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hiii hello i’ve been reading thru ur stuff and i was wondering if u have any ideas for a thought that’s been plaguing my mind… how abt… hear me out, a spider-man! at with reader as spider-person w/ sebastian? i think it has so much potential for angst or fluff or anything u think feels right :)

feel free to ignore this if it’s not ur vibe! but ty for writing and sharing ur work! (also pronouns are she/her if u need <3)

Spiderman AU! I’ll Always Wait - Sebastian Sallow

a/n: hiii anon!! I am SO sorry this response is late — pls know this request lived rent-free in my brain the entire day yesterday. like. I was thinking about it during class, on the way home, doing absolutely anything but being productive 😭

the SECOND I got home I started writing, and then suddenly it was an ungodly hour and I was still tweaking lines like a madman. anyway, spider-person reader x sebastian sallow did unspeakable things to me and I hope it does the same to you. thank you so much for the idea and for reading my stuff — this one was fawkin a blast!!(also I fear we’ve found something I am not great at writing: fight/fighting scenes 💔💔 also, I was so tempted to make this Andrew Garfield’s Spider-Man and kill off Seb(seb is gwen stacy), but I couldn’t do that to you guys <3)

masterlist!

You land badly.

Not the cinematic kind of landing people imagine when they talk about heroes, not a clean flip or a neat crouch on the edge of a roof. Your foot skids on wet concrete, pain flaring sharp and immediate up your calf as you catch yourself on instinct alone, fingers digging into brick hard enough to leave spiderweb cracks behind.

For a second, everything goes very quiet.

Your spider-sense is still screaming, a residual echo that won’t shut up, like your body hasn’t yet realised the danger has passed. Your heart is pounding too fast, too loud, adrenaline burning through you in harsh, uneven waves. You swallow, force air back into your lungs, and taste copper.

Somewhere below, people are cheering.

You don’t look down. You never do.

You press a hand to your side instead. It comes away warm. The suit is torn there; the fabric is split and scorched, the webbing adhesive is half-melted and useless. You hiss softly through your teeth and lean your forehead against the cool wall, letting the ache bloom unchecked for just a moment.

This is the part no one sees. The quiet aftermath. The accounting of damage.

Your muscles tremble as the adrenaline drains, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Every bruise makes itself known now, every strained tendon protesting viciously. You catalogue it automatically, the way you’ve trained yourself to. Nothing punctured. Nothing broken. Nothing that would stop you from walking.

Nothing you’d ever tell anyone about.

Certainly not Sebastian.

You push away from the wall and move again, faster this time, sticking to shadows and fire escapes where the noise fades into a distant blur. The city feels enormous when you’re like this, all dark windows and locked doors, everyone tucked safely away while you limp through the spaces between them.

By the time you finally stop, wedged into the narrow gap between two buildings, your hands are shaking.

You peel the mask off first. Cool night air hits your face, damp hair plastered to your temples. You breathe out slowly, deliberately, until the world steadies and the spider-sense finally quiets, retreating to that low, watchful hum you’ve learned to live with.

You don’t feel heroic. You feel empty.

When you straighten, tugging the remains of the suit into something vaguely concealable, you catch your reflection in a darkened window. Pale. Eyes too bright. A smear of soot across your cheek, you hadn’t noticed.

Someone will tell this story tomorrow. They’ll make it sound brave.

You turn away before you have to see any more of it and start the long walk back, already rehearsing excuses. Late shifts. Missed trains. Anything ordinary enough to pass.

Because loving Sebastian means protecting him. And protecting him, you’ve decided, means letting him believe you’re safe. Even if it’s slowly tearing you apart.

By the time you get home, the adrenaline has burned itself out completely.

What’s left is a heavy, bone-deep fatigue that makes every step up the stairs feel deliberate. You fumble with your keys, fingers clumsy, skin still buzzing faintly, like your body hasn’t quite accepted that you’re safe yet.

The flat is dark except for the kitchen light.

You hesitate in the doorway longer than necessary. Long enough to listen. Long enough to take stock. Long enough to brace yourself for the version of you he’s about to see.

