#spiderman angst

[amorieile]

CAUGHT IN A LOUSY WEB! ⸝⸝ oneshot

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.

other links: ▪︎ my masterlist

[yasministration]

spiderfire superduo

pairing: peter parker x starfire!avenger!reader summary: many of your superhero memories are riddled with the presence of spider-man, so how come you can't recall a single thing about him? oddly enough, getting all your answers begins with a youtube video titled 'spider-man and starfire being best friends for 10 minutes' cw: reader's superhero name is starfire, hurt/comfort, takes place in bnd, implied reader didn't have a family but not relevant, i don't think this has any bnd spoilers but read at your own risk! wc: 5.1k+

You’ve been having a staring contest with a Youtube video on your dashboard for a while now, debating whether to watch it or not, but it seems your body makes a decision before your brain even communicates it to the fingers that press on the remote. The video is titled ‘Spider-Man and Starfire being best friends for 10 minutes’, and upon first seeing it, you had furrowed your eyebrows, strongly doubting the words on your screen. Spider-Man was in every avenger photo and in all your planet saving memories; he’s in more than enough memories of yours to know that he was a prominent figure in your life, but somehow, you can’t recall a single detail about him — so why would he be your best friend? You assume it's been bothering you more than you consciously knew, because why else would you be so focused on the video playing across your television?

These clips have clearly been collected over the years — you can see it in how your suit evolves from segment to segment, and how much bigger Spider-Man’s muscles appear in his own suit. Something about this entire video unsettles you, because you’re witnessing moments of a tight-knit friendship that you can’t seem to remember at all. For example, a video taken from the bottom of a building, pointed up at where the two of you are sat in your suits on top of a residential building, masks lifted up to uncover your mouths as you eat from an open bag of chips settled between you.

At some point, Spider-Man’s lips move, and you nod your head, standing up and gesturing him forward with one hand. Spider-Man shimmies on the roof to face you, then brings a chip out of the bag, swinging it lightly in your direction as if to throw it at you, but at the last second, he throws it off the roof, in the opposite direction. With zero hesitation, you launch yourself off the building, torso facing the sky as you race the chip down the side of the building, trying to catch it in your mouth. When you do, you pause mid-air, throwing both fists up in the air, and Spider-Man stands up in amazement, laughing loudly. You don’t ever recall that happening. As the clip switches to show a short video of Spider-Man swinging across the city, you wrapped tightly around his body, legs crossed together around his torso, something in you twitches. It’s almost as though you remember that happening, but from a third person’s perspective. You don’t remember being swung around the city or flying the masked hero between buildings, as is shown in the very next clip, loud laughter following the two of you.

You can’t help but scrolling down to the comments, eyebrows knitting together as you read through them.

user103786 them showing each other how their powers feel is so precious to me ⤷ spiderfire98 they should have included the video of them on that construction site where she’s trying to use his web shooter ⤷ user9999921 MY FAVOURITE CLIP OF THEM EVER

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to search for that moment in your brain. It’s there somewhere, but you can’t recall all the details, as though someone hit you over the head when it happened. You can remember looking down and seeing the web shooters on your wrists, two red covered arms steadying you, hands holding your forearms and tracing the piece of tech as muffled words were explained to you. But why were you there with Spider-Man? Why didn’t you even know his name if you were so close?

You scroll back up to the video and feel your heart pause in your chest for a moment longer than normal as you’re exposed to a video of you and Spider-Man hugging each other tightly in the middle of a battlefield. You pause the video, rewinding it a couple of times so it bounces back twenty seconds, hoping to return to the beginning of the clip. You can’t really wrap your head around which battle this is from, but you have a limp in your right leg as you try running, and now glance down to find the long scar across your thigh.

The video creates a pit in your stomach, and you can’t believe that someone would record a moment of you in such a vulnerable state, clearly yelling something that the phone doesn’t catch. Instead, the phone pans to where Spider-Man is standing, turning over large pieces of rubble. His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, and he’s quickly hopping out of the mountain of rubble to find you. When he can’t get to you fast enough, he shoots out a web that sprawls on your chest and yanks it hard, sending you leaping across the battlefield.

Spider-Man catches you with open arm that he quickly tightens around you, and you feel your cheeks go wet as you watch yourself hug him back like he’s someone you loved, digging your face into the crook of his neck as your chest heaves with a sob, shaking in his hold. The camera stays on the two of you for a long moment, until Spider-Man pulls away from you and gently lifts your mask halfway up your face to wipe dirt and tears off your cheeks.

Pausing the video, you take a moment to stare into space. It's like you're supposed to remember him. Spider-Man was the first person you ran to after a life-threatening battle and you can’t remember him. There's someone there behind that mask who you must have known, so why isn't he here?

You push yourself off the couch, inhaling deeply when you feel your legs shake. You pick your phone up off the couch, opening tik tok and typing quickly ‘spiderman and startfire’. The three words are riddled with spelling mistakes from the way your hands shake, but instantly, videos are loading onto your screen, big texts spelling titles ‘What happened to Spider-Man and Starfire?’ and ‘Why did the best superhero duo fall apart?’ You can’t believe you’re relying on other people to tell you about your own relationships, but you click on the first video you see anyway because to your knowledge, you were never close enough to have fallen apart in the first place.

The man in the video is a heavily tatted blond man who’s sat at his desk, text in the top corner marking the date he filmed the video as he begins speaking with an accent foreign to you. He doesn’t look like he should be sharing any type of news, but his video has 9.2 million likes, so you watch it anyway. “What happened to Spider-Man and Starfire? This superhero duo has caught all our hearts over the past few years, and many have been speculating that they’ve caught each other’s. But over the last few weeks, sightings of them together have come to a complete halt. It’s no surprise that the avengers have had a tough few years after the blip and losing a loving member of their big family, Tony Stark, but the two youngest avengers have always been together, through thick and thin. Some news outlets are theorising that their falling out has been caused by their latest fight, The Multiverse Rip, in which they fought countless monsters from other universes. But they’ve all been defeated, so what truly happened between these two heroes? Were they romantically involved and this entire falling out is the cause of a nasty break up? We don’t have any answers to that, but if either Spider-Man or Starfire are watching, the world needs its friendly neighbourhood superduo.”

The video was posted three years ago. For three years, everyone in the city has been wondering what happened to you and Spider-Man, when it’s only been a few months that you’ve been wondering why bits of your history are missing. Has he been wondering the same thing about you? About his masked friend with a secret name he doesn’t know? Does he lie in bed at night and think ‘Who is Starfire?’ in the same way you’re asking yourself ‘Who is Spider-man?’

This time when you lift up your phone, all you type is your superhero name in the search bar, waiting for the results that come up. A video you haven’t even clicked on begins playing, and you shut your eyes tightly as you hear the words “Where is Starfire?” You let the video play on, listening to the same voice as before that ponders about your whereabouts. “Whilst Spider-Man has constantly been roaming through the cities of New York to save its citizens from evil, Starfire has gone completely awol. An anonymous resource has provided me with the knowledge that she has been taking a bigger role with the New Avengers, helping them tackle stronger threats to our society while staying out of the spotlight they and Spider-Man are earning. Could this be-”

You click off the app, shutting down your phone.

Maybe it’s time for you to get some questions answered, you think. And maybe it’s time to let people know you’re still alive and well. Or maybe - maybe it’s time to put Spider-Man in his place. So you trudge over to your room and hastily put on the slick suit you’re not used to wearing anymore. The pristine sleek black suit the new avengers have given you hangs in your closet like a sick reminder of what your life has come to and you huff. You’re going to get your answers today one way or another.

With one look out of your bedroom window, you debate with yourself how to go about this. Go out into the world and just hope Spider-Man is out there somewhere, or wait until he swings by? Either way, you’re not jumping out of your window to let the entire world know where you live, and take the boring route up to your roof. You’re standing there for maybe a total of five seconds before someone yells “Look!” and your eyes rolls so far back into your head you’ll be lucky if you can still see after that.

There’s already a phone pointed in your direction, so you decide the harm is already done as you run towards the edge of the building and leap off it. Someone below you screams until they realise who you are, watching as you soar off into the distance.

Come on Spider-Man. What does a girl have to do to find the hero she worked with everyday? What are you even going to say to him? Will you give him a hug, will you punch him in the face? You keep flying higher up into the sky until you can get a view of what feels like the entire city. And of course, you’re not looking for five minutes before a flash of red and blue catches your eye. You follow it.

All the way back down between the buildings where people yell your name and wave their hands for your attention — but your gaze is set elsewhere. You don’t stop moving even as the hero in front of you does, unsure of how to trap the man he’s after, but you’re already moving, eyeing the police car that pulls onto the street as you continue after the criminal, hands enclosing around his biceps when you’re close enough and lifting him off the ground. You do a short lap in the air as the police car comes to a full stop, then immediately land him in the back seat of the car as the policewoman opens its door.

When you turn around to catch Spider-Man’s eye, the goggles of his mask are blown wide, and he’s limply hanging from a web attached to a lamp post as he stares at you.

“We need to talk.” You tell him, and Peter swallows thickly, unable to answer you as he takes in your appearance. Of course, he’s kept tabs on you over the past three years, stopping on the rooftop of the building facing yours so he can catch a glimpse of you cooking an impressive dinner or watching from afar as you made your way to the new avengers’ tower for a mission debrief. But it’s been years since you’ve worn this suit — years since you’ve come out into the daylight as Starfire, and he’s absolutely speechless.

“Starfire.” He breathes out, pulling himself to the top of the lamp post so he can stand closer to where you’re floating above him. “My apartment or yours?” You ask, and Peter instantly grows nervous. This is the first time you’re speaking to the man who used to be your best crime fighting friend, and you’re pulling him for a conversation that can only be had in the safety of one of your homes. “Yours.”

You start moving without another word, leading Peter to the rooftop of the building you just vacated and climbing down the steps to find your apartment. Peter halts outside the flat. It feels wrong to come inside as the superhero Spider-Man instead of your best friend Peter Parker, but when you shoot him a pointed glance as you walk into your home, Peter feels forced to follow, shutting the front door behind him. His breath hitches when you pull your mask over your face, fully exposing yourself to him, and he makes the most of this moment — you looking at him with complete consciousness that he doesn't have to turn away. You stare at him as though testing him at something, and when you shake your head in disappointment, Peter knows he’s failed. The mask gets tossed aside onto your couch as you sit down, patting the emptiness next to you, but Peter is too busy looking around your apartment.

