuckles, his gaze lingering on your face for one beat, two beats, before he finally steps out into the corridor. “Night.”
“Night, Peter.”
The following evening, you’re standing in the overcrowded aisle of the corner shop down the block, debating between two identical jars of pasta sauce, when a shadow falls over you.
“The basil one,” a voice says from right behind your shoulder. “The garlic one tastes like cardboard.”
You turn around to find Peter precariously balancing three trays of meat, a carton of milk, and a loaf of bread in his arms.
“No basket?” you breath a laugh, putting the garlic sauce back and taking his recommendation.
“I wasn’t planning on buying much,” he awkwardly clarifies, “I came in for milk. The rest were an impulsive buy.”
Another soft laugh escapes your lips before you reach over to pluck the meat trays out of his arms and drop them into your own basket. “Here. Give me the rest.”
Both his brows raise in surprise. “Thanks.” he falls into step beside you as you head toward the till. “I actually… I owe you one anyway. For the shoulder thing.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I could carry your groceries,” he insists, tapping the side of your plastic basket. “If–if you want.”
True to his word, he waits for you by your checkout counter immediately after paying for his own groceries, taking your brown paper bag the second the cashier finishes packing it up. The sun warms your skin as you walk side by side back to your building.
When you reach the fourth floor, he hands the bag back, his fingers brushing against yours for a second longer than necessary.
“See?” Peter says smoothly, leaning his back against his front door with a proud smirk. “Not one bruise. Flawless execution.”
“Impressive,” you tease as you tilt your head, unlocking the door to your flat. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late,” he chuckles lightly, eyes staying on you until you step inside. “I’ll um see you around.”
Three nights pass without a squeak from him.
Outside, a relentless deluge lashes against the glass, drumming a chaotic rhythm across the roof. It is nearly three in the morning when the sound hits. A heavy impact that rattles the picture frames on your partition wall.
You drop your phone onto the desk, sprinting across the cold floorboards to the front door. When you yank it open, Peter is on his knees in the dark corridor.
He is completely drenched, water pooling around his worn trainers. His chest heaves in wheezing gasps, one arm pinned tightly against his ribs while his forehead rests against your doorframe. Worse still, the grey hoodie he is wearing is torn open down the left side, heavily saturated in a dark, terrifying crimson.
“Peter,” you breathe, dropping to your knees beside him without a second thought.
“Hey,” he manages, though his voice is barely a thread of sound. He tries to force a reassuring smile, but his face is ghostly pale, his skin shivering violently from shock and cold rain. “Sorry... didn’t mean to... hit the door so hard...”
“I don’t give a shit about the door,” your brows furrow in disbelief as you take his uninjured arm, looping it over your shoulders, and hauling him up with every bit of strength you possess. “Get inside. C’mon.”
He weighs far more than anything you’ve ever carried— dense muscle unanchored by energy—but somehow, you manoeuvre him across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind you. You guide him toward the sofa, letting him slide down onto the cushions.
“I need to see where it’s coming from,” you warn, grabbing a clean towel, a pair of scissors, and a first aid kit from your drawer. Your heart is hammering rapidly against your ribs, pure adrenaline wiping out any lingering fatigue.
“It’s just a scratch. Looks... worse than it is,” he slurs, his hand rising weakly to intercept yours as you reach for the hem of his ruined jumper. “Seriously. I... I heal ridiculously fast–”
“You are bleeding all over my house, Peter, so stop arguing!”
You cut cleanly through the soaked cotton of his jumper, peeling the wet fabric back to assess the tear. But as the dark material parts, your fingers go still.
Beneath the ruined clothes, there is no bare skin or cotton undershirt. Wrapped tightly over his chest and shoulders is a sleek, textured fabric of vibrant red and deep blue—badly torn at the waist, where a shallow, nasty laceration is weeping blood down his side.
Silence drops over the kitchen like blunt weight.
Slowly, your eyes travel up from his torn suit, past his bruised collarbone, to meet his eyes.
Peter’s breath hitches in his chest. His eyes are blown wide with raw, terrifying panic as he looks down at the exposed suit, then back up at your face. He looks braced, desperately searching your expression as if waiting for you to do something crazy.
“Wait–I–” he struggles, his voice cracking with frantic concern. “it’s not–I can explain, please don’t–”
But you simply stare at the web pattern for a long moment, taking slow breaths to steady the overwhelming thumps of your heart.
“Right.” you pick up the antiseptic. “A really aggressive shoelace knot, was it?”
He lets out a breathless laugh, though it quickly falters. “... Wait, you’re not–you’re not freaked out?”
“Of course I’m shocked, Peter.” You unscrew the cap of the bottle. “But you’re currently losing blood, so maybe right now isn’t really the time for questions.”
A gasp escapes him, a mixture of laughter and a sob of sheer relief. The crushing tension in his posture snaps, his head thumping back against the sofa cushions. “You have no idea how hard it was coming up with those lies.”
“I do, actually. They were terrible.”
You work carefully, dousing a pad of gauze in warm water and antiseptic. Peter winces as you clean the edge of the wound, but he stays completely still for you. Once the side cut is cleaned and neatly bandaged, you shift up to sit beside him, bringing a damp cloth to his face.
“Hold still,” you mumble softly.
Peter doesn’t move a muscle. His eyes trace your face with focus as you gently wipe a streak of grime from his temple, moving down the sharp line of his jaw. Right at the corner of his lower lip, there is a tiny, fresh split. You dab delicately at the split on his lip with the corner of the warm cloth. Peter’s breath hitches, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly under the subtle touch of your thumb.
He looks undone. Unmasked, battered, and stripped of every defense he usually hides behind, sitting in half of a spider man suit in your living room while the rain lashes against the glass outside.
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” Peter whispers. He exhales a long breath, leaning his head back with a weary chuckle. “Pretty sure I can’t even move right now.”
You look up for a second, catching the intensity in his gaze. His eyes are no longer on yours, but staring straight at your lips.
A sharp flutter hits your chest, catching the breath in your throat as the air between you turns thick. Your own gaze helplessly drifts downward, tracing the curve of his lips, the faint tremble of it, and the tiny cut you were just tending to.
His hand reaches up, fingers sliding around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your pulse point. He pulls you forward with patience, closing the narrow gap between your faces until your breath fans warm over his skin.
The second his lips meet yours, everything fades into the background. The kiss is unhurried and soft at first—careful of the split on his lip—that is before his grip in your hair tightens just so to pull you flush against him. A shuddering sigh escapes him against your mouth.