Sebastian is exactly where you left him.

He’s sitting at the small kitchen table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, one hand loosely curled around a mug that’s long since stopped steaming. The tea has gone untouched, a thin skin forming over the surface. His phone lies face-down beside it, dark and silent, like it’s been checked too many times already.

The clock on the wall ticks.

Each second sounds louder than the last.

He looks up when you close the door. Not sharply. Not with relief. Just that steady, intent focus he has when he’s been waiting a while.

“You’re late,” he says.

It isn’t a question.

“I know,” you reply, shrugging out of your jacket. The movement pulls at your side, a sharp reminder you almost hiss through. You swallow it down before it reaches your face.

Sebastian’s eyes flicker, just briefly. He notices. He always does.

You move into the kitchen, deliberately casual, rinsing your hands at the sink even though they’re already clean. The water runs a second longer than necessary. Anything to avoid standing still under his gaze.

He doesn’t ask where you were.

He never does anymore.

Instead, he says, quietly, “You smell like smoke again.”

No accusation. No edge. Just a statement of fact, worn thin with repetition.

Your hands are still under the tap.

“It’s the city,” you say lightly. “You can’t go anywhere without—”

“I know what the city smells like,” Sebastian interrupts, not unkindly. “That isn’t it.”

You shut the tap off.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The flat feels too small for the space growing between you, the silence stretching tight and uncomfortable. You can feel his attention like a physical thing, warm and heavy against your back.

You turn at last, leaning against the counter. “You’re still up.”

“I said I’d wait.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

His fingers tighten around the mug, just slightly. The tea ripples, catching the light. He hasn’t taken a single sip.

“You didn’t text,” he adds, after a beat.

Your mouth opens. Closes again. You settle on, “I lost track of time.”

He watches you for a long moment, eyes sharp and searching, like he’s piecing together something just out of reach. There are shadows under them tonight, darker than usual, and his jaw is set in that way that means he’s holding something back.

“You always do,” he says.

It lands heavier than he probably intends.

You push off the counter, crossing the space between you. It feels important to close the distance, even if you don’t quite know why. You reach for the kettle, busying yourself, filling it with water you won’t drink.

Sebastian’s gaze follows every movement. The way you favour one side. The way your shoulders sag when you think he isn’t looking.

“Did something happen?” he asks.

It’s careful. Measured. An offering, not a demand.

You shake your head immediately. Too fast.

“No. Just tired.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re always tired.”

The kettle clicks on. The sound is too loud in the quiet room.

Sebastian finally stands, pushing his chair back. He steps closer, stopping just short of touching you. For a heartbeat, you think he might reach out anyway, might cup your face or pull you in, and the thought makes your chest ache with a sudden, irrational intensity.

Instead, he just looks at you.

“I don’t like this,” he says softly.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter. “Like what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Whatever it is, you keep coming home with. Whatever you won’t tell me.”

You force a smile. It feels brittle on your face. “You’re imagining things.”

His expression doesn’t change.

“You flinched,” he says. “Earlier. When you took your jacket off.”

You shrug, careless on purpose. “Pulled a muscle.”

Sebastian’s eyes drop to your side. Linger there a second too long.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmurs.

Something in your chest tightens painfully. “And yet you keep letting me lie to you.”

His gaze lifts back to yours, dark and unreadable. “Because every time I push, you pull further away.”

The kettle clicks off. Neither of you moves to pour the water.

The clock keeps ticking.

Finally, Sebastian steps back, returning to the table. He picks up his mug, grimaces, and sets it back down untouched.

“Go shower,” he says, quieter now. “You look like you’re going to fall over.”

Relief and guilt tangle in your chest. “Seb—”

“Just,” he interrupts, rubbing a hand over his face. “Please.”

You nod, grabbing your things and retreating down the hall. At the bathroom door, you pause, glancing back.

Sebastian is still standing there, eyes fixed on the space you just vacated, like he’s listening for something only he can hear.

Under the spray of the shower, the smell of smoke finally washes away.

The weight of his worry doesn’t.