Unlike him, you have the salary to afford a nice place, and Peter can only imagine how much this apartment costs in Manhattan, and how much that couch costs in front of such an expensive television. He sits down, almost sighing at the comfort that welcomes him. He hasn’t experienced anything like this in maybe years, but he doesn’t get to enjoy anything yet, because you immediately ask “Have you ever taken your mask off in front of an avenger?”

Peter’s mouth parts awkwardly, because he truly has no response to offer you. “Because, I’d expect if you did, it would’ve been to me, right?”

“What do you mean?” You squint your eyes at him, standing up and grabbing your remote. Peter watches as you turn on the screen, and it immediately opens on the last frame that had been on the television before you’d turned it off. Peter gasps loudly, reading the title of the video.

He’s seen it before - of course he has. Peter has watched every single video with a title even remotely similar to this. Spider-Man and Starfire being best friends for 10 minutes. Everyone’s favourite superhero duo. Spider-Man and Starfire being the silliest avengers. Spider-man and Starfire forgetting they’re avengers to flirt for 6 minutes straight. He’s seen them all. Mostly, he’s seen them in the dark of his room when he’s feeling particularly lonesome and filled with self-loathing, or when he misses the feeling of your arms tightly wrapped around his waist as you snuggled into him on calm nights. Now, it’s like he’s being punished for everything he’s done — for keeping this secret of his identity from you after he promised that he’d instantly reveal himself to you after the spell was cast.

Peter moves his attention from the screen to your face, frowning underneath the mask at the sight of you so gutted over the video. Your eyes are glued to the screen, and Peter looks back just in time to see the clip of you running into his arms after battle. It sends a pang in his chest, because he knows that after every single mission no matter what, being reunited with you guaranteed a bone crushing hug. But you don't know that.

“Does this mean anything to you?” You whisper, looking towards him. Peter sighs, bringing his hands up to hold his head as he thinks of how to proceed with the conversation. Is this an appropriate time to tell you the truth? Would you believe him? Would you be mad at him? “Because everything leads to the fact that we know each other and yet I’ve never seen your face in my life.”

“That’s not true.” Peter hesitates for a long moment before bringing his hands to the back of his mask and pulling it over it head. His hair flops into his face with the movement, and when he lifts his face up to look at you, he can see your eyes desperately scanning his features, as if looking for any recognition within them. “You’ve seen my face before. A lot.” Peter can’t help but breathe out a sad laugh as he shakes his head, taking in the confusion pooling in your eyes. “For hours and hours everyday, you saw my face.” It doesn’t help Peter that you're already tearing up, that you know something is missing from your life, and he feels his own eyes water as you shuffle closer to him on the couch, shakily asking him “Then why can’t I remember it?”

Peter reaches into the only pocket in his suit for the paper he’s kept on him for the past three years. He unfolds it, then stares at the letter that begins with ‘Hi, my name is Peter Parker’. He blinks quickly as he opens his mouth, preparing to read it for you, but he can’t get a single word out before a lump is forming in his throat. So instead, he holds it out for you to take. And you do.

“Peter Parker.” You say, testing the way his name feels on your lips. Peter inhales sharply at the sound of you saying his name for the first time in so long, and you look up at him with a sad expression as you read past the first paragraph. This gaping hole inside you hasn’t just been there because you’re missing memories of your best friend, it’s there because you’re missing memories of years from your life. Hours from your day — every day — just wiped from your memory.

You fold the paper back up when you’ve finished reading his letter, and you just stare at your lap, only looking up when Peter calls your name. “We weren’t just best friends.” You whisper, and Peter shakes his head, squeezing his hands into fists to target his energy somewhere. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried,” Peter gasps, shrugging his shoulders “I tried and every time it got too hard.”

The boy watches as your hands come up to wipe your face, taking in all the new information. You don’t know how to process this all. You have so many questions, and yet what will it change if Peter answers them if you don’t remember anything?

“Can you tell me about us?”

Peter nods, sniffling as he nods. He comes closer to you on the couch, and you bring your legs up as though curling up for a bed time story. “We went to high school together, but we weren’t really friends until we joined the avengers. I was Tony’s trainee, and I guess because he and Steve were always competing, they brought us into it to. They each wanted to make the better avenger, and we both found it so ridiculous, so we started going out at night to protect the city and show them we could become better avengers together. It was better training for us than whatever they had going on.” Peter pauses, letting out a shaky sigh as he thinks back to the years.

You place a hand on his thigh, and he goes still, looking up to meet your gaze. Peter furrows his eyebrows as he tries smiling, unable to act normally about the entire situation. “We got close at school?” You ask, and Peter nods.

“We sat together in every glass, spent every minute of break together, we’d go straight to the tower after to train and learn weird avenger skills.” You nod at that, laughing softly at his wording. “Then you’d come to mine and aunt may’s until it was time for us to do our rounds of the city. We’d watch movies or build legos after, and I had a bunk bed so you slept over a lot. It didn’t take us long to fall in love.” Peter’s last sentence has your breath hitching in your throat. “And we were so obvious about it and all the avengers knew.” Peter pauses to laugh about it, tears decorating his cheeks, and he’s both thrilled and gutted to find you smiling with him.

“Tony and Steve didn’t let us go on any missions together. We were always mad at them for it, but they had a point. And then people outside the avengers started catching on, so we made sure to let it all out in our normal lives so we could be subtle when we wore the mask.”

“Did it work?” You ask, wiping your nose softly. Peter shakes his head with a smile. “It got bad pretty quickly actually. We had meeting after meeting with Tony and Steve, but you kept saying it was okay because Natasha, Bruce and Clint thought it was funny. We got caught, you know?”

Your eyes widen in panic and you instantly question “Got caught how?”

“By some kid. We were- we were kissing behind a building in our suits and when we pulled away there was this kid holding up a phone and recording us. There was a lot of negotiating done in order not to get that video posted on the internet.”

“Oh my god!” You bring your hands up to lay flat on your cheeks as you laugh in surprise, unable to believe that the boy in front of you is telling you stories about your very own life. Peter smiles softly, but it disappears when the light in your eyes dim softly, and you mutter “It sounds like we were fun.”

“Yeah,” Peter breathes out a sad laugh “We were fun.”

He runs a hand through his hair, leaning on his side which rests against the couch’s back. He doesn’t want this conversation to end. Sure, you don’t remember him but you’re here. You’re here and you know his name and you may be crying but you’re also smiling and asking about life with him.

“We had our first kiss when I taught you how to use my web shooters.” Your eyes light up and you softly mention “I remember.” You frown, shaking you head as your voice goes quiet and you clarify “Well, I don’t remember remember, but I know you taught me to shoot your webs.”

Peter’s face softens, and his eyebrows raise slightly in what appears to be an attempt at teasing you when he asks “Do you remember how?” You scoff, bringing your shoulders up as your superhero arrogance takes over. “Of course I do.”

The words leave your mouth before you can even think about regretting them, so when Peter stands and begins taking off his web shooters, you feel your eyes go wide with slight panic. You chew on your bottom lip, letting Peter take your forearm to fasten the web shooter onto your suit as he says “These haven’t been working great for me lately, so if you figure them out, you can keep them.” He settles himself behind you, nervously swallowing, though there’s a smile on his face nonetheless as he grabs your forearms, turning you to point your entire body towards the window. He looks over your shoulder to watch as he grazes the web shooter, mumbling “Just extend your arm, point, and press down here. Quickly though.”

You nod, though the feeling of Peter’s breath against the side of your face renders you jittery. You extend both your arms, pointing straight at the large pane of your window before quickly pressing down on the web shooters. The force sends you stumbling back into Peter's arms a little bit, but you look up and -

Thwip!

You freeze as the familiar sound brings you somewhere entirely different. Somewhere years ago, when you had jumped away from Peter’s hold and jumped high in the air, yelling “I did it! I’m Spider-Man!”

Peter had laughed loudly, shushing you as people looked your way despite having to be quiet in the closed down construction site that you’d broken into. He grabbed you by the biceps, pulling you away from any potential onlookers, and pressed you against a dark, cold metallic structure that hid you in a small nook. “I did it.” You whispered again, taking your mask off your face to show Peter how widely you were smiling. Peter nodded, mimicking your movements and struggling out of his mask as a laugh bubbled in his chest. “I mean, Spider-Woman does kind of have a nicer ring to it that Spider-Man, doesn’t it?”

“Shut up.” Peter mumbled, and you grinned, tilting your head to the side and fully leaning on the wall behind you as you countered “Think you can learn to convert ultraviolet radiation into energy for battle?” Peter’s eyes squinted, and he jutted his chin out, nodding sarcastically “Well yeah.”

The two of you stared at each other for a long moment before going into a fit of quiet laughter.

“Hey, Peter?”

The boy looked up at you with a short hum, eyes going wide when you brought a hand up to the back of his neck, tugging his face closer to yours. The smile had slipped off Peter’s face at the recognition of what you were about to do, and he leaned in, nudging the side of your nose with his, eyes fluttering just in time for your lips to connect in a sweet kiss.

A call of your name snaps you out of your daze, and you find yourself in your living room with your arms still extended and two identical spiderwebs on your window. You blink twice in quick succession, turning around to look at Peter, whose face is laced with concern.

His expression now is identical to the one that had been on his face when you’d pulled away from a heated kiss with him only to find a kid with a skateboard standing by your side, his phone pointed in both your faces. “Woah, kid!” Peter had called out, putting on his Spider-Man voice and tugging his mask down his face from where it was bunched up at his forehead. You cursed lightly, covering your face too as Peter ran over to the younger kid, tilting his head to the side and pleading with him to delete the video. The kid had squinted his eyes at your boyfriend, bragging “Not my fault you guys were kissing.”

Peter dropped to his knees, bringing his hands together and begging “Please dude, we’re gonna get into so much trouble from our boss if they find out this happened.”