When he finally parts from your lips, staying close enough that your noses brush, a tinge of crimson colours both your faces.
You take a steadying breath, a teasing smile curving your lips. “I thought you couldn’t move?”
“For this?” His thumb gently strokes your jawline. “I can manage.”
“You’re unbelievable.” a smile grows across your face as you reach over the armrest to grab the soft fleece blanket from the back of the sofa.
You drape it over his broad shoulders, tucking the edge around him to keep the draft off his skin. Peter fully settles into the cushion, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. He doesn’t move away, instead letting his weight shift until his head comes down to rest comfortably against your shoulder.
“You’re staying here tonight.” you guide your fingers through his damp curls. “No arguments.”
“No arguments,” he repeats against the fabric of your clothes, his eyelids fluttering shut as his breathing slows into a steady pattern.
Within minutes, the guy who holds the weight of the city on his shoulders is fully asleep beside you, warm, safe, and finally resting.
About: As a nurse, nothing really fazes you. You've seen it all, but seeing the Punisher carrying in an unconscious Spider-Man? Well, maybe you haven't seen everything. Or Peter thinks you're cute while you're concerned for his elevated heartbeat.
Pairing: Peter Parker x Fem!Nurse!Reader
Warnings: MINOR SPOILERS FOR SPIDER-MAN: BND, Frank being Frank, possible inaccurate medical terms, fluff, MJ and Ned make an appearance, barely any use of y/n, and not edited.
WC: 2K
Author's Note: My writing inspiration has come back, all thanks to Peter Parker :') I've missed Tom's Spider-Man so much, and the movie was 100/10. I've already got tickets to the movie again.
Masterlist II Peter Parker Masterlist
dividers: @/saradika-graphics @/strangergraphics
"So, what's he like? What are they both like?" Your co-worker Mila has been hounding you all night with questions about your patient in 301.
"Mila," you hiss as a group of doctors and interns pass by the nurses' station.
"What?" she whines out, still draped over the counter as she watches you log some medical information into the computer. "Do you think you'll have to sign an NDA? I mean, if it's really him?"
"Him, who?" you distractedly ask as you finally meet her inquisitive gaze.
She heaves a sigh before looking around, making sure there are no prying ears. She leans in closer to you and whispers, "Spider-Man."
You try not to roll your eyes. "You're still on about that? It's been about a week."
"Oh, please. Stop acting like it's no big deal," she counters.
"It's not-"
"Lies. C'mon, when's the last time we had anything exciting happen around here?"
You shrug. "I mean, we're the night shift. We see a lot of weird stuff."
She dismisses your words with a wave of her hand. "Psh. Rashes and removing inanimate objects from noses and butts is a typical slow night for us."
"Great, you've jinxed us," you joke as you stand to stretch your legs. As you do so, you can't help but look down the hall on the left towards room 301.
You still can't believe it's been almost a week since Spider-Man's unexpected arrival. Since then, the hospital has been in an uproar. The floor he's on has been pretty much on lockdown. Surprisingly, there are no cops camped outside Spider-Man's door, but you're pretty sure it's because of the Punisher himself, who's become a permanent fixture inside the hospital room. Along with the silent vigil of Spider-Man fans and reporters outside the hospital.
Just you, Dr. Weaver, who's been assigned to Spider-Man's room, and the day nurse have clearance. You're not even sure if it's official clearance or Frank Castle's. So far, no New Avengers have been in the hospital to check in on Spider-Man.
"Is the Punisher actually scary looking up close?" Mila muses as she stares at the same room you've been thinking about all night.
This time you do roll your eyes. "Mila, you've seen Frank Castle on the news. It's not like he hides his face."
"Yeah, but he's always glaring or covered in blood and yelling."
Mila's not wrong there. The first time you interacted with Frank Castle, he almost gave you a heart attack. It was the second night, 2:15 a.m., and you were doing your rounds. You saved Spider-Man's room for last. All you had to do was check his vitals and see if he'd woken up.
When you first walked in, the room was empty, except for the unconscious superhero. If you weren't at Dr. Weaver's side that first night, you wouldn't have believed it was Spider-Man himself.
As you move closer, you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest and the steady beeping coming from the heart monitor. You give a sigh of relief. Honestly, the first night was touch-and-go with him. He had lost a lot of blood, and Dr. Weaver wasn't sure what other injuries Spider-Man had sustained. Frank mentioned something about the Hulk and Spider-Man going at it at the DODC building that same day.
You can't help but wonder how he's still alive. Maybe it's the spider DNA running through his body or his suit? You move next to the bed, reaching out to grab the empty IV bag and replace it, when a gravely low voice directly behind you causes you to jump and almost drop the new bag.
"What are you doing?"
Spinning around, you see Frank Castle at the foot of the bed. Even in civilian clothing, he's intimidating. Eyes intense, locked on your figure and face, void of any emotion. You do notice, due to your staring at him, that his eyes briefly move towards the bed and then back to you in a flash.
"I-I-uh," you stumble over your words, completely caught off guard. It was well past visiting hours, and you didn't expect Frank to still be there. Instead, you raise the IV bag so he can see you mean no harm to his friend.
His eyes furrow as he takes in your face, and then his gaze drops to your nurse's badge pinned to your front pocket.
"You're not the nurse from earlier." He moves a little closer to you, and you can't help but tense.
"Uh... yeah, I'm the night nurse. Ian will be back at 8," you say, finally finding your voice, and you point to the badge even though he's already seen it.
His gaze slightly softens, and his shoulders drop as he gives a slight nod and then moves to the chair that's on the other side of the bed. The next words out of his mouth surprise you.
"Sorry... didn't mean to startle you or anythin'. I'm just..." he trails off as if he's not sure what to say or he can't find the right words in that moment.
"I get it," you quickly say as you change out the IV bags. "You're just worried about your friend." Turning back, you see that Frank is carefully watching Peter's unconscious form. It's quiet for a moment, just the sound of the heart monitor beeping as you check the rest of Peter's vitals before jotting them down on his chart.
You're about to head out when Frank's voice stops you.
"He'll be okay." His voice is lower than before, and you're not sure if it's a question for you or if he's talking to himself.
Reassuring himself.
Again, you're not sure what to say. The next second, Frank looks up at you with a raised brow.
You muster a small smile. "Of course. His vitals are good," you reassure.
