A dream within a dream
Peter Parker x Plus size reader
Warnings:
Alternate Reality / Dreamscapes – shifting realities, disorientation between dreams and waking life.
Violence & Blood – depictions of injury, physical fights, blood.
Angst & Emotional Turmoil – characters experiencing grief, despair, and inner conflict.
Sexual Content – eventual consensual sex, explicit themes.
Psychological Themes – blurred lines between dreams, reality, and identity.
Down the rabbit hole we go. This feels like a dream within a dream. And as the hatter once said “Have I gone mad?”
“This isn’t real…” You whispered, tears running down your face. There was something devastating in his eyes, rich, molten brown, but fractured by hurt and heavy with worry. He looked at you as if memorizing every line of your face, as if holding you in his gaze could keep you from slipping through his fingers. And god, the way he looked at you made your chest ache, like you were both on the edge of breaking.
His face faltered, but he didn’t let go of you. Instead, his arms came around you, pulling you against him as if he could anchor you here, in this fragile, borrowed place.
“Maybe not,” he whispered into your hair. “But it feels real to me. And right now, that’s enough.”
You woke with tears still clinging to your lashes, your chest heaving like you’d run miles. The room was dark, your blanket twisted around you, the glow of your laptop screen painted shadows on the wall.
“It.. It was just a dream.” The dream had been too vivid, his arms around you, the weight of his hoodie beneath your fingers, the way his voice cracked when he begged you to stay.
It felt real. It always felt real.
The dreams were becoming a pattern, disrupting sleep. You groaned, closing the laptop shut.
“Maybe I should stop reading manuscripts before bed.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself back under your sheets. But when you opened them again, hours had slipped away, and the shrill cry of your alarm clock dragged you up. The sound was cruel. Too loud. Too real. You slapped it off with a groan, lying there for one last, aching heartbeat before reality claimed you again.
By the time you finally pushed yourself upright, the world outside your window was already buzzing with life. You shuffled into the bathroom and flicked on the light. Harsh yellow bulbs spilled over your reflection: puffy eyes, flushed cheeks, hair knotted from sleep. It almost looked like you’d been crying over something real.
You brushed your teeth mechanically, the mint sharp against your tongue, the rhythm of the strokes pulling you further from the haze of the dream. Washing your face didn’t help, the puffiness stayed, the hollowness under your eyes deepened. You sighed, hoping the shower would help but you still looked like you only got 2 hours of sleep. Back in your room, you made your way through your closet. Every blouse felt wrong, tugging against your curves, never falling quite the way you wanted. You held one up, then another, before settling on the same soft, loose-fitting top you always wore when you didn’t have the energy to try. Black slacks. Flats. You sat on the edge of your bed to put on your shoes, pausing to press your palms into your knees, grounding yourself. For a second, you thought about calling in sick, curling back into the sheets and chasing the man through another fragile dream.
“One day wouldn’t hurt right?” You mumbled
Your second alarm blared through your phone, and the weight of rent and bills pressed in. Sighing, you stood, grabbed your bag and laptop, and made yourself move. The smell of coffee filled your tiny kitchen as the machine sputtered to life. You poured it into your mug, adding just enough cream to soften the bitterness. The first sip burned, but you welcomed it, letting it scald away the remnants of his voice echoing in your head. You slipped out the door, coat slung over your shoulders. There was a reason they called New York “the city that never sleeps” 6:30am, the city was already alive, horns blaring, people rushing, the train rumbling in the distance.
The publishing floor buzzed with the usual Monday chaos, phones ringing, printers jamming, the smell of burnt coffee seeping out of the break room. You slipped into your cubicle, placing down the many manuscripts you had picked up on the way. Your monitor hummed to life, the glow too bright against your sore, sleep-starved eyes. You pushed your bag under the desk and sat heavily, praying no one would look too closely at you today.
“Jesus Christ,” a voice announced behind you. “Did a dementor kiss you in your sleep, or…?”
You groaned, not even turning. “Good morning to you too, Jenna.”
Your best friend leaned lazily against the partition of your cubicle, perfectly manicured nails tapping on the wall in a little rhythm. Her curls were piled on top of her head in a bun that looked effortless but probably took twenty minutes, and her cardigan was already half slipping off one shoulder like she was posing for a candid she’d secretly staged. Jenna always looked like she had her life together.
Which made it that much worse when she took one look at you and gasped.
“Oh, honey,” she said with mock sympathy, “you look like you’ve been auditioning for the role of ‘Dead Girl #3’ in a crime drama.”
You groaned again, swiveling your chair just enough to glare at her. “Rude.”
“True,” she corrected, stepping fully into your cubicle and setting her coffee cup down on your desk without asking. She tilted her head, examining your face with the kind of scrutiny only your best friend could get away with. “Dark circles, blotchy cheeks, your eyeliner’s smudged into next week—tell me you at least had fun last night. Because if you stayed up late just to read manuscripts, I swear—”
You snorted, powering up your computer. “Didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”
“Didn’t sleep well,” Jenna repeated flatly, crossing her arms. “That’s not just ‘didn’t sleep well.’ That’s ‘I cried myself to sleep while listening to Phoebe Bridgers and contemplating the void.’”