“He’ll sign your skateboard and take a photo with you if you delete the video.” You instantly suggested, trotting up to the pair. Peter had nodded eagerly, putting his hands out in a weird shrug, and the kid stared for a moment before nodding with a sense of finality. “You got a pen?” The kid asked, and you laughed loudly as Peter actually nodded, pulling a sharpie out from his single pocket. The kid turned his skateboard over, waiting for Peter to sign it before he handed you his phone, tilting his chin up to pose with your boyfriend.

You giggled as you took a couple of photos, holding a finger up as you went through the kid’s camera roll to delete the video he had taken of you and Peter.

“Hold on!” Peter had called out, pulling his own phone out. “Send me the video first.” He mumbled, and you laughed, airdropping Peter the video before deleting it off the kid’s recently deleted too. “Thanks, kid!” Peter called, laughing nervously.

“Are you okay?” Peter asks, and your entire face softens as you fondly mutter “You made me send you the video of us kissing before deleting it from that kid’s phone.”

Peter drops his arms by his side, face showing no emotion. “You remember?” He asks in what you can barely consider to be a whisper. “And Tony found the video on your phone anyway and pulled you in for a really awkward conversation.”

Tears are instantly flooding Peter’s eyes, but he shakes his head, muttering “Almost all of my conversations with Tony were really awkward.”

“You should’ve come find me.” You mutter, bringing your hands up to brush against Peter’s biceps. His hands instantly come to your waist, and he pulls your body flat against his as he nods, skin pulling as he frowns and gasps “I know. I’m sorry.”

Leaning your forehead against Peter’s you shake your head determinedly. “Don’t be sorry, I love you.”

“I love you too.” Peter sniffles, though he doesn’t pull his face away from yours to wipe away at his tears. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, nose resting against the side of yours like he had done all those years ago before connecting your lips together. He instantly wants to tell you everything about the last few years you’ve missed, though there isn’t really much to tell, but most importantly, he wants to know all the details about your life — about the stupid superhero admin you always had to complete after missions or the early morning training sessions you couldn’t get out of.

But for now, Peter enjoys the sensation of you wrapped in his arms and your lips against his. And when the two of you are out together the night after, clad in your superhero suits, Peter can’t help but keep his eyes on you when teenage girls across the street wave excitedly at you, asking for your picture. He hops softly onto the cement below him, grinning when you trot over to them in your heeled boots that you always used to get scolded for by your mentor. “I barely ever even walk! I’ll be fine!” You had sassily told Steve, who still didn’t get the grasp of fathering a sassy teenager.

Now though, you pose as an example for these girls, smiling as you lean in to take a photo with them despite your mouth being covered. Then, you rejoin Peter, who wraps a secure arm around your waist, tugging your body close to his. He’s ready for whatever headline the Daily Bugle will sport tomorrow, especially when he hears how loudly it makes your heart thump in your chest, your pulse quickening in slight humiliation as you read the words:

Starfire returns from the shackles of the New Avengers, and it seems Spider-Man’s love for her has never left!

taglist: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, , @fandomhoe101, @sharkers00, @paankhaleyaaar, @tea-biscuits-books, @bearymuchso, @princesstiti14, @challengers4ev, @doiki3, @daisylove3, @laufeysvalentine, @veveaq, @nothinlikeuuu, @kneelforloki, @saaucie, @marzichann, @iluvchqnel, @inejghafawifesblog, @johnnyfuckingsexystorm

[y2sb]

lego house

pairing: bnd!peter parker x dewolff!reader

plot description: it only takes one lie to make love feel impossible and one truth to decide whether it’s worth saving.

content warnings: SPOILERS FOR BRAND NEW DAY, fluff, hurt/comfort, misunderstandings, angst (with a happy ending?), emotional confrontation, lying, mind control/manipulation (by jean grey but not on peter), sexual assault through involuntary kissing (mj kisses peter without consent), crying, kissing, peter parker being hopelessly in love / (let me know if i missed anything!)

notes: this one is for @0-n-1-x !! thank u for trusting me w this plot because for ghe love of god idk how to properly write angst but whats important is i hope u like this heeehee

brooklyn buzzed around you, people crossed the streets. traffic crawled forward. somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.

and standing before you was someone who shouldn’t have existed. jean grey.

making you instinctively took a step back. “my boyfriend warned me about you.”

she doesn't answer immediately, but her green eyes searched yours with an expression that almost looked apologetic.

“i’m sorry.”

before you could react, a dull pressure settled against your temples. the world vanished and suddenly, you found yourself standing somewhere impossibly high. a rooftop.

the city’s skyline stretched endlessly beneath a blanket of stars, the wind carrying the distant sounds of traffic far below.

and then peter. still dressed in his spider-man suit, mask still on, but you could imagine his curls tousled and sweat clinging to his forehead. he looked exhausted, chest rising and falling from what must’ve been hours of patrolling.

he wasn’t alone with mj standing only a few feet away from him.

she said something you couldn’t hear and peter answered, his shoulders slumping as though whatever weighed on him had finally become too much to carry. she stepped closer.

you knew their eyes met, even through his mask, as she carefully lifted his mask stopping right above his nose, before his lips found hers.

no, it wasn’t a trick of the light, it definitely wasn’t your mind filling in the blanks. you watched your boyfriend share a kiss with mj— his highschool sweetheart who forgot him beneath the glow of the city skyline, still wearing the suit he had left your apartment in only hours before.

the same suit he’d been wearing when he promised, “i’m just heading out on patrol. i’ll see you later, baby.”

your heart cracked the same time the memory splintered apart. you staggered backward into reality with a sharp gasp, one hand flying to your chest as your breathing became ragged.

“no.” the word escaped as little more than a whisper.

jean grey lowered her hand. “he told you he was patrolling.”

your eyes burned.

“there has to be a reason.”

“maybe,” she admitted softly. “but a reason doesn’t change what you saw.”

you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the pavement, because you had seen it.

a familiar thwip cut through the silence.

both of you looked skyward where a streak of red and blue swung between the buildings before spider-man landed hard against the pavement, already tearing his mask the rest of the way off.

“__!”

his breathing was uneven, his voice frantic as he hurried toward you, but jean grey had already disappeared.

gone without a trace. leaving only you and the memory she had placed inside your mind.

“what happened?” peter asked, eyes darting over your tear-streaked face.

you looked at him. at the same lips you’d just watched press against someone else’s on that rooftop.

your voice barely held together.

“peter, where were you just minutes ago?”

peter didn’t hesitate. “patrolling.”

the answer came so naturally and so effortlessly as if he’d rehearsed it.

your breath caught, followed by a broken sound escaping your throat before you could stop it. fresh tears spilled down your cheeks.

he frowned immediately.

“hey, what’s wrong?” taking another step.

another instinctive reach toward you and when you flinched away, his hand froze in midair.

“please don’t.”

his stomach dropped.

“i know what happened.” your words were quiet.

“…what?”

“don’t.”

you wiped furiously at your face, only for more tears to replace the ones you’d brushed away. “don’t make me ask twice.”

he stared at you, confused and terrified.

“baby, i don’t–”

“you kissed her. you kissed mj.”

the blood drained from peter’s face.

“…jean grey.”

it came out as a whisper.

“so it’s true.” you laughed bitterly through your tears.

his eyes widened. “no! that’s not what i–”

“you admitted it.”

“that’s not what i admitted.” his voice cracked with desperation. “i meant jean grey.”

you looked at him, eyes red and glassy. “she showed me everything.”

peter’s heart sank into his stomach, because he could practically see the memory playing behind your eyes. “baby…”

he stepped forward again, slower this time. carefully, like approaching someone standing too close to the edge.

“please, let me explain.”

“explain what?” your voice rose for the first time.

“that i watched my boyfriend kiss someone else?”

he shut his eyes. “n…no– yes.”

you stared at him in disbelief.

“you actually expect me to stand here after seeing that and listen?”

“because there’s more to it than what she showed you.”

your words cut clean through him. “was there another angle? did i miss the part where your lips didn’t touch hers?”

he had no answer, because they had. so you shook your head.

“you promised me.” your voice cracked on the last word. “you looked me in the eyes before you left,” another sob escaped you, “and you promised you were just going on patrol.”

peter felt sick, because this was entirely his own doing and he swallowed hard.

“i never wanted to hurt you.”

“but you did.”

the sentence landed with quiet finality.

and since swinging into brooklyn, the man who made headlines— spiderman had no way to save the person standing in front of him. his own girlfriend who he promised the world to, knowing the great cost of everything.

it has been three days since you’d walked away from him and you’d told him not to follow you home. it was also three days of unanswered messages, unsent apologies, and sleepless nights that left peter feeling more exhausted than any patrol ever could.

even now, swinging through the city beneath the pale morning sun, his mind wasn’t on the robbery he’d just stopped or the civilians thanking spiderman, because it was on you.

the look in your eyes replayed every time he blinked. he shook his head as he landed atop a rooftop, letting out a shaky breath before pulling his phone from his pocket.

his thumb hovered over one contact.

commissioner jean dewolff. your mother.

the phone only rang twice before she answered. “well, this better not be about my daughter.”

peter winced.

“it is.”

“talk.”

he did, making sure he didn’t leave anything out, even stuttering while he recalled and narrated everything.

“i should’ve told her,” he admitted quietly. “i didn’t know how to explain it, but i should’ve trusted her enough to tell her the truth.”

dewolff sighed. “that’s where you failed my daughter.”

“i know.”

a sigh was heard from the other end, yet her tone softened ever so slightly. “she’s at nyu right now.”

peter blinked at the information.

“in about thirty minutes, i’ll tell her i need her to meet someone outside campus.”

his heart nearly stopped. “…commissioner.”

“don’t thank me yet.”

he listened.

“this is your chance to tell her the truth.”

peter nods as if she could see him, “i will.”

“and parker?”

“yeah?”

“don’t make me regret helping you.”

“i won’t.”

the call ended.

peter stood motionless for a moment before quietly whispering, “thank you, thank you, commissioner.”

your phone buzzed as you stepped out of your lecture hall.

momma deer: hi sweetheart

momma deer: can you meet someone outside the park across from campus? i’ll explain later

you frowned. someone?

with a sigh, you slipped your phone into your bag and headed outside. watching students cross the sidewalks, cars rolling lazily through the afternoon traffic, and the scent of fresh coffee drifted from a nearby café.

you stopped when you saw him.

peter standing beside a wooden bench beneath a tree with a bouquet of flowers rested awkwardly in his hands. he looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and at the sight, your chest tightened, but you walked right past him.