He doesn't say anything else, just nods as he settles back in his chair, crossing his arms. It looks like he's staying the night.
The sound of the call button brings you back to the present.
"Oh my god, it's his room," Mila excitedly breathes as she checks to see which room you're being called to.
"Mila," you lightly chastise as you push her back. "He's still a patient. Also, don't you need to do your rounds?"
She makes a face as she watches you head towards Peter's room. "You're no fun," she calls after you.
---
As you draw nearer to Peter's room, you hear some familiar voices floating down the hall. You met Ned and MJ the other night. Again, aside from the Spider-Man suit poking out of the patient bag and Frank's constant presence, it seems like a typical patient's room.
You pause in the doorway. Ned is by Peter's bed, showing him something on his phone. MJ and Frank are out of view, but you can hear them talking near the windowsill. You give a slight knock, alerting them to your presence.
"Hey," Peter says, immediately sitting up, hand going to his slight bed head.
"Hi," you reply, slightly uncertain as your eyes scan over him. MJ and Frank's conversation dies off as they spot you entering the room. "Visiting hours end soon," you gently remind Ned and MJ. You know Frank isn't leaving.
"Oh! Yeah, cool, no problem. We're heading out," Ned says, gesturing to MJ.
"Yeah, we'll be back tomorrow," MJ adds as she grabs her coat. She gives you a small smile as she passes you and heads out the door. Ned says something to Peter before grabbing his things and hurrying after MJ.
"Bye, Frank!" Ned says to the man who's currently staring out the window. "Bye, y/n," he adds as he passes you, and there's a teasing grin on his face as he says your name.
"Bye?" you barely get out, slightly confused and taken aback by that grin. You focus your attention back on Peter, who's messing with something in his hands. "So, what can I do for you?" you ask as you check his IV bag.
"Huh?" Peter replies, confused as he blinks up at you.
You can't help but smile. "You hit the call button."
"I did? Oh! Sorry, I uh didn't mean to. I guess I sat on the remote," Peter slightly rambles.
"Yeah, again." You hear Frank mutter from the window.
"Don't worry about it," you reply as you move closer to the bed and reach out, gently adjusting his pillows. Something you do out of habit with all your patients. "Happens all the time." Your arm brushes his shoulder, and there's a slight spike on the monitor.
You put on some gloves to check his bruised ribs. As your hands gently roam over his side, the monitor increases, and that alarms you.
You quickly pull back, scanning his body and face. "Are you still in pain?" you ask as you look at the monitor, still beeping away.
"Wh-what?" Peter slightly chokes out, trying to calm his heart.
"Didn't that happen last time you checked in on him?" Frank adds, and Peter shoots him a glare.
"Did it?" you muse, frowning slightly as you check his chart and the previous records of his monitor. Frank's right. Everything was fine during Ian's morning shift. But you do note his slightly elevated heart rate from last night during your rounds.
"It's nothing," Peter quickly reassures, reaching out to briefly touch your arm to get your attention away from his chart.
You look up, and Peter notices the worry and concern written across your face. "Maybe I should get Dr. Wea-"
"No! No, really, I'm fine," Peter cuts in, voice slightly raised.
You eye him and then reach out and touch his forehead with the back of your hand. Just by touch, he feels warm, but you're not sure if that's his natural body temperature or if he has an infection. You listen to Peter's persistent reassurance that he doesn't need Dr. Weaver as you continue to check his vitals. The constant semi-frantic beeping of the monitor still worries you.
"Peter," you gently cut in, your hand resting on his shoulder, and his rambling about how his body runs hot and there's no need to worry dies away at your touch. "I know your body heals faster, but still, maybe Dr. Weaver should-"
"No, no, really, I'm good. I can prove it to you." Peter is pushing back the blankets, and you quickly realize he's trying to get out of bed.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," you exclaim, pushing him back. "Stop moving so fast. You were literally knocking on death's doorstep a few days ago."
"That's a bit dramatic," he teases, still trying to get out of bed.
"It's on me if you collapse on the floor," you counter.
"Eh, she's got a point," Frank says, watching you two. "That Grey girl was basically keeping you alive the whole time you were unconscious."
"Frank, seriously. Like I keep saying, I'm fine. Go home-"
"The only way I'm leaving is if you force me out-"
"Don't think I can't. Just because you shot me-"
"Seriously? You're gonna hold that over my head? I was literally aiming for the girl, and you decided to pull some hero bullshit-"
"I'm not holding it over your head, Frank! I'm just saying-"
"Yeah? Let me tell you something, kid-"
"Guys!" you interject while simultaneously trying to push a standing Peter back on his bed. Their whole partnership... friendship? Was giving you a headache. A moment they're having a heart-to-heart, and next they're at each other's throats.
Peter's heartbeat slowly dies down as the monitor does. "Sorry," Peter sheepishly says, sitting down.
"You guys can go back to arguing, or whatever it is you two do once you're out of the hospital." You point a finger at Peter, who just stares up at you.
Frank mutters something under his breath and goes back to staring out the window. The rest of Peter's checkup goes smoothly.
"So, same time tomorrow night?" Peter jokes.
You grin. "It's a date."
The sound of the heart monitor picks up, and you eye it before looking back to Peter.
"Don't think I won't mention your heart rate to Dr. Weaver."
"Oh, come on-"
"Nope," you firmly say as you head out of the room.
"Maybe it's the machine," Peter calls after you.
Frank snorts. "Right, the machine. So, what's the reason for the red face every time she comes in?"
"Shut up."
A/N: I dunno how I feel about this. It's been SO long since I've written anything, but now that my writing inspiration is back, I have several more Peter fics in the works (:
CONTENTS - ANGST, kissing, mentioned sexual themes, it’s just a whole lot of arguments and they're both touch-starved (mostly Peter) actually both.
WORD COUNT - 3.5k.
AUTHOR’S NOTE - I intended it to be soft and cute in the beginning but then I spiraled so…. Yeah. [not proof read so there will be a lot of mistakes and repetition]
“So what exactly are you trying to do?” You walked over from Peter’s bedroom to his work desk.
Multiple monitors, machines which you had no idea what their functions were and empty energy drink cans. The blue light reflecting off the screens and the whirling of the machines took you back to the Avenger’s tower where you had occasionally watched Mr.Stark work.
Peter was hovered over the side table wearing a fitted white t-shirt that read ‘Delmar’s Deli’ in blue and red. You couldn’t tell if suddenly all his shirts had gotten tighter or if he purposely did that. You wouldn’t argue either.