—

By the afternoon, Spider-Woman has become a story people tell like folklore.

You hear it while waiting in line for coffee, the barista animated, hands flying as they recount last night’s fight to a wide-eyed customer.

“She just—whoosh—came down from nowhere,” they say, grinning. “Like something out of a film. I swear, I thought she was going to die.”

You stiffen.

“But she didn’t,” the customer replies, delighted. “They never do.”

Never is such a dangerous word.

Your drink is called. You take it without looking up, fingers tightening around the cup until the heat borders on uncomfortable. It grounds you a little. Pain has a way of doing that.

Outside, someone has chalked a crude spider symbol onto the pavement. Red lines radiate outward like a sunburst. A child crouches nearby, carefully filling in the legs while their parent watches fondly.

“Careful,” the parent says, smiling. “That’s our protector.”

You walk past before they can see your face.

It’s strange how quickly a person becomes an idea. How easily people sand down the sharp, ugly parts and polish what’s left into something bright and untouchable.

They don’t see the way your hands shake when you finally sit down somewhere quiet. They don’t feel the phantom ache still running through your ribs. They don’t know how heavy the suit feels when you peel it off at the end of the night.

They don’t know how lonely it gets.

By the time you make it home again, the pedestal feels less like praise and more like a threat. Something tall and narrow and impossible to stay balanced on forever.

Sebastian doesn’t calm down.

If anything, he gets worse.

The article becomes three. Then five. Someone’s put together a timeline, complete with maps and speculation, red string logic laid bare for the world to see. Sebastian scrolls through it with growing disgust, jaw tight, shoulders coiled like a spring.

“They’re tracking her,” he says. “Do you see this? People are tracking her.”

You hover in the doorway, every nerve screaming. “It’s just fans.”

“Fans get people killed.”

He looks at you then, properly, eyes sharp and intent. “You really don’t see how dangerous this is?”

“I see someone trying to help,” you say, and hate how defensive it sounds.

“You see what you want to see.”

That lands. Hard.

You cross your arms, mirroring him without meaning to. “And you see what you’re afraid of.”

He scoffs. “I’m afraid of idiots turning themselves into martyrs, yes.”

“She’s not—”

“—trained,” he cuts in. “She’s not backed by anyone. She is not thinking long-term. You can’t just throw yourself into violence and expect to come out untouched.”

You feel the words in your bones. Untouched. As if that ship hasn’t already sailed.

“Maybe,” you say carefully, “she knows exactly what it’s costing her.”

Sebastian goes still.

“That’s worse,” he says quietly.

The sudden drop in volume is more unsettling than his anger. He steps closer, close enough now that you can smell his soap, clean and familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.

“That kind of thinking ruins people,” he continues. “Convincing yourself you’re expendable. That your life is worth less than the outcome.”

You swallow. “Sometimes the outcome matters.”

“And sometimes,” he says, voice low, “it eats you alive.”

His gaze flicks over you, too perceptive, lingering on the faint shadows under your eyes, the way you’re standing like you’re bracing for impact.

“You look exhausted,” he adds, softer now.

You force a shrug. “Long week.”

He doesn’t buy it. You can tell by the way his mouth tightens, the way his eyes don’t leave your face.

“I don’t like what this city does to people,” he says. “It takes the ones who care too much and grinds them down until there’s nothing left but the symbol.”

You laugh weakly. “You’re projecting.”

“Am I?”

The question hangs there, unanswered.

He turns away abruptly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I just—” He stops, exhales. “I don’t want to read about this, Spider-Woman in the past tense.”

The words hit you somewhere tender and unguarded.

You step forward without thinking, reaching out, fingers brushing his wrist. He stills at the contact, looking down at you in surprise.

“She’s careful,” you say, quietly. “She has to be.”

His eyes search your face, suspicion and concern warring there.

“You’re defending her like you know her,” he says.

Your heart stutters. “Maybe I do.”

He doesn’t laugh this time.

“Then tell her,” he says, deadly serious. “Tell her to stop before she gets herself killed.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Sebastian studies you for a long moment, then gently pulls his hand free. “This conversation isn’t going anywhere,” he says, tired now. “But it will. Eventually.”