“bab– ___.”

you kept walking while his footsteps hurried after yours.

“please.”

gentle fingers brushed your wrist, and you know it’s not to keep you there. only to ask.

so you slowly turned, legs almost giving up after seeing his eyes were rimmed red.

“just five minutes.”

you stared at him, quietly sighing. “you have five.”

relief washed over his face.

“thank you.”

“these are for you.” he held out the flowers.

which after a brief hesitation, you accepted them and it took everything not to try and sniff them.

peter broke the silence that stayed shortly. “i lied.”

your gaze fell.

“i wasn’t trying to protect myself.”

his voice shook. “i was trying to protect us.” he laughed bitterly, “which obviously didn’t work.”

“yeah.”

he nodded.

“there’s something i need to show you.” he glanced around the busy sidewalk, where students were everywhere and people you knew glanced at the both of you. “not here.”

your brows furrowed. “why?”

his eyes flickered toward the crowd.

“because i’d really like to keep my identity.”

you couldn’t help the smallest exhale through your nose. “right.”

“there’s an alley around the corner.” he offered a small smile.

you could only nod, curious what he has to say. walking behind him as he lead the way to an alley that was tucked away behind the café you always went to for a quick caffeine fix, hidden from the sidewalk.

peter made sure no one could see before carefully pulling his spiderman mask from his backpack. “so, uh, my mask records every patrol.”

he looked down at it. “for evidence, in case i ever need footage.” his thumb brushed one of the lenses.

“and after you left,” his voice caught.

“i remembered it had been recording and i figured a way to save it.”

he activated the playback using his phone, watching you watch from his point of view.

there was the same rooftop, skyline, wind– you were taken aback by the high resolution of the video, because it was similar to a memory or reliving what happened. you squinted the moment you saw mj approach his view. you really couldn’t deny something about her immediately felt wrong, because her expression was empty, movements were stiff and unnatural. you’ve seen her in person once which was enough to know that wasn’t how she moved.

“mj?” peter’s recorded voice echoed.

she didn’t answer, she simply walked toward him. the footage began to jolt violently while he tried to move, and he couldn’t. the camera repeatedly shook with the effort as his breathing quickened.

because he was having a panic attack.

“come on…”

before he could move, mj reached him, lifting his mask just above his nose before cupping his face, and kissing him.

your heart tightened, but you saw what jean grey hadn’t shown you— peter’s panic, struggle, and desperate attempts to break free.

the instant the pressure disappeared after seconds, and his point of view showed how he stumbled backward so suddenly the recording lurched, “wha... what the hell?” he sounded horrified. “mj?”

she looked just as confused when he looked up at her again, “spiderman?”

silence filled the alley when peter watched the recording end.

“you couldn’t move.” your voice barely came out.

he slowly shook his head. “i couldn’t.”

“but why didn’t you tell me?”

he shut his eyes. “because i was scared.” his voice cracked.

“not because i kissed her.” he looked at you, eyes filled with tears. “because i knew how it looked, and then i lied.”

his shoulders slumped.

“that’s the part i’ll regret for the rest of my life.”

peter laughed once, one that you know is not genuine, but of nervousness. “my biggest regret wasn’t that rooftop... i... it was looking you in the eyes afterward and pretending nothing happened.” his eyes glistened. “i’ve never been more certain of anything than wanting to spend my life with you.”

he swallowed hard.

“and i almost threw that away because i was afraid to tell you the truth.” he wiped quickly at his face.

“i’m sorry for lying, making you doubt yourself, and for making you think i’d ever choose someone else.”

his voice broke. “i love you, and i’m so, so sorry.”

but before he could say another word, you stepped closer with your hand resting against his cheek.

he froze.

gently leaning forward, your lips brushed his in a gentle, lingering kiss, and when you pulled away, his eyes remained closed for a second, like he was afraid the moment would disappear if he looked.

you rested your forehead against his. “peter, please.” your voice was soft. “don’t lie again.”

“never.” he nodded immediately. “i promise.”

after a quiet moment, he suddenly looked like he’d remembered something. “actually.”

you tilt your head at your boyfriend.

“what?”

“i’m going to make something.”

“…what?”

“a tracker.”

you frowned. “a tracker? for what?”

“not like that,” he said quickly. “something that lets you know who i’m with during patrols. if i’m with another hero, if i’m responding to a call–”

“peter.”

“so you’ll never have to wonder again.”

you stared at him, shaking your head. “no, that’s incredibly invasive. your privacy still matters.”

he shook his head.

“i don’t care, if it helps rebuild your trust–”

a voice suddenly crackled through his phone. “i kind of agree with that.”

both of you froze, your eyes slowly dropped toward peter’s hoodie pocket and he looked just as horrified.

“commissioner dewolff?”

“you were still on the phone with my mom?” you stared at him.

“i swear, i remember hanging up–”

you lightly smacked his arm.

“ow!”

“mom.”

another sigh came through the speaker.

“yes, sweetheart?”

you pinched the bridge of your nose. “please end the call.”

a beat.

“…worth a shot.”

the line disconnected and his smile returned for the first time in days, looking at you, “there’s my girl.”

“don’t push it.” you rolled your eyes, mentally noting to scold your mom.

peter knew he’d have to earn your trust back every single day, but as your fingers intertwined with his, he silently promised himself he would.

one honest day at a time.

“wouldn’t dream of it.”

[liliesonthego]

Peter Parker / Say it again── 18+ (MDNI)

Summary ⟅ After falling in love with Peter, you accept that he just doesn't love you back, that is until he lets three words slip free during one of your hookups.

Peter Parker x fwb!Reader /  ⟣ SMUT & ANGST/ 1.2k ⟢

Warnings: bnd!peter, no spoilers that aren't in the trailer, enhanced arachnid DNA!peter, friends with benefits, hurt no comfort (with possibilities of a comfort part 2?), smut, dom!peter, mentions of choking, belly bulge kink, multiple orgasms, creampie, slight praise, love confession, unrequited (but secretly requited) love, peter is stupid and sad

Lily's note — 🪷 guys do not put a sad man in front of me im so serious 😭😭😭 okay i will make a part 2 if this does well but also my next one will be peter full of joy and whimsy because i have hurt him far to much!

Every time Peter found his way into your bed, you promised yourself it would be the last time. 

I’ll confess tomorrow, you lied to yourself, knowing that the minute he flashed you his pretty brown eyes and smile, you’d lose your courage. 

When you first became entangled in this arrangement, you only possessed a small crush for your friend. You’d found each other at the perfect time in your lives, both of you seemingly at your lowest. He’d swung himself onto one of the highest corporate buildings in the city, shedding himself of his mask and unknowingly exposing himself to you, sitting on the edge of the roof with your legs dangling over the side.

He panicked, of course, until you merely turned away from him, uncaring for the superhero behind you. 

Eventually he moved to sit beside you and the rest was history. You both found an unlikely friend in one another, spending your nights together just talking, then your days.

Beneath the melancholy he was funny, smart, and incredibly sweet—it was no surprise that the crush developed. But then your relationship did too one random night when the troubles of your lives felt like too heavy a burden. 

You weren’t sure who leaned in first, or who took off whose top first. All you remembered was his body pressed to yours, his cock driving into you over and over again until you saw stars, dispelling any and all worries from your brain.

The new escalation occurred monthly in addition to your friendship. And each time it did, your affection for him deepened. But you’d noticed him start to pull away from the emotional aspect as of late.

He started having less time to hang out, and more time to fuck you. With the newest development of his enhanced arachnid DNA—something you realized made his appetite for sex significantly higher—the monthly hookups turned weekly, your feelings for him growing deeper with each intimate night.

It was when he visited you twice in one week where you decided you needed to confess to him your feelings, the post orgasm clarity a brutal knife twisting low in your belly.

You couldn’t keep pretending like everything was fine, not when you were falling in love with him, not when you wanted something he couldn’t give you. 

You knew for sure it was one sided when he’d hastily pull on his clothes and escape back out the window instead of spending the night with you like he usually did, avoiding eye contact and stumbling out a mess of excuses as he did so.

It made you feel bitter, it made you question why he couldn’t love you the way you wanted him to, especially when everything had started off so well.

Today was the fifth day in a row he’d come over, seeking relief. You could tell he was becoming needier and needier as he struggled to learn how to cope with this new part of him judging by the way he drove his cock into the deepest parts of your cunt, his hips pushing you deeper into the mattress. 

You’d already finished twice, your cries muffled first by his hand wrapped snug around your throat, and second by your face pushed into the sheets below you as he showed no signs of slowing down.

The one hundred eighty degree switch since he first started changing was mind numbing. In the beginning he always came so quickly, likely from all the sensory overload. But now? His stamina must’ve been evolving too. 

He gripped the flesh of your ass in his hand, kneading the skin while his other smoothed down your arched back. “That’s my good girl, taking my cock so perfectly.”

You whined from the overstimulation, fisting the sheets in your tight grip. He dropped your hips to the mattress, pressing himself against your back. But it wasn’t enough, he needed more.

He rolled you onto your side with one arm snug around your waist, the other hooking under your knee to hike your leg up, spreading you open for him. He rutted into you with a newfound sense of urgency, his face buried deep in your neck.

All you could feel was him, overwhelmingly engulfed in just taking what he wanted to give you, your head spinning with a dizziness as he fucked you dumb.

“So good,” he gasped into your ear. He pressed his hand over your lower stomach, groaning when he felt the outline of his cock pushing through the surface. “O-Oh fuck, you feel that? So full of me…”

“S-So—nghh—f-full…”

You turned your head, seeking his pretty brown eyes for comfort, finding them and the whites of his eyes engulfed in a pool of darkness. Your lips parted to whimper at the sight until he swallowed it with his own, capturing your mouth in a searing, sloppy kiss. 

He shoved his face back into your neck, his thrusts turning erratic, his breaths leaving him in frantic, sharp exhales.

You could feel his cock swelling in your ruined cunt and a second later, he stilled behind you. With a guttural groan, right before he dissolved into his release, the words spilled out, raw and vulnerable. 

“I love you.”

He spilled into you, his cock shooting jets of warm cum deep inside as the blood rushed to your ears, filling them with a loud ringing.