“Well, I spoke to Dr.Banner-“ His focus was still on the small chip in his hand until he put it through one of machines. The light inside it flickered and started doing it’s magic.
He lifted his head finally “And he said it’d be possible to make an inhibitor that-
Peter’s eyes widened slightly when he finally took you in. You standing by his desk, in just a Spider-Man merch t-shirt and his socks. That’s it. The shirt hung at your mid-thighs and the long socks rested just at your knees.
You tilted your head slightly as he stopped talking. You didn’t think Peter would still be stunned seeing you after he just spent the evening fucking you into a different reality. Well that’s how you felt anyway.
He cleared his throat when he saw that you caught him staring.
“You were saying?” You stated with an amused smile.
“I…” He blinked once before dragging his attention back to the machine. “You distracted me.”
The tips of his ears turned pink before he busied himself in finishing the inhibitor.
“Uh huh” You rolled your eyes lightly when he moved around you, turning you by your hips.
You stopped him before he sat down, reaching up giving him a quick peck on his cheek.
He turned his head and caught your kiss as you immediately kissed back. His hands that were on your hips pulled you against him.
His hand slid around and rested at the small of your back, holding you. The sudden intensity of it had you leaning further back and his arm curled around your waist, supporting you.
You tilted your head back letting out a breathless laugh. His lips dropped to your throat and you felt his grin against your skin.
Your fingers slid into his curls, tugging lightly so he looked back up at you.
"You were saying?" You teased playfully.
"Huh?"
"Oh-" His eyes widened slightly and his face flushed.
“Uh, And if this works…” he continued, smoothly slipping back into the previous conversation “…I should be able to suppress that side of me.”
He gave you a quick kiss on the cheek before letting go of you. He sat down in front of the monitors as you hovered over him.
Your brows furrowed slightly at his words, “What, the Spider side? The thing that quite literally makes you Spider-man?”
You stood behind him, watching him analyze something in the screens. On one monitor it showed an X-ray of him and his health levels. Including his arachnid DNA that were currently level but had been spiking lately.
“No-No” He shook his head. “The part that just keep changing.”
He nodded towards one of the monitors and you draped your arms over his broad shoulders, your chin on top of his head of dark curls.
A full scan of his body rotated slowly across the screen. Sections of his body glowed amber alongside lines of data you couldn’t even begin to understand.
“I don’t want to wake up one day and have turned into an actual spider.” He attempted a laugh as he squeezed your hand that rested on his chest.
“It just keeps the other side balanced, like it was before.”
You remembered when he first told you he woke up in a cocoon of webs, hanging off the side of his building, naked.
You found humor in it at first until just a few nights later your bedroom turned into the same thing. You were still finding webs. It almost looked like it had marked every corner of the house like its territory.
Your eyes remained fixed on the screens.
He wasn’t treating a symptom. He was rewriting himself. His DNA. Which even for our standard was insane.
Peter called for E.V., asking it to run another test.
The AI responded but you barely heard it. Your mind started going through different dilemmas on this. On one hand, you understood why he was doing this. But on the other, this wasn’t natural.
Even for someone as smart as Peter, this wasn’t still dangerous and could have long term consequences.
He gave your hand a pat before he stood up, brushing past you to retrieve the finished inhibitor.
“Wait-“ You looked between him and the machine.“…Do you really think this is a good idea?”
His brow furrowed,“What do you mean?”
“I mean…”
You gestured helplessly towards the screens.
“You’re changing yourself.”
“I’m stopping something dangerous.” He stated like it was obvious.
“You’re suppressing a part of yourself that’s natural.” You said softer, trying to reason with him.
He laughed but it held no emotion, “Natural?”
“Because of me an officer almost died. A person.”
Your chest tightened,“I know.”
“And-and, you know what the worst part was?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
“I knew it was happening.”
His eyes fixed on the screen,“I could feel it.”
“My heart started racing, everything got louder…” He swallowed. “I-I could hear everything. The moment their heart beat shifted and they were afraid of me.”
You didn’t say anything for a moment as you felt the heavy weight of his words.
“You weren’t yourself.” You tried to assure him but you knew this was just another guilt he’d carry.
“No.” He turned back to look at you.
“So let’s- let's figure out why, we can do that-”
His hands moved erratically, “I already know why” He tried to convince you.
You stayed silent, biting back what you had already tried to assure him of over and over again.
“So tell me, how is that natural?” He said to you again.
“I couldn’t control it.” He stated again, trying to get it through to you.
“You can learn.” You said with reassurance to him.
He scoffed, starting to get irritated by your stubbornness, “I don’t want to learn.”
“Peter, you’ve spent your entire life learning how to live with your powers.”
“These aren’t the same.” He shook his head.
“They’re still yours.”
Peter looked away.
“Then if it’s mine, I can choose if I want it or not.”
You sighed at his words. You didn’t want to bring up this next thing. Well you did, but not right now. But you’ve realised there’s no ‘good’ time for it, and he just has to hear it.
“Maybe it’s not just about the mutation…”
He folded his arms and his brows furrowed, “What do you mean?”
“When’s the last time you slept, Peter?”
The look on his face faltered as he didn’t expect that question.
“And I mean properly, not with me there.”
The stoic look settled back onto his face, “I’ve been fine.”
“Stop that.” You shook your head, “You are anything but fine.”
“When’s the last time you let yourself live? Let Peter Parker live?”
His jaw ticked, “I don’t have that luxury.”
“No, you choose not to.” You said back to him.
“Right-“ He spoke with bitter tone.
“You don’t think all of this-” You motioned towards the apartment.
“The sleepless nights. The stress. The lack of a social life - just everything you’ve been carrying…might be affecting what’s happening?”
“No.” He said flat out.
The frustration in you flickered, “Oh Peter, c’mon-“
“I think I know myself enough to know that it isn’t.”
“Do you?”
The question lingered.
You watched his shoulders tense and his gaze turns to the monitors, not being able to look at you.
“I’ve still got a city to protect.” He said quieter.
“And Peter Parker?”
“What about him?”
He was tired. That was evident enough.
But even the way he spoke about himself, like he wasn’t Peter Parker anymore.
You spoke up again, lowering your tone to his, “When’s the last time you let him exist?”
His brows furrowed and he shook his head, “He doesn’t really get much demand these days.”
His words hung between them but you don't argue back.
Instead, you reached out to him carefully.
Your hands on his forearms that were still tense, “You don’t have to do this alone.”