You tried to laugh, but it came out thin, brittle. “Thanks for the diagnosis.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” She perched herself on the edge of your desk, her skirt riding up just enough for her to tug it down again with exaggerated dramatics. “That, and to remind you that looking like a hungover raccoon doesn’t exactly scream ‘future star editor.’”
“Raccoons are survivors,” you shot back, sipping your lukewarm coffee. “I’m channeling resilience.”
“Yeah, but they also eat literal trash,” she deadpanned.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop a tired laugh from slipping out. With Jenna, you never could. Banter with her was easy—automatic, even. She was the only thing that made the office feel less like a cage and more like… something bearable.
But she was also too sharp, too perceptive. Her gaze lingered on you longer than you liked, softening in a way that made your stomach twist.
“Seriously,” she said quietly, lowering her voice so the neighboring cubicle couldn’t overhear. “You’ve been off for weeks. Not just tired—sad tired. What’s going on?”
Your fingers hovered uselessly over the keyboard. A lump formed in your throat. His eyes flashed in your mind and ached like a bruise you couldn’t explain.
“Nothing,” you said finally, forcing the lie. “Just… weird dreams.”
Jenna’s brows arched, and that sly smirk you knew too well slid across her face. “Weird dreams? Mhm. Was he at least hot?”
You froze, cheeks blazing. “Shut up.”
“Oooh,” she sang, hopping off your desk and reclaiming her coffee cup. “That’s a yes. Don’t even try to deny it. Now I have to hear about Dream Boy.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Why are you like this?”
“Because one of us has to keep you alive,” she called cheerfully over her shoulder as she disappeared toward the break room.
You let your hands fall, staring blankly at your screen as the login box blinked at you. His voice echoed in the back of your mind, so soft it almost hurt: It’s real to me.
Your chest ached. You typed in your password with shaky fingers.
The days bled together. Emails. Edits. Lunch eaten at your desk while Jenna tried to drag you into gossip about coworkers or the latest book release. She teased, she cajoled, she demanded answers about your mysterious “Dream Boy,” but every time you dodged her questions, she’d just narrow her eyes and say, “I’m watching you,” before shoving a stack of manuscripts in your direction.
By Friday, you were running on fumes.
“You’re gonna die,” Jenna announced when you stumbled into the office, hair hastily thrown into a bun, shirt wrinkled like it had been pulled from the laundry pile. She winced dramatically. “Oh, honey. You look like a Victorian ghost haunting its ex-lover.”
“Thanks,” you muttered, dropping into your chair.
“No, really.” She circled you like she was appraising a painting. “Your skin is pale, your eyes are bloodshot, and I’m 95% sure your soul left your body sometime between Monday and now.” She plopped into your visitor chair, spinning lazily. “So… let’s circle back. Who is he?”
You pressed your palms into your eyes. “Jen—”
“Don’t lie to me, babe. You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. You’re walking around like somebody ripped out your heart. That doesn’t happen from watching too many Netflix thrillers.”
Your throat tightened, words sticking. “It’s… complicated.”
Her spinning stopped. She leaned forward, all teasing gone, voice softer. “Hey. Complicated’s fine. Just… don’t carry it alone, okay?”
You swallowed hard and nodded, unable to meet her gaze. The day was long, 2 hours of overtime, 30 minute walk to the train, 1 hour train ride and another 30 minute walk to your apartment. You were on the verge of passing out on the street, you were not in the mood to deal with anyone or anything. Opening your apartment door, rushing to take off your flats, clothes scattered on the floor leading up to your bed. You plopped yourself down, hugged your pillow and greeted darkness.
And he was there.Not your kitchen. Not even one you recognized. But it was warm, golden light spilling across tiled floors, the faint hum of a kettle on the stove. The kind of place that smelled like cinnamon and safety. And he was there. He stood barefoot by the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair a little mussed, like he’d just woken too. He looked up when he heard you, and his whole face lit in that way that made your chest ache.
“Morning,” he said, voice low, casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you’d always been here.
You blinked at him, throat tight. “Morning…”
He crossed the room in two strides, hands brushing your shoulders, your arms, as if to reassure himself you were real. “I made coffee. Thought you might want the first cup.”
You stared at him, at the chipped mug waiting on the counter, at the steam curling into the air. The ache in your chest swelled until it nearly split you open. “This isn’t real,”
He flinched. Just barely. But his hands tightened on you, grounding, desperate. “Does it matter? Right now? You’re here. With me.”
Tears blurred your vision. You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to step into that warmth, sit at that little kitchen table, drink his coffee, and pretend it could last forever. Pretend this was your life. But even as you reached for the mug, the edges of the dream started to waver, the kitchen fading like watercolor left in the rain.
You gasped, drenched in sweat. You felt the tears slip, grabbing the pillow, screaming, punching the bed. You wanted one night, just one night where you could sleep peacefully. Looking at your phone, 2:30am, sighing, it was the weekend at least.
“It was just a dream..just a dream..” You rolled over and closed your eyes.
AN: definitely long overdue, I forgot about this once I started school, but better late than never