You remained still as he filled you up, trying to decipher whether you’d heard him correctly or if the words were a figment of your imagination, something you conjured from the desperation of wanting your love for him to be requited.

As the last tremors of pleasure passed through him, he carefully pulled out. Not a second later his warmth was gone from behind you. You shivered, pulling the blanket to your chest, turning to watch him dress with a hollow ache settling in your stomach where he’d been. 

He didn’t turn to look at you once.

“What was that?”

He paused, his hand slipped through the sleeves of his shirt, your voice startling him. “Hmm?”

He pulled it over his head, deflecting your question as your eyes burned into his side. 

“Why’d you say that, Peter?”

He turned, a confused chuckle spilling from his lips, his eyes dim. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You said you love me…” you whispered, a hint of hope in your voice.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion when he spoke. “It was… the heat of the moment. You know how it is.”

You’d never felt a dread so vast engulf you. “W-What?”

He regretted looking at you the second his eyes met yours, filled with a painful devastation, all hope stripped away. His indifference faltered, his pupils blowing wide with panic at the sheer amount of hurt on your face. 

“Peter,” your voice cracked. “I love you.”

He shook his head, glancing away. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes I do!” you sobbed. “I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks but you… you keep pulling away from me. Every time I get close—”

“Look, I’m sorry,” he choked out, his own eyes turning glassy as he looked away, betraying the detachment he tried to put on. “But I don’t… I don’t feel the same way.”

“Well then why can’t you look at me?” you challenged through a trembling voice.

He stubbornly kept his gaze glued to the floor. 

“Peter.”

He lifted them back to you, finding the tears in your eyes spilled over, streaming down your cheeks. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he lamented. 

“Say it again… Tell me you love me back,” you pleaded. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, the words hollow. “I can’t”

“Why?” Your voice rose, bordering on hysteria.

“I just can’t!” he shouted back, his control finally snapping. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands, his chest heaving.

He did nothing to hide the sorrow on his face now, his expression contradicting the lies he spoke. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You’re not just hurting me,’ you murmured, the fight draining out of you. “You’re hurting yourself. You don’t have to, Peter… You don’t have to push me away. You’re allowed to be happy.”

He gave a mournful shake of his head, the words slipping from his lips, broken and final. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t bear to look at you anymore. He turned to the window, shoving it open, the city sounds rushing in. 

Just as he placed his hands on the windowsill, seconds away from leaping out and away from the wreckage he’d caused, your voice came.

“Goodbye, Peter.”

His shoulders fell. He turned his head slowly, wanting to glance back at you one final time, but he knew if he did, he’d crumble.

Unknowing to him, you’d already turned away from him, sinking into your sheets, your eyes clenched shut. You heard the whip of his web, felt his energy dissipate from the room, leaving you alone with only the ghost of him as a memory. 

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[iheartwhre]

I’m Spiderman.

tags: fluff and angst, established relationship, soft Peter Parker, reader insert

➺ authors note: giving angst and fluff another shot! lmk how i did

word count: 2.2k

You’ve known Peter Parker since junior year of uni, when you both ended up in the same advanced physics class. He sat two seats over, always with a half broken pencil tucked behind his ear and a backpack that looked like it had survived a war. The first time he spoke to you was after you both got the same wrong answer on a problem set. He leaned over, curly hair falling into his eyes, and whispered, “Okay, so either the textbook is lying or we both just invented a new law of gravity.” You laughed harder than you meant to. After that it became a thing. Passing notes with terrible puns, lingering after class to “compare answers,” the way his ears turned pink whenever you said his name a little too softly.

Flirting with Peter never got tiring.

He’d save you a seat every class and pretended it was an accident. It was you stealing his hoodie during a group assignment and refusing to give it back til the next class. It was the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room when the rest of the class was talking over each other. By the time he finally asked you out, stumbling over the words, hands shoved deep in his pockets, you already knew you were going to say yes.

Eight months later you’re still saying yes. You’re still choosing him. But some nights it feels like you’re choosing a version of him that only exists in pieces.

Tonight is supposed to be one of the good nights. A real sleepover. No homework, no classes, just the two of you in your apartment with the good blankets and the fairy lights you strung up last month. You’ve both already changed into the matching pink pajama sets you bought on a random Tuesday because Peter saw the Hello Kitty ones and said, completely serious, “These are objectively the best pants ever made.”

He’s wearing the pants tonight. You’re wearing matching ones. Face masks are drying on both of your faces. His is the green one that smells like cucumber, yours is the purple one that promises “radiant skin” and probably does nothing.

You’re on the couch, legs tangled, a half empty bag of gummy bears between you. Peter has one arm around your shoulders, thumb drawing slow circles against the soft fabric of your sleeve. Every so often he presses a light kiss to the top of your head, careful not to smudge either of your masks.

“I’m just saying,” you mumble, voice a little sticky from the drying mask, “if a zombie apocalypse happens, the first thing I’m grabbing is a fuck ton of red 40. Takis, Hot Cheetos, the puffs too. Priorities.”

Peter’s laugh is quiet and warm against your hair. “Please. Zombies would go for good coffee first. They need it. Or maybe toothpaste for their smelly breath. Maybe your playlist. That thing is a war crime against music. Why are you listening to a Chase Atlantic song and the next one is Frank Ocean? Totally different vibes..”

You tip your head back to look at him. His curls are a mess. There’s a tiny green smudge near his jaw where the mask didn’t quite stick. He looks soft and ridiculous.

“Hey hey hey leave my music out of this , Mr. ‘I only listen to podcasts about black holes at 2 a.m.’”

“They’re educational!… and fascinating,”he defends, but you can hear him smiling through his voice. He reaches over, plucks a gummy bear from the bag, and holds it up to your mouth. You take it, teeth grazing his fingers just enough to make him flush under the mask. He leans in and kisses the corner of your lips, gentle, lingering, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of the moment.

You talk about everything and nothing for a while: Stupid theories about the professor, whether Aunt May’s lasagna could actually win awards, the way the city looks from your fire escape at night. Peter’s hand finds yours under the blanket and laces your fingers together. His skin is always a little warmer than it should be. You feel safe.

Then his watch buzzes against your back. The vibration is small, but you feel him go still for half a second. His thumb slides across the screen in a motion so practiced it’s almost invisible. He silences it without looking at you.

“U-uhm… Hey.” His voice is softer than usual, a little higher. “I ordered us food. Delivery’s downstairs. I’ll go get it, okay?”

You sit up a little, the blanket sliding down. “Want me to come with? I can put shoes on real quick.”

“No, it’s okay baby,” He leans in before you can insist. The kiss is soft and long, the kind that makes your stomach flip even after these eight months. His free hand cups the side of your face, thumb brushing just under the edge of the nmask. When he pulls back there’s a small, fond smile on his face. “Be right back. Don’t eat all the gummy bears without me.”

He stands, still wearing the face mask and those ridiculous pink Hello Kitty pants, and walks out the door. You hear the soft click of the lock.

You wait.

An hour passes. Then another. You text him once. Twice. No answer. The food never arrives.

The apartment feels too quiet. You leave the fairy lights on and eventually curl up on the couch, phone still in your hand, the room blurring as sleep pulls at you.

You’re not sure what time it is when the door finally opens. Soft footsteps. A quiet, tired sigh. The couch dips beside you. Warm arms slide around your waist, careful not to wake you. He pulls you against his chest, chin resting on top of your head. He smells like night air and something metallic you can’t name. His heart is still beating too fast. You stay still, half asleep, pretending you don’t notice.

Morning light cuts through the blinds in thin stripes. Peter wakes first. He reaches across the couch for you and finds only empty space and a cooling indent in the cushion. He sits up slowly, runs a hand through the messy curls at the back of his head, and follows the smell of coffee into the kitchen.

You’re standing at the counter in yesterday’s pajamas, mug between both hands, staring at the chipped tile backsplash like it might give you answers. Your eyes feel grainy. Your chest feels tight.

“Mmm, good morning ba—”

“Where’d you go last night?”

The words come out flatter than you mean them to. He stops in the doorway.

“What do you mean?”

You set the mug down harder than necessary. The sound is sharp in the quiet kitchen. “Last night, Peter. Literally last fucking night. You said you were going to get the food and just… disappeared. Like you always do. This is getting so tiring.”

He steps closer, palms half-raised like he’s approaching something that might bolt. “The delivery guy got the wrong address. I was waiting and trying to sort it out, but he—”

“Cut the shit.” Your voice cracks on the last word. You can feel the anger rising, hot and shaky, mixed with something that feels too much like heartbreak. “Are you cheating on me?”

“What?— No, I—” He reaches for you. You move back, putting the counter between your bodies.

“Get. Away.”

He freezes. The look on his face is pure wounded confusion, the same expression he used to get when a lab experiment went wrong and he couldn’t figure out the variable.

You start listing everything because if you don’t say it now you’ll never say it. Your voice is rising, trembling, the words spilling out too fast.

“The museum trip. You vanished the second things went wrong and SpiderMan arrived. The times you left in the middle of movies. The late night texts that go unanswered for hours. The way you sometimes come back smelling like you’ve been outside for so long—God, sometimes I swear I smell blood. How many times have I waited up for you? How many times have I told myself you were just busy or stressed or helping Aunt May? I keep making excuses for you, Peter. I keep telling myself the boy who blushes when I hold his hand wouldn’t do this to me. But it feels like I’m dating a ghost. And it hurts. It breaks me because I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing. And I can’t keep doing this if you’re going to look me in the eye and lie.”

Tears are already sliding down your cheeks. You hate that they’re falling. You hate that your voice is shaking and your body is slightly shaky by this confrontation. You hate that part of you still wants him to cross the kitchen and fix it.

“Peter… whatever it is, you just need to tell me. Please. I’d rather you tell me than lie to my face.”

Silence stretches. He stares at the floor, parting his lips slightly like he’s about to say something, then at you, then at the floor again. When he finally speaks his voice is small and rough, like the words are being pulled out of him.

“I’m…I’m SpiderMan.”

You laugh once. It’s short, disbelieving, almost mean. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t make a joke right now.”