He looked away from you as soon as you touched him and you brought up your other hand, turning his face back to you.
You searched his dark brown gaze trying to find an answer. They were darker than usual. The light had dimmed in them. And it makes you think could you have fixed this sooner?
His eyes held yours and they only softened the slightest.
“I am alone.”
“No-“ Your voice cracked when you unfolded his arms, “No, You don’t have to carry this by yourself. You don’t have to do this alone. I can help you.”
“You don’t understand.” He sighed quiet, trying not to let you uncover the feelings that he buried.
“Then help me to understand.” You practically pleaded with him.
"Just let me in. You know what I can do so why won't you let me."
He held your gaze and his voice remained calm.
“I can’t.”
"Why?" You retorted back.
"Because I don't want you burdened with whatever is going on up here. And I don't... want you seeing it."
He didn't want you to see all the ugly, dark feelings and emotions he had. For the past four years, and even before that. He spent day and night on patrol. Sometimes just to feel something he let himself be hit. He trained harder. He pushed himself. Just so that he could feel something other than loneliness and grief.
You had taken a peak once accidentally. When he was asleep. He had felt it. The way your face broke and his pain overwhelmed you so much that you felt it all. It stayed with you for weeks.
He asked you to never do it again. And you didn't.
He was angry, not with you but with himself for even letting it happen. For still staying close to you. For letting you in. For letting you love each other.
He already knows what goes on in your mind and heart, and he never wanted to be the reason you felt pain. Even if it wasn't directly from him, it was his pain.
He'd listen to you. Your ramblings. Your singing. Your laughs. The way you'd ask him random things like he was the human wikipedia. If he didn't know it, he'd search it up and pretend he did. He told you the plot of movies and you'd complain when he gave you spoilers, even though you asked for it.
He'd have his head in your lap as you read out loud. One hand in his curls and the other holding your book.
He would be there for you. He'd let you love him. Cry to him. Shout at him.
So you didn't understand, why he wouldn't let you be his person. Just as he was yours.
Even with the faint workings of the machine and the flicker of hum from his monitors, the silence was thick between you two.
You watched him turn the inhibitor between his fingers like he was contemplating.
“This isn’t just for me.”
Your eyes flicker back up to him where he’s already looking at you.
“If it works on me then… I could be able to use it on her too.”
Your expression changed completely, “Who, the girl?”
The one who had been a pain in Spider-man’s ass. Jumping into different bodies, wreaking havoc across the city just for something called V-max. But she was also just a young girl. Granted she wasn’t doing good with her powers but this didn’t feel right.
“It could stop her from hurting someone else.” He said more determined as he placed the inhibitor to the side.
Your hands dropped from him and you took a step back.
You looked at him in disbelief. So many different emotions were running through you that you didn’t even know what to say to him.
“So that’s what we’re doing now?”
Peter frowned, “What?”
“Putting collars on people like us?”
“It isn’t a collar.” His answer came quickly, almost instinctively. His brows pinched together in disbelief that you could even compare it to that.
You scoffed, gesturing towards the inhibitor still in his hand, “What else do you call forcing someone to suppress who they are?”
“Peter, organisations have spent years trying to build things exactly like this. Weapons. Contingency plans.” You shook your head. “What happens when somebody decides this is easier?”
Anyone they decide is a threat, the could go around tagging people with the inhibitor. Forcefully stopping their abilities, stopping who they are. It can be of good if a catastrophic event happens but people abuse their power and if they see something like this, they won’t hesitate to try and control us.
This is what you thought and maybe Peter understood or maybe he was just thinking about now and his mission to just get that telepath of the streets.
Before you gave him the chance to respond, anger bubbled inside you, “What happens if someone gets a hold of this-?”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know that!” Your voice rose, fear bleeding into every word.
He closed the distance between you two in an instant. You barely had the time to register it as his hands wrapped around your upper arm, firm but gentle.
Your first instinct was to move back since you were still mid-argument.
“Hey…”
His voice had lost all of its sharpness.
“That’s not going to happen.” He tried to reassure you.
“If… I use it on her, it’s only temporary. And no-one else will get their hands on it. I’ll destroy it before that even happens.”
You stared at him, searching his gaze for honesty. The thing about Peter was he never lied to you. Even when he attempted his little white-lies you could tell, and you knew he had good intentions, always. This is why this is so difficult.
Your skin grew warm and your hands shook slightly from the adrenaline of this argument. Neither of you liked arguing. It ended with one leaving snd not seeing each other for a few days until the other one stopped being stubborn.
He didn’t like your silence, “Trust me.” His voice dropped to a desperate whisper.
You wanted to.
God, you wanted to so badly on this.
Your lips parted to speak until something caught your attention.
A mug floated slowly past Peter’s shoulder.
You frowned in confusion and your eyes flickered past him.
Everything that wasn’t bolted down in his apartment was currently a few feet of the ground.
The room trembled around you, every object suspended by your emotions alone.
The desk chair had lifted a few inches from the floor, gently rocking from side to side. The monitors trembled on their stands as screws, pens and loose tools floated weightlessly around them.
Even the bed had begun to rise, its frame groaning quietly beneath the strain.
Outside, windows rattled throughout the building. Dogs barking and horns blaring.
Your breathing was heavier and his hands left your arms and came up to your face in a cradling manner. His touch was cool against your warm skin.
His hands held you so gently like you were the most fragile thing here.
He called out your name and you drew in a shaky inhale.
The room shuddered.
The floating objects began to lower, some settling softly back into place while others crashed down harder than intended.
The refrigerator landed with a heavy thud and the metal tools clattered across the workbench.
Somewhere outside the apartment, a series of loud crashes echoed through the building, followed by blaring car alarms.
You winced at the sound of it. The anger and fear faded and shame crept in hot.
Peter lowered his gaze to your eye-line, “Say something.” He murmured, searching your gaze in desperation.
You sighed again heavier, “I don’t know what to say, Pete.”
“We keep finding ourselves here. And it’s not healthy, not for either of us.” You spoke quieter, accepting on the situation.
"You won't let me help you. Not really. And It hurts me to see you like this."
“Like what?” The defensiveness flared up again. His hands left your face and he took a step back.
He pinched the bridge of his nose in tiredness and frustration from this. You heard quiet beep of the monitor and looked over to see his hormone levels increasing.
"Pete-"You bit the inside of you cheek before looking up at him, “There just… there has to be more to your life than being Spider-Man.”