When he leaves the room, the silence he leaves behind is thick and heavy, pressing in on all sides.

You sink onto the sofa, staring at nothing, his words looping endlessly in your mind.

Disposable. Untouched.

The city has decided Spider-Woman is immortal. Sebastian is certain they’re doomed.

And you’re caught between them, carrying the weight of both truths, knowing with sick certainty that something is going to break.

You just don’t know yet if it will be you or him.

—

You start organising your life around concealment.

It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t feel like a choice. Just a quiet series of adjustments that stack up until you don’t quite recognise the shape of your days anymore. Long sleeves become a habit. High collars. Strategic lighting. You learn where the bruises fade fastest, which need covering longer, and which ache when the weather changes.

You learn how to move carefully around Sebastian.

Not away from him. Never that. Just… around. Like skirting a fault line you’re afraid to test.

The flat is warm that evening, the windows cracked open to let in the noise of the street below. Cars hiss past on wet asphalt. Somewhere nearby, music pulses through thin walls. Normal life, humming along without you.

You sit beside Sebastian on the sofa, close enough that your knees almost touch. Close enough to feel the heat of him through your clothes. He’s working, laptop balanced on one knee, fingers moving absently over the keys while his attention drifts in and out.

You tell yourself this is safe. You tell yourself you can do this.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. You barely register it. Your focus is fixed on the faint ache blooming in your forearm, deep and persistent, the bruise there still tender despite the layers of fabric hiding it. You shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t pull.

Sebastian glances over.

“You’re fidgeting,” he says mildly.

You still too quickly. “I’m fine.”

He hums, unconvinced, eyes lingering a second longer than before. He goes back to his screen, but the air between you has changed. Sharpened. Expectant.

Minutes pass. You breathe. You almost relax.

Then his hand moves.

It’s automatic, unthinking. He reaches for you the way he always has, fingers brushing your arm in a quiet, grounding gesture meant to pull you back into him.

Your spider-sense detonates.

Not danger, not threat—just that sudden, screaming awareness that flares when you’re vulnerable. When something precious is too close to something fragile. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

You flinch violently.

You tear your arm back, breath hitching, heart slamming so hard it makes you dizzy.

Sebastian freezes mid-motion.

The room goes silent in that awful, suspended way, like everything is holding its breath.

“Hey,” he says carefully. “What—”

“It’s nothing,” you rush out. Too fast. Too loud. “I just—sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

He doesn’t move. His hand hovers where you pulled away from it, fingers curling slowly back toward himself.

“You pulled away,” he says.

“I startled.”

“I touched your arm.”

Your sleeve has ridden up in the movement. Just enough. A flash of skin. A hint of colour beneath it.

Sebastian’s eyes drop.

You tug the fabric down instantly, pulse roaring. Too late.

He leans closer, voice gentle now in a way that makes your chest tighten painfully. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

The answer is reflexive. Immediate. A lie you’ve practised until it’s smooth.

He doesn’t argue. Not yet. He just watches you.

Your leg is bouncing. Your shoulders are tight. You’re holding yourself like you’re braced for impact.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

You glance down, startled to find it’s true. Your hands curl into fists, nails biting into your palms through the fabric.

“I’m tired,” you say. Again.

Sebastian exhales slowly, frustration flickering across his face before he reins it in. He sits back, rubbing at his temple.

“You’ve been ‘tired’ for weeks,” he says. “And you don’t like being touched anymore.”

That hurts more than the bruise ever could.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” he replies quietly. “I can feel it.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable. The city noise creeps back in, filling the space where words should be.

Sebastian closes his laptop and sets it aside. “I’m not trying to corner you,” he says. “I just—something’s wrong. And you won’t let me near it.”

You look at him then. Really look.

The tension in his jaw. The faint shadows under his eyes. The careful restraint in the way he’s sitting, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might send you recoiling again.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you whisper.

His gaze softens. “You won’t.”

You don’t correct him.

—

The argument is inevitable.