“I’m serious.” He doesn’t move closer. His hands trying to reach out for you. “The-The museum. The times I leave. Last night—there was a fire three blocks over. People were trapped on the third floor. I couldn’t just… ignore it. I thought I’d be ten minutes. It turned into something longer. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You shake your head. The kitchen suddenly feels too small. “That’s not funny, Peter.”

He looks at you for a long second. Then he bends his knees and jumps.

It’s not a normal jump. It’s effortless, silent, the kind of movement that shouldn’t be possible in a cramped kitchen. His finger tips press against the ceiling. He hangs there for a moment, looking down at you, curly hair falling toward the floor, pink Hello Kitty pants somehow still the most ridiculous part of the image.

Your breath catches. Your mind tries to reject it. This is Peter. Soft, awkward, science nerd Peter who still gets nervous when you kiss him. He can’t be—

He drops back down as quietly as he went up. You take an automatic step back. Your heart is slamming against your chest hard enough to hurt.

“Still don’t believe me?” His voice is gentle, almost sad. He lifts one hand. A thin strand of web shoots out, wraps lightly around your wrist, not tight, not trapping, just enough to tug. He pulls you forward in one smooth motion until you’re flush against his chest. His arms come around you carefully, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to hold you. You can feel the solid warmth of him, the slight tremor in his hands.

“I never wanted you to feel like this,” he whispers into your hair. “I thought if I just kept it separate I could keep you safe. From the people who want to hurt SpiderMan. From the nights that go wrong. From everything I do. But that was selfish. I know it was. But every time I looked at you I just… I couldn’t stand the idea of you getting pulled into it or getting hurt. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I was trying to protect that…I-I can’t lose you.”

You’re crying properly now, face pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt that smells like him. Your hands fist the back of it. The anger is still there, tangled up with relief and fear and something that feels dangerously close to love.

“You should have told me,” you manage, voice muffled and raw. “I would’ve been scared. I still am. But I would’ve stayed. I am staying, no matter what, you don’t get to decide that for me. I wouldn’t have been overthinking there was someone else getting parts of you I couldn’t see.” His arms tighten. You feel him nod against the top of your head. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You stay like that for a long time, standing in the middle of the kitchen while the coffee goes cold on the counter. Eventually you pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are red. There’s still a faint green smudge on his jaw from last night’s face mask.

“I’m still mad,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“And I’m still scared.”

“Me too, baby.”

You reach up and brush a curl away from his forehead. Your voice is softer now, but steady. “But I’m here. And you’re going to stop disappearing on me—Or. At least just let me know when you’re leaving, answer my calls even if you’re on a… mission. I just need to know you’re okay. You’re going to let me worry about you the same way you worry about me. Deal?”

Peter’s smile is small and shaky and real. He leans in and presses his forehead against yours.

“Deal,” he whispers.

It’s not fixed. It’s not simple. The city is still out there, and so are the things that make him put on the suit. But for the first time in a long time he’s not running toward the next emergency with half his heart left behind. He’s here, arms around you.

“Sooooo, how does your web stuff work?”

© iheartwhre

[uhhhj13iguess]

something's off with peter parker

peter parker x reader

summary: something is wrong with your next door neighbor, and it's up to you to figure it out (from this request)

wc: 2.2k

cw: set in BND so obviously spoilers for NWH. just a lot of whump (happyish ending) with poor peter :( detailed panic attack as well as death mention, SH (aggressive hair pulling during the panic attack) (sorry i like to make peter hurt). reader is gn! so read as you please, also set pre-relationship vibes that could be seen as platonic or in a mutual pining way idc

masterlist

the first sign that something was off with your next door neighbor, peter parker, showed in his texting.

in the months he'd been in the apartment next to yours, the two of you had grown quite close. it was slow, at first. this meek, fawn of a man who had moved in just before christmas, seemingly closed off to all of your friendly neighbor charms and attempts at passing conversation.

he stood no chance against your grandmother's brownie recipe.

from that cold night in january on, you saw more and more of him open up. you'd gotten his number, and discovered the list of commonalities between the two of you. as he let you into his life more, you started to even find it endearing as he spammed your phone at all hours of the night, your notifications filled with nothing but the fleeting thoughts on his mind he thought to share with you.

but suddenly, a stranger was responding to you; single words replaced his once excited paragraphs to even the most of mudane things.

may 3rd @ 2:35am

you: did you watch the nintendo direct tn???

peter parker (#1304): last night, technically

peter parker (#1304): AND YUPPPP

peter parker (#1304): already calculated how much overtime i’m gonna need to afford the new zelda and mario dlc

peter parker (#1304): see you after summer 😔

you: you literally don’t even have a switch

peter parker (#1304): no but i have the kindest most wonderful neighbor in the whole wide world who does

peter parker (#1304): 🥹

you: why the hell are you even awake rn??

peter parker (#1304): i should ask you the same question, miss.

you: touché

may 4th @ 6:23am

peter parker (#1304): dude dude dude

peter parker (#1304): wake up and look at the sunrise

peter parker (#1304): loooookkkkkkkkkk

peter parker (#1304): lets go to the roof

you: if you send me one more message at this godforsaken hour, i'm going to murder you with my bare hands

peter parker (#1304): like you could even catch me 😏

may 4th @ 12:03pm

you: do you want spaghetti or mac and cheese for dinner tmrw

you: those miiiiiiight be the only two things to my name rn

peter parker (#1304): is it the spongebob mac and cheese

you: yes

peter parker (#1304): oh fuck yeah

may 5th @ 01:12am

you: are you breaking things over there? what the hell was that noise??

peter parker (#1304): lol

you: no like, you good????

read @ 02:45am

may 5th @ 10:48am

you: no fear, i have acquired hot dogs for the mac and cheese

may 5th @ 11:55am

peter parker (#1304): can't tn

you: what!! i spent a dollar fifty on these clearance hotdogs for nothing?? guess i'll have to get food poisoning alone 🙄

peter parker (#1304): lmao

you: everything okay?

read @ 11:59am

the second sign was the fact that he had dodged your weekly tuesday night dinner.

that alone wasn't unusual, as he'd cancelled plenty of times in the few months you'd grown to know peter. the day he swan dove through your window in stark red and blue, mistaking your room for his, you had finally found out why. now when he flaked, he'd attach a local news article of the crime he'd just stopped to his apology text an hour after he was supposed to show up. sometimes, you wouldn't hear from him until he got back just before the sun broke through, knocking on your window in desperate need of whatever medical attention you could offer him.

he had dodged you plenty of times, but today was different. peter texted you around noon, when he was supposedly mid chem-lab, simply saying he wouldn't be able to make it.

it wasn't weird that he bailed on your plans. it was weird that he let you know ahead of time.

but that wasn't what caused you to crawl across your shared fire escape and force your way into his bedroom. no, it was the third thing.

the third thing was the beyond heartbreaking, soul-shattering sobs that you heard come through the wall. paper-thin walls had become a bittersweet troupe to new york, and you often had done your best to respect your neighbors privacy whenever you could hear them and... whatever they were doing. especially peter.

you hadn't heard a noise like this from him before, though.

you were out of your window and onto the fire escape before you even knew your body was moving. climbing over the rusty metal through the dark, crisp night, you fumbled your way to peter's window just a few feet from yours. you'd only done this a few other times (in daylight, mind you), and how he did this multiple times a day was beyond you.

with the fight in your system to get to peter overcoming the flight as you resisted the urge to look down at the street 13 floors below you, a silent prayer left your lips as you hit peter's window and noticed it still unlocked from when he'd returned earlier.

there was a moment of hesitation, a flash of guilt as you contemplated the insane invasion of privacy it was to enter someone's bedroom window without asking. he hadn’t even noticed you yet, for fucks sake.

the moment passed as you heard peter choke trying to catch his breath.

pulling the window up and nearly falling through, you found him in his bed, the sight utterly gut-wrenching. if peter knew you were there, he didn't show it as he laid there, curled in on himself in fetal position, crying so hard you were sure he wouldn't have a voice tomorrow. you took a step closer, steadying your own breath as you took the view in of the strongest person you knew, spider-man, for fucks sake, choking on his own spit as he had his hands grasped around his damp curls. you watched in horror as he yanked. hard.

it was too much, and you had to intervene. you tried his name a few times, but it seemed peter was far too lost in his own head to notice.

"peter?"

god he can even hear her now. he tugged his hair harder, hoping the pain would drown out the voices.

"peter, please! you're hurting yourself!"

hearing her was one thing, but feeling his dead aunt's hands on his own was a new low. he'd officially fucking lost it.

"no! you're not even real!" peter screamed as he shot up right, the sudden motion catching you off guard and sending you to your ass on the hard ground.

you hit with a soft "oof", and it knocked some sense of reality back into peter as he met your gaze on the ground just below him.

"wh-what? what are you, how did you get in here?" he croaked out, confirming your previous suspicions that he'd shot his voice.

you moved to stand, watching as peter tucked himself small again to make room for you on his bed. it was immediately clear just how embarrassed he felt as he tried to wipe away his tears and snot, smoothing his tussled hair out as you cautiously sat at the edge of his bed.

"it seemed like something was wrong. guessing i was maybe right?" you tried softly, offering him what you hoped came off as empathy rather than pity.

it was hard not to - pity him - in that moment. you hadn't yet seen this part of peter. right now, he wasn't spider-man. he wasn't peter parker, top of his class at ESU. he was a broken boy, pieces shattered and laying out in front of you. you didn't know what was wrong, but from the look on his face, maybe just being here was handing him the first piece he needed to start putting it all back together again.

peter's face crumpled, fresh tears streaking down his cheeks as he launched himself into your lap. the dam broke as he let out wails that chilled down to your bones, broken "i'm sorry"'s filling the air between his gasps.

you didn't know what to do. you didn't know what was wrong. but it didn't matter in that moment as you held him tightly, pulling one of new york's mightiest heroes into your lap fully and cradling him as though he wasn't a 22 year old man. with a hand in his hair to soothe his obviously sore scalp, you whispered soft nothings into peter's ear as he continued to sob, and nothing but unintelligible "sorry"'s left his chapped lips.

you stayed like that for god knew how long, letting him get it all out. you didn't care that his tears were starting to soak through your sleep shirt, or that he was drooling against your arm as he fought to catch his breath. you didn't care. you just cared that he was as safe as he could be in your arms right now, and that he wasn't alone anymore. it broke your heart to see him so hurt. someone who saved you from a man in an alley with nothing but the flick of his wrist and a quick-witted comment, now bawling in your lap and apologizing as if he had been the one to hurt you that day.

after a while, peter eventually began to quiet down, his cries fading into soft sniffles. his once heavy, labored breathing started to even out as he used his remaining energy to match the deep and steady pace you had set out for him long ago.

soon, it settled even further, and you looked down to see a sleeping peter parker collapsed across your lap. you smiled at the sight, relieved to see his body finally relaxed. with the upmost caution, you shifted so that peter was laying back on his bed, and tucked his blanket gently around him. reaching up to brush some of the matted, sweaty hair from off his forehead, you gave a soft smile before you went to stand, but a hand landed gingerly on your wrist, causing you to turn back.