You kept your tone steady and calm for him. You stepped forward to him and then he placed his hand out to stop you.
“Oh like what-" He spoke through gritted teeth, "Like you?”
You paused when he said that. For a second, every emotion in conjured together and your mind went blank.
The words landed harder than if he’d shouted them.
Peter dropped his head, groaning when he felt that familiar painful headache. His eyes tightened shut and his fingers rubbed at his temple to ease it.
Your fingers twitched to reach out to him again but your mind said otherwise.
He rested one hand on the edge of the desk and the other dragged down his face. He exhaled through his nose and turned to look at you.
“You tell me to find Peter Parker again…”
He swallowed.
“…but maybe you don’t know what to do with him either.”
Your eyes burned and you slowly shook your head, “Peter-”
“Maybe this isn’t about me.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the tension in his face told you the headache still lingered.
“Maybe it’s easier believing I’m something you can fix.”
“…Maybe then your conscience becomes quieter..”
Tears welled before you could stop them.
“That’s not true.” You said quiet, letting a tear fall.
He didn't look at you. He couldn't.
He wanted nothing more than to say he’ll fix it all. But he also knew he wouldn't. And he needed you to understand that being Spider-Man was the only thing keeping him going.
That aching feeling in his chest that was pressuring him to just be honest. He ignored that too.
That you were his person.
It was easier to not admit it. To rely on himself. Even when he did keep coming back to you.
He looked down at the inhibitor.
“I’m not going to be the reason someone loses their life…”
His voice was steady.
“I’m sorry but I have to do this.”
You didn’t answer. There wasn’t anything left to say.
Peter finally looked at you when you had averted your gaze to the wall ahead.
Neither of you moved as the tension weighed on you both.
Eventually, he grabbed the inhibitor and turned back towards the desk.
The machine hummed patiently as he down onto the chair. His movement were stiff and quick.
A few more tears fell from your eyes and you felt something scratch at your throat that you forcefully pushed back down.
Slowly, with a flick of your wrist, the oversized Spider-Man shirt shimmered away, replaced by the clothes you’d arrived in before.
When you both were building legos and brought him something home-cooked. When he showed you his real webs that came out of his wrist. He made a disgusted look at the fluid coming out of his veins whilst you look fascinated.
He had playfully tackled you back on the bed when you kept bringing up that in fact you were the one who saved both his and Frank’s life on Staten Island. Which turned into something else. Which then turned into a few hours of his head buried between your thighs, his lips over your skin, your fingers tugging at his dark curls until he would kiss back up and give you what you both desperately needed.
But now all that seemed a long time ago.
He stared at the screen waiting for the system to begin.
He used the back of his hand to quickly wipe the tears that fell before they could stain.
SLAM.
The apartment door echoed through the room.
Peter didn’t move. His tongue poked into his cheek as he forced down the emotions that were threatening to spill.
In a few seconds the tears stopped and he reached behind to place the inhibitor on himself.
SUMMARY - Spider-man needs Ex-Avenger!Reader’s help in investigating..
CONTENTS - taking care of each other, soft , humor and… unspoken thing? Mentioned a situationship?
WORD COUNT - 3.1k
AUTHOR’S NOTE - I actually had some of this written before BND so I just kept writing and added some tweaks. I don’t know what this is. Also I am not a professional writer at all so expect that going into this.
You sat cross-legged on your pink rug, your back resting against the painted cedar chest at the foot of your bed. Books lay scattered around your open notebook, and you absentmindedly gnawed at the end of your pen as you reread the same sentence.
The windows beside you were wide open, the sheer curtains blowing gently with the night breeze. You’d long since tuned out the city’s noise. People always imagined New York as something glamorous, but after living there long enough, it became nothing more than blaring horns, distant arguments, sirens and the constant rumble of construction repairing whatever had been destroyed that week.
The main light stayed off, leaving your bedside lamp to cast a warm amber glow across the room. A few candles flickered nearby, making the pages of your notebook dance with shifting shadows.
You stopped reading when your mind became aware of another.
You side-glanced towards the open window.
“You know I can sense you, right?” you called out looking back at your notebook.
Silence.
You pulled the pen from between your lips and when you looked up again, there he was.
Spider-Man stood awkwardly in your window, still dressed head to toe in the familiar red-and-blue spandex. Lately, it felt like that was all he’d ever worn.
One hand rested against the frame while the other was propped in his hip.
He was forcing himself to act casual like he hadn’t just been outside your window for five minutes. Like he hadn’t been admiring you trying to focus on whatever you were reading. Your hair over your shoulders, the pen between your lips that you kept biting down on and apart of him wished it was him-
“I was gonna knock,” he blurted, louder than intended.
“But you didn’t.”
“You… didn’t exactly give me the chance.”
“At my window?”, Your tone was dry but held teasing.
He had never been more grateful to be wearing the mask. He was certain his face was as pink as the night-gown you were wearing.
“…It was open?” He looked back at the window and back to you.
A smile tugged at your lips.
“Hey, last time I tried your front door,” he continued, pointing an accusing finger, “that cat declared war on me.”
“He’s harmless.”
“‘Harmless’-“ He used his fingers to make quotation marks “-doesn’t usually involve attempted murder.”
“You showed up dressed as Spider-Man.” Because it’s not like the cat knew who he was.
“I was working.”
“You scared him.”
He scoffed in disbelief “He scared me.”
“He-“ You emphasized, “-doesn’t like spiders.”
He paused to say something but then muttered under his breath. “Well I don’t like cats but you don’t see me biting him.”
A giggle escaped you. He was ridiculously easy to wind him up.
Peter let out a defeated groan before stepping inside, carefully closing the window so that it wouldn’t slam in the breeze. He wandered over with the sort of tired shuffle that suggested he’d been on his feet for far too long before letting himself drop onto the rug opposite you, crossing his legs to mirror your own.
His mask tilted towards the candles.
“…Are we summoning something?”
You blinked.
“What?”
He gestured vaguely around the room.
“The candles… the circle of books…” He looked between you and your notebook. “I’m just saying, if a ghost appears, I’m leaving. I can’t deal with that today.”
You snorted with a laughter knowing he was half-serious.
“No, you idiot.” With a lift of your finger, the study books closed showing him the front covers. “I’m studying.”
“Oh.”
“You know… like normal people our age.”
He looked down at himself.
“I am currently sitting on your bedroom floor as Spider-Man.”
Touché.
“And you’ve got…” He motioned around the room again.