You both feel it coming, the way you feel a storm building hours before the sky breaks. It lives in the small things at first: the clipped replies, the way Sebastian stops asking questions he knows you won’t answer, the way you start leaving earlier and coming back later.

It finally breaks late, on a night that’s already gone wrong.

You slip inside quietly, shoes in hand, every movement measured. Your body aches in too many places to count. There’s dried blood at your knee you didn’t notice until the adrenaline wore off, dark against the fabric.

“You’re bleeding.”

Sebastian’s voice cuts through the dark hallway.

You stop dead.

He stands near the bedroom door, arms folded, face set in an expression you’ve come to dread—controlled, tight, hurt wrapped up in anger.

“It’s nothing,” you say.

“Stop saying that.”

The word stops, sharp as a whip.

“You smell like smoke,” he continues. “You flinch when I touch you. You come home injured and exhausted and act like I’m imagining it.”

You drop your shoes. They hit the floor harder than you intend.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

The accusation lands squarely between you.

You turn to face him, heat rushing up your spine. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” he says. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re disappearing right in front of me.”

“I’m trying to keep you safe!”

The words tear out of you before you can stop them.

Sebastian laughs once, sharp and incredulous. “From what? From yourself?”

“You think I want this?” you snap. “You think I enjoy coming home like this?”

“Then why do you keep doing it?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

Because people need help. Because someone has to step in. Because the city doesn’t care who it chews up.

Yet none of it is safe to say.

“I can’t stop,” you say instead.

His face hardens. “You won’t stop.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is when you won’t tell me why!”

You feel tears sting, hot and unwelcome. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“That’s not your decision,” he fires back. “You don’t get to shut me out and call it protection.”

“I do when it keeps you alive!”

The words hang there, raw and exposed.

Sebastian stares at you, something like fear flickering behind his anger. “And what about you?” he asks quietly. “Who’s keeping you alive?”

You have no answer.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

You grab your jacket, hands shaking. “I need air.”

“Don’t,” he says. Not angry now. Afraid.

“I can’t do this right now.”

“You always leave,” he says. “And every time you come back… there’s less of you.”

You hesitate at the door, fingers tight around the handle. The truth presses against your ribs, desperate to be let out.

You don’t let it.

The door closes softly behind you.

Sebastian doesn’t follow.

He stands there long after you’re gone, heart pounding, staring at the empty space you left behind.

For the first time, the thought settles in fully and terrifyingly clear:

Whatever she’s hiding is going to get her killed.

—

You should have gone home after the second flare.

Your sense had been buzzing wrong all night — too loud, too layered, every signal overlapping until it was hard to tell danger from noise. Exhaustion does that. So does pushing yourself for weeks without stopping.

You ignore it anyway.

Because someone is screaming.

Because the alley is narrow and dark and full of shadows that move when they shouldn’t.

And because one of those shadows isn’t human.

The mutant steps forward as you land behind him. Broad shoulders, twisted limbs, unnatural sinews visible beneath stretched, mottled skin. One hand grips a man by the collar, holding him suspended, dangling above concrete. His jagged teeth gleam in the dim light, a wet, unnatural smile splitting his face.

“Let’s make this interesting,” he growls, voice low, resonant, almost inhuman. “I like to see people fight for it.”

You take a breath, web-shooters ready. “Put him down,” you say, voice steady despite your pulse hammering.

He jerks the man in a slow, torturous arc. “Or what?”

Or I’ll make you regret it, you think, but the words don’t leave your mouth. You launch, webbing tangling around a lamppost and firing forward. The mutant spins, his claws scraping metal as he deflects and kicks the man sideways. Your heart stops for half a second.

You hit the ground running, weaving, dodging, trying to get close without endangering the hostage. Every movement sends pain screaming up from your shoulder — the joint had slipped weeks ago during training, never fully healed. Now it burns like fire.

You strike, barely connecting. The mutant reacts instantly, swinging an arm with a speed that makes your webline snap back uselessly. He hurls the man roughly, forcing you to leap, but misjudging your trajectory, your shoulder slams into brick. Stars explode behind your eyes.