"don't go. please." it was so broken that it made tears spring in your eyes.

"i'm not going anywhere, pete. just grabbing a few things quick, okay?"

with a soft hum and the return of his steady breathing, you got up to get some supplies: a cold rag, some meds and a glass of water to soothe the headache you knew would be there in the morning, spidey-healing be damned.

you returned to sit next to him, covering his face as gently as possible with the rag. he hummed quietly, leaning into your touch as you wiped away the hours of tear tracks that had eroded his cheeks like a river does the land. you tossed the cloth to his dirty bin, tensing as you decided on your next move.

fuck it. you'd already broken in to his literal house.

you climbed into bed next to him, shimmying your way under the covers and molding yourself against his warm, tired body. he accepted immediately, arms finding their way around your waist and letting out a content sigh as your head laid on his chest. you smiled, noticing his heart rate had finally returned back to normal.

more unknown time had passed, this time much more serene than the last lost chunk of time. you'd thought he was fully out, feeling yourself pulled under the same lull before peter's voice quietly cracked through a whisper.

"it's my aunt's birthday today."

you moved your head to look up at him, your own eyes welling as you noticed the tears in his.

peter hadn't talked about her much. you only knew that she was gone and that he loved her wholeheartedly. he flickered down to meet your gaze before looking away again, and you began to draw comforting patterns over his chest in an encouragement to continue.

"i... i lost her last year. it was my fault, i... i-i couldn't-" he was cut off by his own choked sob, and you crawled further up the bed to hold him tighter, more properly.

"shh, hey. it's okay, peter. it wasn't your fault." you didn't know what had happened, but you knew there was no way in hell this was on him.

peter shuttered an exhale as he buried his face in your neck, newly wet cheeks smushed against your warm skin. "it's her birthday. and... and for the first time, she's just not here."

his voice was barely audible towards the end, and you held him even closer at the admission. you rubbed his back and exaggerated your steady breaths for him to mimic again as you laid there with him, allowing him to simply not be alone with this.

"i'm sorry i kept you up. i'm sorry i didn't come to dinner. i'm sorry about all of this." peter sounded like he was eight years old again.

you pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. "peter, please. you don't have to apologize to me. thank you so much for telling me."

his eyes wavered in your gaze before he dropped it, nestling his head back against you with a quiet, "okay". your hand found his hair again, the other still firmly planted on his back.

"can i ask you a question?" he just hummed in acknowledgment.

"what was your favorite thing about her, pete?"

tip jar! <3

[vianawaits]

Senses Overloaded

Summary: coming home from a long day of work only to find your boyfriend unresponsive and suspended from the ceiling.

Pairing: Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Content Warning: minor spoilers for BND, arachnid!peter, established relationship, hurt/comfort, peter in a bit of pain bc it's hot, suggestive content, reader has hair, no use of y/n, second person

A/N: y'all... can you tell im obssessed LMFAO, get ready to be sick of me and peter fics, also i'm trying something new with my layout tell me if y'all like it! as always i hope you enjoy <3

Dating a masked vigilante who just so happened to be part arachnid meant you came home to many things- many strange things to be more specific.

You -mistakenly- thought you'd seen it all. But when your keys slotted into the door, unlocking the apartment; what you opened it too made you freeze in the doorway.

The roof, the walls, the work station, the kitchen that was really just a microwave and mini fridge- was covered in webs. From the popcorned roof to the old wooden floor, all of it was coated by a curtain of white string. You could barely take a step inside without getting caught in them.

"Peter?" you call out for your boyfriend, unsure of what the hell this was.

The door shuts behind you, and it only took a few steps before you found yourself tangled in an endless knot of webs. Feeling the silk against your bare skin has you pausing again. You knew what Peter's synthetic ones felt like, and the ones around your legs weren't those.

Your whole body reacts in doubling over as you gag. The tingle that traveled up your neck had you running your fingers through your hair, checking for an eight-legged creature. Ironically enough… spiders weren't at the top of your list of favorite critters. They were probably closer to the bottom in all honesty.

"Peter?" you call out again with no response, as your hands rake through your hair.

It isn't until you're satisfied with the results of your inspection; finding no spiders on you, that you decide to look around. There didn't seem to be any life in the apartment. It was frozen in a stillness that was bordered peaceful. A breath could've disrupted the scene you walked into.

That was until you looked at the roof.

"Holy shit-"

Stumbling back onto one of the many bed of webs, you do everything but scream. Suspended from your ceiling, is the one and only Peter Parker. He was wrapped like a burrito in his webs, white string trapping him on the ceiling. His arms are crossed at his chest like he was in a coffin. His eyes were closed softly, perfectly preserved in a dream-like state.

He doesn't even react to you falling which only scares you more. Peter never let you fall. You'd grown to expect him catching you with a web, pulling you close to him after.

Staring at the minimal parts of his body that are visible, a grimace fights its way onto your face. He's got more bruises than he did last night. His curls are plastered against his forehead with sweat. The swelling of his body tells you a story of strained muscles he lied to you about yesterday. At the very least, the rise and fall of his chest makes it obvious that he's breathing.

You indulge in the small comfort of watching him for a few minutes. It was a habit you couldn't really break. In the mornings you woke before him or in the midnight pee breaks, you would just stare at him while he slept. Your arms would wrap around his waist as you got back into bed, and he'd cage you in unconsciously. Hearing his heartbeat and seeing him so peaceful, lit a match in your chest.

It was odd to see him so still now, even when he slept he was restless. You'd woken up with the blankets on the floor more than once because of him.

Taking a few deep breaths, you try to reassure yourself with the fact that he's still alive. Your arms fall deeper into the webs while you watch him, yet you're surprisingly at ease with the sight of his face. A part of you is tempted to lay here until he wakes up, just thinking about navigating this made you want to bash your head into the nearest wall.

If this is some weird nap thing he was testing out, you might just kill him for having to clean this later.

Abandoning all your belongings and coat to the disaster covering your floor, you manage to get into a standing position. Walking through the apartment mirrored walking into the ocean with the tides against you. The amount of webs made your skin crawl, but you needed to do this. Making sure he was okay was a nonnegotiable in your brain.

It's a few steps, and a lot of gagging later, until you finally get the broom. Retracing your steps until you're under him again, you lift the end of the red pole to the roof. Your arms wave around clumsily to clear the strings around his face first. Once most of them are out of the way, the weight in your chest dissipates as his nostrils flare and narrow.

Cocking your head to the side, an idea springs into your mind. You move the end of the broom to his cheek, nudging him to see if that would get a reaction. After poking him several times gets no response, you whisper an apology before smacking him with the pole. His eyes shoot open, and you almost fall back again. His eyes -his beautiful warm brown eyes- are completely black. They're void of any recognition, causing your heart to sink.

"Peter…" it's the third time you've called out for him, and it's your last hope before booking it out of the building.

The sound of concern in your voice must've snapped him out of it. His body jolts milliseconds later, only to be caught by the webs holding him. He blinks a few times when consciousness reaches him, like he's just woken up from a really disorienting nap. His pupils are blown, still covering the whole surface area of his eyes as he looks around. Still confused by his current predicament, his neck tilts down trying to decipher the state he's in.

You hear him let out a, "what the…" which is followed by him falling from his air jail.

Your arms shoot up in an attempt to catch him, and the broom clatters on the floor somewhere next you while you both yelp. Miraculously, he manages to catch himself with a thread around his ankle. He starts frantically swinging around directly in front of you, cursing under his breath at the worst wake up call ever.

Before he can get too worked up, your hands rest on his face cupping each of his cheeks. He's breathing is coming out heavy and his body is colder than usual. The eyes that you found forever in are still pitch black, but you're determined to keep him looking at you. The last thing you need is a Peter freak out.

"Deep breaths for me web boy," his eyes screw shut at your voice, followed by his hands shooting to cover his ears.

"It's too loud," it leaves him like a whimper, "'s all too loud."

His features are all contorted together like he's in pain. Your own eyebrows crease together with worry. You keep your hands on his face with your thumbs brushing his eyebrows, in an attempt to ground him. It's another few minutes until he removes his hands from his ears. Instead, they move to his hair. By the way his fingers wrap around the curls, you know he wants to rip them out.

This had to be the same migraine he was telling you about this morning.

"E.V." you angle your head to call out for the computer, hoping it doesn't irritate Peter's ears more than they already are, "run a full body scan."

"Running a full body scan." the robotic voice echoes and Peter's features pull together again.

Your fingers have gone from his face to meet his. They thread together in his hair, and you rub soothing circles on the back of his hand. His locks are slightly sweaty from whatever he has going on, but you don't move them away.

You sit with him in this as a promise you made to him many months ago. That you were here for the good mornings and the bad nights. For Peter Parker and for Spiderman.

He's taking deeper breaths as the scan continues. His wrinkles smooth out and his expression softens. You go to let go of his hands to give him space, but he holds on tighter.

"Don't let go please," he's begging while trying not to white-knuckle your fingers. A brief smile crosses your lips at the plead.

"I'm not going anywhere." you whisper back, and your fingers tighten around his again.

"Scan has shown that arachnid hormones have increased from their normal baseline in Peter's body, causing his senses to overload with information."

"Yeah, I got that E.V." Peter's grimaces, trying to process the information.

"Hey, shhh," your fingers have gone back to his face, forcing him to look at you. "it's going to be okat. Let's do this one thing at a time."