Then looked back up at you in your frilly gown, one sleeve hanging off your shoulder.
You raised your brow slightly with smile of amusement.
“I’ve got…?”
“…Super cool witchy powers?” He tilted his head which made you believe he was hiding that cheesy grin under there.
You shook your head with a small smile, “By New York’s standards, I’d say we’re probably the normal ones.”
Spider-man considered it for a second before sighing,“…That’s actually a little concerning.”
“It really is.”
He noticed you smiled a lot more with him. Maybe because you were laughing at him but he liked to think he was just hilarious. The way your eyes would twinkle or the way you’d laugh suddenly and place your hand over your mouth to downplay it. It warmed his heart every-time. Every-time he’d decide to keep a distance with you. He didn’t know whether it was a coincidence or a test for him.
You reached over, stacking a few textbooks together.
He picked one up.
“‘Introduction to Quantum Mechanics?’”
“Mhm.”
He opened it, pretending to read.
“I know… some of this.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“I was gonna say.”
“I recognized ‘quantum’ and ‘mechanics’.”
“Well done, you’ve learnt it all now.” Your words dripped in sarcasm.
He half shrugged, “Well I understand you and that’s a reward in itself.”
You smiled, watching him carefully place the book back where he’d picked it up from.
“Besides, what do you need these for?” He asked, turning his attention back to you.
“Trying to learn abit about myself and what I can actually do or try to do.”
“That’s good. For you.”
He nodded slightly and managed to get his fingers on the hem of your dress. He took the lace frill between his gloved fingers and started playing with it like a child.
You looked at him with amusement.
“Speaking off, I had lunch with Kamala yesterday.” You suddenly remembered.
“Oh?” He said, now not really listening.
“At Dal’s.”
“…Delmar’s.” Or maybe he was.
You frowned, “I knew that.”
“You absolutely didn’t.” His tone was flat.
“I was close.”
“You were alphabetically close.”
You gave him a puzzled look.
“How did you even know that?”
He shrugged, “It’s on my patrol route.” Now tugging at the lace.
“So you’ve just happened to see me there?”
“…Maybe.”
You gave him a look,“Peter.”
He snapped his head up, “What?” His voice went high again.
He cleared his throat,“I’ve… happened to see you there a couple of times.” He said casually.
“A couple?” You questioned, believing it to be more than that.
“…Three.”
“You counted?”
“I didn’t count.”
“Right, you just remembered.” You lightly mocked him.
“I did!”
A smile tugged at your lips,“That’s oddly sweet.”
“Really?” He asked, almost hopeful.
Then you shrug, “Or a little creepy.”
He slouched down,“I was hoping that wouldn’t be it.”
You smiled playfully and nudged his knee with yours.
“Kamala’s been asking about you.”
“Oh no.”
“‘Oh no?’” You brows furrowed and you whacked his hand away.
“Ow-“ He pulled his hand to his chest.
You gasped, “You don’t like her?”
“No-no, I do-I do.”
“That doesn’t sound convincing.”
“It’s not that.” A quiet laugh escaped him. “Last time we talked she asked me, like… seventeen questions.”
“Seventeen?”
“I counted those.”
“Why do you keep counting everything?”
He ignored you, “And in the space of like 5 minutes.”
You extended your legs beside him, “What about?”
“‘Why are there so many rules in time-travel?’ ‘Do the Avengers know fanfiction about them exists?’ ‘And why am I not in the New Avengers?’ ‘Why didn’t Thanos just double the resources in the universe?’” He threw his hands up exasperated.
You grinned.
“Well?”
“I don’t know!” He threw his hands up animatedly.
“You were there.” You pointed
“So were you!” He nudged your finger and pointed back.
You drop the pen and cracked your knuckles, “Yeah I was a little busy trying not to y’know, die.”
“But I’ll tell her you’ll swing by if I see her.”
His hands lifted immediately, “Woah, don’t promise anything.”
“I didn’t.” You already did.
“You implied.”
“I suggested.”
He let out a dramatic sigh and propped his chin on fist.
You smiled fondly, watching him. You always did around him. A part of you wanted to peel the mask off him. But you knew this was ‘Spider-Man’. And technically on duty. Which means he was here for something.
“So,” you said, “you’re either avoiding patrol…”
“I’m not.”
“…or you need something.”
He let out a feigned insulted gasp, “I don’t always need something.”
“You climbed through my bedroom window.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“You live twenty blocks away.”
“Can I not just say hello?”
His voice turned smug and his fingers found your ankles, almost caressing it, “You know they do call me the friendly-“
You pulled your ankle back, “Don’t. Finish that.” You shook your head.
He sighed like a child who was just told no, “…Okay.”
“I need your help.” He piped up again.
I knew it.
Your gaze softened, “You know you can just ask.”
“I know.”
He rubbed the back of his neck again.
“I just… don’t want to drag you into things.” His tone shifted heavier and you could tell he was avoiding your gaze.
You extended your hand and placed it on his knee in assurance, “You’re not ‘dragging’ me to anything. It’s my choice.”
He then looked at you and down at your hand. For a moment, he just let himself embrace it.
He tilted his head up, “Have you ever heard of something called V-Max?”
Your eyebrows pinched together.
“Drugs?” You suggested.
“Not drugs.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, “I keep hearing the name.”
“From who?”
“Different people.”
“Different how?”
“You know the attacks that have been happening recently?” He asked.
You nodded, “The thing jumping into different bodies?”
“Exactly that. Whoever is behind all this is looking for V-max”
You straightened up, “But nobody actually knows what it is?”
“Nope.” He shook his head.
“So you’ve looked into it?”
“I’ve looked everywhere.”
“Police records?” You questioned.
“Nothing.”
“Online?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head again.
A quiet huff escaped beneath his mask.
“But I did speak to Bill Metzger.”
You quickly recalled where you remembered that name, “The head of Damage Control?”
“Yep.”
“What’d he say?”
“That he’d never heard of it.” He said back almost immediately.
You frowned, picking up on the doubt in his tone,“You don’t believe him.”
Peter was quiet for a beat.
“…I don’t know.”
“I asked Yelena. She didn’t know either.”
“You asked Yelena before me?” You tilted your head slightly.
He paused and you’re certain his white lens widened.
“…No?”
“That’s not the point-“ he waved his hand, “I don’t have any proof.”
“So why ask me?”
“Because…” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m chasing.”
You thought about his words momentarily.