You stagger to your knees. Bad. Really bad.

Your breath comes in sharp, shallow pulls. Sweat and blood mingle, running into your eyes. You fight on instinct, every nerve screaming. A kick to his side — barely enough. He turns, claws slashing, ripping through your webbing and tearing into your suit.

The hostage scrambles backwards, sobbing. You can’t let him get hurt. Not him. Not anyone else.

The mutant is laughing now, cruel and high-pitched, as he lunges at you. You dodge, your leg giving out under you, hip cracking painfully when you hit the concrete. Pain blooms, white-hot, sharp, relentless.

Your mask slips. Blood trickles down your temple. You blink it out.

You try to swing your web to the wall — to escape, to reposition — but your trembling hands misfire. You stumble. The mutant lunges again. You duck, roll, and slam into a dumpster. Your ribs scream.

And then one last blow.

It connects with your thigh, a bone-deep crack that makes your leg collapse entirely. You hit the ground, breath leaving you in a rush of panic, your head bouncing against the concrete. Your spider-sense flares uselessly now — warning after warning arrives too late, after the pain, after the damage.

You taste blood.

The mutant laughs, cruel and drawn out, but the sound is distant — muffled by the ringing in your ears. Sirens somewhere close start to wail. He snarls at the noise, but your advantage is gone. You don’t swing, don’t fight. You crawl, staggering along the shadows, dragging yourself upright enough to reach the fire escape.

By the time you reach your flat, one hand clinging to the railing, body shaking violently, you’re barely conscious. Every muscle is screaming. Your suit is torn. Your mask is half gone. You leave a trail of blood behind you.

Home, you think dimly. I need home.

—

Sebastian freezes the second he steps inside.

The flat is too quiet. Not the usual late-evening quiet, but the hollow, wrong kind. There’s a sharp tang in the air that doesn’t belong — metallic, coppery.

He notices the window in the kitchen is open. Moonlight catches on something smeared across the glass. A handprint.

His stomach drops.

“What the fuck…” he breathes, moving forward faster than he realises. Keys clatter to the floor.

Everything in the kitchen is out of place. A chair knocked sideways, a towel on the ground, a faint trail of dark streaks leading toward the far corner.

And there you are.

Half-sitting, half-collapsed against the cabinet. Your head lolls to one side, barely able to support itself. Your chest rises shallowly, uneven, a soft wheeze escaping with each breath. One arm hangs uselessly at your side, fingers curling and uncurling spasmodically. The other presses weakly to your ribs, trying to stem the bleeding, but it’s clear it’s barely doing anything.

Your suit is torn and soaked in dark streaks. Your hair sticks to your face, matted with sweat and blood. One leg is bent at an impossible angle, bruising and swelling visible through the ripped fabric. Every movement you make is just enough to let him see how broken you are.

Your mask is gone.

Recognition hits him like a punch.

His hands tremble, heart hammering, chest tightening. “You’re… you’re… the Spider-woman,” he whispers, voice breaking, disbelief and panic tangled together. “You… you’ve been—”

He swallows, voice raw. “You’re Spider-woman?”

He can barely process it. His girlfriend — the one who’s been disappearing, acting distant, smelling like smoke, and coming home bruised and exhausted — the one he thought he was losing in small pieces — she’s… the person he’s been reading about in headlines and whispers, the one swinging through the city putting herself in danger.

Shock and anger mix, hard and fast. He drops to his knees beside you. Hands hover over your body, trembling, unsure where to start, terrified of making it worse.

“You could’ve died,” he says, voice breaking, a low mix of panic and fury. “Do you know how close that—how close you—” He stops, swallows hard, shakes his head. “I can’t… I can’t…”

Your chest stutters, breath shallow, rasping faintly with every attempt. Your body twitches uncontrollably from exhaustion and pain, each movement tiny, desperate, and almost heartbreaking. His hands finally move, fingers brushing sweat and blood from your face. “Stay with me,” he pleads, voice quiet but desperate. “Please. Just… stay.”