“You think Damage Control knows more than they’re saying.”
“I think…” He paused. “I think Metzger knows… something.” The frustration evident in his tone.
“But?”
“But the last thing I need is to start accusing the people who are supposed to be helping this city.”
You nodded slowly, “I get it.”
He let out a quiet breath, “I just… I can’t shake the feeling.”
“And if maybe that thing is a telepath then you could possible track it down - better than anyone else here?” He said quieter, like he didn’t really want to ask.
“You got a face or name?” You ask but you already knew what the answer would be.
“Not yet.”
You clasp your hands together, “If I start trying to go through the minds of everyone in New York, it’ll give me an aneurism.” You said straight and honest.
“I-I know, and I’m not asking that. I’ve seen what can happen when you do that. I just- If I find anything, could you possibly maybe try - when I narrow it down?”
You looked at him for a few moments and for a second you weren’t looking at the mask, you were looking at the eyes behind the lens.
“Yes, I’ll try.” You agreed on a softer tone.
Your hand leaves him and you pick up the pen again, tapping against your notebook.
“Well, I haven’t heard anything about V-Max.”
Spider-man sighed, knowing he wasn’t getting anywhere with this.
“But…”
His head lifted.
“I have heard some things. Not anything specific.”
“But?” He gestured to go on, more intrigued.
Anything would be better than nothing right now.
“I don’t know…” You frowned. “Call it a gut feeling.”
“Telepathy?”
“Gut feeling.”
“The powers?”
“Peter” You said flat.
“Sorry-sorry. It’s just-they’ve done a lot of good, y’know. They clean up after attacks and they keep dangerous tech out of the wrong hands.”
You understand where he’s coming from. Spider-man was working alongside the city right now and he’s already had the world turn against him before.
“I’m not saying they’re the bad guys but you have to remember the way the people believe , the others don’t always.” You advised him.
You gestured between the two of you, “They trust heroes until heroes start asking questions and I mean we’ve seen that first-hand.”
Peter didn’t interrupt.
“Sometimes I feel their fear and doubt.” You paused looking down at your hands.
“That doesn’t stop just because they’ve decided to work with us. Not for us, for themselves.”
Spider-man was quiet but he didn’t look away from you. He knew you had your own fears, mostly about yourself. About not knowing. And he was going through the same thing, not that he’d share it.
“If I were you,” you said quietly, “I’d keep looking into V-Max.”
You looked back up at him and he nodded once.
“But I’d keep an eye on Damage Control too.”
“You really think so?”
You gave a small shrug, “I just think it’s better to be safe than sorry. Hope can turn into fear very quickly, Pete.”
He let out a low exhale and was about to speak up.
Peter suddenly winced, groaning. His hand flew up to the side of his head.
You practically lunged over to him, “Peter?”
“I’m fine.” He said through gritted teeth.
“You’re not fine.” You said concerned, your hands holding him by his shoulders.
“I thought you weren’t getting them anymore.” You said quieter, examining him as he avoided looking at you.
“They’re… mostly gone.”
“Mostly?” You lowered your head.
He looked away.
“Once or twice.”
“They’re manageable.”
You knew that tone. And you knew it meant it definitely was not manageable.
You used one hand to turn his chin so he’d look at you, “Let me help.”
“It’s okay.” He raised his hands to stop you.
“It’ll take a minute.” You pushed, trying to get him to let you help.
“I-I’m fine, really-.”
You reached for the edge of his mask but stopped before you could lift it.
He paused when he felt you about to unravel him. He stiffened up, like he was bracing himself.
You felt his eyes on you but he didn’t stop you.
You peel the mask back enough to rest on the tip of his nose.
His lips pressed into a thin line like he was trying to hide any emotion. To protect you and himself.
Like he hadn’t used these very lips to kiss you some nights. To make you feel at peace when the world was too loud.
His jaw was clenched and tight, and for a second you both held your breath.
You lifted your hand, your fingers grazing his jaw.
You applied a light amount of pressure and the tension beneath your touch eased almost instantly.
He let out a sigh of relief and his mind and senses suddenly became clearer.
His shoulders relaxed.
He looked peaceful. Which for Peter Parker was a rare sight. Something you only ever saw when he’d rarely let his guard down and let you help him. You didn’t understand, you could ease his mind. Help him so much more. But he never wanted that to be your burden.
His head lulled forward and he placed his hand over yours, holding you against him. He laid his other hand on your thigh, feeling your skin through the thin fabric.
You let your eyes close.
His forehead rested against you and then the hand over yours slid down to wrap around your wrist. You turned slightly, nose bumping into his as you let him lean on you.
His fingers tightened around your wrist, and you continued to relieve his mind and body at peace.
You didn’t look into his mind, you never did.
Not unless someone gave permission but even then, a part of you dreaded it. Because whatever emotions they’d felt, it stayed within you. You knew you’d do it for him. But ever since four years ago, this was the closest he would let you come.
BEEP. BEEP..
“Armed robbery in progress. Helll’s Kitchen. Officers requesting immediate assistance.”
The police scanner built into his suit crackled to life.
Peter opened his eyes.
“Close your eyes.” You gently commanded.
“The city’s got great timing.” He forced a light tone and the corner of his lips lifted as an attempted smile.
He wished he could stay. He so desperately wished he would.
Your eyes open and you looked at him in longing and something else… not disappointment, just wistful.
He turned his head, his lips press against your inner palm, lingering for a few moments before he pulled the mask back down.
Your gaze softened and your hand catches his wrist.
“Peter-“
“I have to.” He doesn’t let you finish. Because he knows it’s easier this way. He doesn’t let you ask because when you do it makes him want to just be Peter Parker. But that’s not him anymore.
You let out a heavy sigh and you know what the inevitable is between you two but every night you hope for a different outcome.
“I know.”
He climbed to his feet and crossed towards the window.
You followed behind.
He rested a hand against the frame and turned to you.
“Swing by later?” You offered.
“You’ll still take me in?” His voice was softer and tired.
“Kept you so far, haven’t I?” You attempted to ease the tension.
You felt the more genuine smile on his face this time.
“I’ll hold you to that.” He opened the window again, wide. He climbed over the ledge, one leg still dangling in.
“Be careful,” you murmured.
His head dipped in a small nod.
“Always.”
Then he was gone.
You stood there for another moment before looking down. You used your other hand to trace your fingers over your palm. Where his kiss lingered.
You heard a jingle and snapped your head up to see the familiar black cat perched on your window.