You twitch, fragile, barely responding. He presses towels to your side, tries to stabilise you, murmuring your name over and over. Every second stretches like hours, every heartbeat screaming.

He doesn’t need your mask to recognise you.

He doesn’t need your words to know the cost of the life you’ve been leading.

And in that quiet, broken flat, kneeling in bloodied tiles, Sebastian realises: you were never pushing him away. You really were protecting him.

—

You wake to silence that’s both a relief and a weight.

The smell of antiseptic, the faint iron tang lingering in your hair, the damp warmth of towels pressed to your side — it all hits first. Then, slowly, the reality of being alive.

Blinking, you see him.

Sebastian.

Sitting beside the bed (your bed this time, not the cold tile), his back rigid, fists resting on his knees. The dark circles under his eyes are deep, the tension in his shoulders impossible to miss. He’s exhausted, furious, terrified — every single one of those feelings etched into his posture, the way his jaw is set, the restless twitch of his fingers.

You try to speak.

“Seb…”

He flinches like the word is a bullet. His eyes snap to yours. Sharp. Intense.

“You… don’t,” he says, voice low, shaking slightly, almost cracking. “Don’t… move yet. Not until I know you’re really—” He swallows hard. His hands tighten into fists on his knees. Then he exhales in a rough, sharp hiss. “Don’t even try to explain yet.”

You feel the panic rise in his chest before he lets himself think clearly. The fury softens just enough to break into words. Not about your secret. Not about the lie.

“The risk,” he says finally, voice heavy, breaking. “Do you know what you did? You almost—” He stops, shakes his head violently, as if saying the thought out loud might make it real. “I don’t need… I don’t need you to be brave. I need you alive.”

The words hit you like a weight you can’t lift. You’re trembling, sore, bruised in places you can still feel as you shift slightly under the blankets. His gaze doesn’t leave you, and somehow it’s worse than any physical blow — the intensity of it, the mix of fear, exhaustion, fury, and relief all tangled together.

You try again. “I… I didn’t mean—”

He cuts you off, not cruelly, but firmly. “I know you didn’t. I know you were trying to protect people. But do you understand how close you came?” His voice is raw, ragged, breaking into quiet gasps as he swallows. “I can’t… I can’t lose you. Not like that.”

You want to reach for him, but your body protests violently. Every limb aches, every joint protests, every wound reminds you of the night, of the fight, of the blood.

He notices anyway. He leans forward, careful this time, pressing a hand to yours, gentle, grounding. “I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

The quiet stretches. You breathe together, shallow at first, then deeper. He doesn’t let go of your hand, even when you wince softly from a twinge of pain in your side. He just adjusts, lets you settle against the pillows, and keeps you anchored with his presence.

His voice drops to a low murmur, closer now, almost intimate. “You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to—carry it all yourself. You’re not… disposable. You’re not reckless in my eyes. You’re… you. And I can’t… I just…” He swallows. “I can’t imagine a world where you’re gone.”

You close your eyes, letting the weight of it sink in. The fight, the fear, the pain — it’s still there. It will be for a while. But his presence, his hand, the firmness in his voice — it anchors you.

He exhales, finally slumping slightly, fatigue creeping fully into him now. “I stayed awake the whole time,” he admits, almost whispering. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave you. Even when I knew I should. Even when I wanted to, I…” His hand tightens over yours. “I stayed.”

And you understand.

The lie, the danger, the night — it all hangs between you. Heavy. Devastating. But for the first time since it started, it doesn’t feel unbearable.

“I need you alive,” he repeats, softer now, almost a promise. “Not perfect. Not fearless. Not invincible. Alive. That’s enough.”

You nod, too tired to speak, and he leans back just enough to keep watching, keeping vigil, letting you rest. Every shallow breath, every small movement, every heartbeat — he notes them all, letting the weight of fear, relief, love, and anger mingle in silence.

The city outside goes on. The sirens fade. The night waits. But here, in this room, in this moment, the world narrows to you and him.

And for now, that’s enough.

—

The night presses against the windows, cool and still, but it doesn’t feel safe. Not really.

You’re suited up, ready to leave. Every strap of your web-shooters digs faintly into your wrists, the compression of the suit pressing against your bruised ribs. The city calls, its distant sirens and car horns muffled through the walls, but you can’t ignore it — there’s always someone who needs saving, someone in danger you can’t walk past.

Sebastian is there, standing in the doorway, arms crossed but tense, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. His exhaustion is visible in the slump of his stance, in the way his fingers twitch when he thinks you’re not looking. But he doesn’t move to stop you. Not yet.

“You don’t have to go,” he says softly. His voice is careful, low, almost pleading, like he’s trying to thread his fear into words without breaking you.

You shake your head. “I do,” you whisper, almost to yourself.

His chest tightens. He swallows, a sharp, shaky sound. Every heartbeat of his seems far too loud in the quiet flat. “I don’t like it,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I… I hate knowing you’re out there, alone, putting yourself at risk. But…” He steps closer, slow, deliberate, the weight of each movement measured. “…I love you. And I can’t—can’t stop you. I won’t. Not ever. Not like this.”

Your chest aches at the simplicity of it, at the rawness. You’ve felt the fear in him every day since that night. You’ve seen it in his eyes, in the subtle way he studies your every movement when you’re resting, in the way he holds you just a little too tight when you’re bruised, like he could somehow keep the danger away by force of will.

“I promise honesty,” you murmur, voice trembling just enough that he notices. “No more disappearing without a word. No more secrets. You’ll always know where I am. Always.”

He nods, jaw tight, fingers brushing lightly over yours. The contact is fleeting, but it anchors you both. “And I promise…” His voice softens, breaking in the way that makes you ache for him. “…I won’t try to control you. Not like that. I can’t. I won’t. But…” He pauses, letting the weight of the night settle in the air between you. “…I will always worry. I will always be terrified. But I love you anyway.”

You swallow hard, letting the words sink in. There’s a fragile bridge stretching between you — forged out of fear, relief, pain, and love — and somehow it feels stronger than any web you’ve ever shot.

“I know,” you murmur. “And I love you too. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s dangerous. Even if it kills us a little every day.”

He lets out a shaky breath and steps closer, hands hovering just above you, careful not to crush you, careful not to restrain you — just holding the space, holding you, letting you feel him without trapping you. You feel the tremor in his chest, the rapid pulse against your fingertips. You’ve never felt more alive, more terrifyingly loved, more anchored than in that moment.

The embrace loosens slowly. Your fingers linger in his. He watches every movement, memorising it like he’s afraid to forget.

“I’ll be back,” you say softly, trying to sound steady despite the ache in your chest and ribs.

Sebastian swallows, barely, lips twitching as if he’s attempting a smile. “I’ll wait,” he says simply, voice quiet, steady despite the tension coiling through him.

You leave. The window clicks softly behind you. The city swallows you up.

Inside, Sebastian leans against the doorway, letting his hands fall to his sides. The flat is empty. The faint hum of the city reaches him, distant and muted, but it’s nothing compared to the echo of your absence. He inhales slowly, tasting the faint copper of dried blood on his fingers, remembering every touch, every panicked call from the night before.

He doesn’t move to the bedroom. He doesn’t lie down. He just stays there, listening. Waiting.

The hours pass slowly. Sirens in the distance fade into the night, occasional footsteps on the street below make him flinch, his heart hammering. He keeps vigil, every creak and rustle registering, every faint sound of the city sharpening his awareness, keeping him tethered to the idea that you are out there, alive.

Every so often, he whispers your name, soft, almost unconscious: “Come back… please…” Even saying it out loud doesn’t make him feel any closer to you.

He never sleeps properly. He doesn’t allow himself to. Every distant sound, every flicker of shadow across the walls, keeps him alert. Every night, he imagines the worst, the injuries, the pain, the times he can’t protect you — and every night, he waits.

Because loving you — fierce, reckless, brilliant, beautiful you — is worth every second of the fear, every sleepless night, every ache in his chest.

And he will always wait.

unfortunately for everyone, this was not proofread, pls bear w me KAJSHDKJASHDAS

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