Your voice is feather light in trying to calm him down. Minimizing his exposure, you get him to focus on one thing, your face. He nods and swallows while one eye creeps open. The black of his eyes has you fighting a shiver. This was something neither of you experienced before, but you weren't going to run. Right now, he needed you just as much as you needed him on nights when the world was too much.

"Deep breaths with me web boy."

He takes the instructions well. Following your lead, he inhales for five seconds, holds for eight, and exhales for eight. You repeat the process with him a few more times, before you notice his pupils finally start to shrink back to normal.

"Okay, okay that's better," he mumbles while blinking repeatedly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah- yeah, that's a lot better." his eyes almost bug out of his head while coming back down to Earth.

Your hands cup his cheeks, and his breathing stutters for a moment while taking you in.

"Can I have a kiss?"

The laugh that escapes you, surprises you both. While you're sure it sounded like a bomb in Peter's ears, he still wore that look on his face that made you melt. His boyish smile and tired eyes turned you into putty every time.

"Like you even have to ask Parker," and with that you lean in.

He takes a deep breath when your lips meet, practically molding himself into you. It's not soft and cute like the normal kiss you get as a "welcome home." No, it's desperate and his hands are in your hair. Holding you impossibly close to him, his tongue slips into your mouth with a groan.

Your nose bumps into his and you notice he's warming up. Whether he's finally coming down from the high of his arachnid hormones or flushed, you'll take it either way.

His fingers thread in your hair, pulling at it slightly to make you moan. Opening your mouth wider, it gives him more access in your mouth. He always told you he loved how you tasted. Many nights in bed or on the couch passed like this. He wouldn't try to get in your pants, but he loved how your mouth felt against his. You'd rewinded too many movies and TV shows after missing important plot points because he couldn't detach himself from you.

Unfortunately, in the climax of your make out, the final web around his ankle decides to give out and he collapses on top of you.

Even in the split second of his fall, he manages to push you onto a bed of webs, cushioning your fall. The thunk of his body on the hardwood, has your stomach dropping to hell.

"PETER-"

"I'm okay, I'm okay- I promise." he tries to reassure you, while his palm presses into his forehead.

You shoot toward him, sliding on your knees. Your hands are all over him, trying to find a spot that may hurt. He sits up with a smirk tugging at the end of his lips, an attempt to play the whole thing off.

"It doesn't hurt that bad, I promise. I've had worse."

Your hands finally rest on his shoulder when you sigh, shaking your head. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you, Parker."

"Kiss it better?" he proposes, showing all his teeth in a cheeky smile. Your jaw drops and he lets out a laugh that puts every song to shame.

If he wasn't already hurt, you would've smacked him upside the head.

In your brief moments of disbelief at his joke, he grabs your hips. Pulling you onto him, he settles you on his thighs. Straddling him, your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck, while his face finds its home in yours. He wraps himself around you in a tight hug, holding you flush against him.

"We'll figure this out together, Pete," you drop a kiss to his temple, "I promise."

"I know," his voice is muffled against your skin.

You both stay in each other's embrace for a couple of minutes. You feel his heartbeat against yours and realize, at the end of the day this is all you need. As long as he was alive and here with you, you could overcome anything the world threw at you.

As your running your fingers through his hair, you feel him smirk against you, "I wasn't kidding about kissing it better."

Letting out another huff, you lower your mouth to his ear and feel the reaction he has between his legs.

"Well you'll have to show me where it hurts, Parker."

TAGLISTS All: @gglouise23 @demigod-jack-hearth @nicndick @scissorhvnds @princessak @slut4hotppl @bat1nsignia @starr-jazz @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @mystiquevoid @patientofarkhamasylum @starkkat @loserinadress @leovaldez0924 @actualunicornn @kaiiii1009 @arfemiz @boombopbam @jasontoddismywifey @jasmineserag Peter Parker: none yet

[rosierecs13]

𝜗𝜚 MCU Peter Parker Recs 3

⭒ Masterpost ⭒ 07/31/2026

⭒ Marvel Comics

⭒ Part 1 ⭒ part 02

Just got back from the theatre, that movie was sooo good ♡

Masterlist | @peterparkers-bad-youtube-apology

Masterlist | @angelic-holland

webbed up | @spderjmz

a forbidden romance makes its way to the avengers compound

stuck like bricks | @lumosflairr

When peter swings through your window and asks you to build Star Wars legos with him, how could you say no? [stark!reader]

youre spiderman?! thats so cool! | @alrisyl

You go to Peter’s expecting a normal hangout, only to accidentally discover he’s Spider-Man… and react way more excited than he was prepared for.

SUGAR RUSH. | @musingsofheaven

Suit Up, Buttercup | @thollandsgirl2013

You blackmail Peter into letting you try on his Spider-Man suit. It fits too well, leading to making out—and Tony walking in.

Spider On The Ceiling | @/thollandsgirl2013

Sneaking in your room and then getting caught by Tony. 

Reckless | @/thollandsgirl2013

After Peter sneaks in injured from patrol—again—you confront him.

A Hero's Flaw | @/thollandsgirl2013

Peter Parker and Y/N, classmates with clashing views on Spider-Man, constantly bicker until they unexpectedly start dating. When Y/N discovers Peter’s secret, their relationship is tested, leading to love, trust, and acceptance.

Love Stained | @/thollandsgirl2013

You surprise Peter with kisses to test your new lipstick, leaving him covered in maroon marks.

Failed Kiss | @/thollandsgirl2013

Peter attempts an upside-down kiss but fails, leading to laughter and May's concerned intervention.

The Weight of a Name, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5  | @happy74827

He believed the entire world had forgotten Peter Parker, until the girl he never spoke to in class said his name.

You knew it was him all this time. | @lily-lilith26

You were lying in your bed, reading one of your friend’s books you had stolen from his bag when you heard something poking at your window. Turns out it was a bloodied Spider-Man. Turns out you knew who he was from the start.

Peter Parker Masterlist | @waitimcomingtoo

When Did You Get Hot? | @/waitimcomingtoo

You see Peter for the first time in years and suddenly find it hard to be around him due to all his new improvements

Built A Fire Just To Keep Me Warm | @/waitimcomingtoo

you and Peter are in the same friend group but never got along. That doesn’t keep him from making sure you never get cold

The Script | @/waitimcomingtoo

you and Peter break up once you find out his secret and he falls apart

Two Normal Arms | @/waitimcomingtoo

when Peter breaks his arm, he notices he gets a lot of attention from you. So much attention that he prolongs the broken arm as long as he can

Misread signals | @sincerelyyoursz

you’ve dropping hints that you like peter, but he just doesn’t seem to be picking up what you’re putting down

save me | @teamred

right before peter tells you the truth of why he never has time for you, an accident occurs. 

the reveal | @cloudybarnes

after years of being friends, y/n wants to tell peter just how she feels. the night she decides to tell him, she walks in on him in his spider-man suit and suddenly second guesses if it’s the right time

just for tonight | @/cloudybarnes

peter accidentally tells the avengers he has a girlfriend and now they all wanna meet her. in an attempt to not look like a liar, he recruits his best friend y/n to fake date him for the night so he can introduce them to her

Twenty–bucks: | @deathbyathousandspiders

you and peter kept your relationship secret from the avengers, and even with their theories, it wasn’t until a mission went south that the news came to light.

daddy issues | @/deathbyathousandspiders

Dusted, part two | @/deathbyathousandspiders

boy in the bubble | @/deathbyathousandspiders

security system | @/deathbyathousandspiders

out of sight, on his mind | @ptergwen

patching him up | @/ptergwen

a holly jolly christmas | @mcrdvcks

Peter has been on his own for a while now, but he notices you, his neighbor, hanging up lights by yourself.

misinterpreting his behavior | @luveline

not known or seen | @/luveline

jealous peter |  @/luveline

family planning | @/luveline

Naps in the Quinjet | @alisonwritesimagines

After a rough mission, both you and Peter crash together in the quinjet.

Promises, Promises | @murdockparker

Five years is a long time to be together, Peter knew that. Peter also knew that everything was expensive—but he had an idea. A little juvenile, sure, but it was an idea regardless.

Perfectly A Little Late | @t-lostinworlds

with all things college, two jobs—tutoring on weekends and another at the bakery downtown—you're one busy girl. Peter completely understands that of course, admires it even. But it doesn't make it sting any less when you just so happen to forget about his birthday.   

Places We Won’t Walk | @duskholland

when you have superpowers thrust upon you, sacrifices have to be made. some more willingly than others.

Breaking Windows | @/duskholland

You’re Thor’s daughter and may have a teeny tiny crush on your classmate and fellow Avenger, Peter Parker.

Zip It | @/duskholland

Hurt | @just-jordie-things

set a year after the war, where (y/n) keeps herself too busy raising her little sister, Morgan, to have any time for things like grief or Peter Parker

So Cold | @/just-jordie-things

after the fight in Berlin, anyone who had refused to sign the accords was incarcerated.  and you and Peter had been on opposite sides of the fight.

heart rate monitor | @parkerpeter24

You Say the Whole World’s Ending | @vendettaparker

Peter mourns his greatest loss.

Talking to the Moon | @/vendettaparker

When Peter’s identity is leaked, he is forced to leave you and his old life behind, shattering your heart in the process.

worth it | @miley1442111

your boyfriend abides by the workplace rules, right?

No need to hide it | @spider-man-199999

Peter thought no one remembered him after the spell, however you did, but not for the reasons he was afraid you would. Mostly fluff and slow burn romance.

Stop, part 2  | @biisexualemma

you have no control over your actions or your powers and end up hurting peter

'No location found' | im-sleepdeprived

fix you up | @/im-sleepdeprived

Crush | @webslingingslasher

you like peter, he doesn't get it. until you confide in spider-man

frat!peter | @/webslingingslasher

meeting at the grave | @electrosspidey

you and Peter, despite being strangers to one another, have a much needed talk about mays death at her grave.

we can't | @spider-pxrkers

after years of being in love, you and peter learn you can’t have children.

joke about loving you? never. | @/spider-pxrkers

you’ve always been insecure about your weight. when peter tells you he loves you, you can’t help but believe he’s kidding.

SLIM PICKINS | @shortnspidey

Safe to say your love life was nonexistent. You’d tried everything, swiping through dating apps like it was your part-time job, smiling at strangers on the subway, even letting friends set you up with guys. Still, nothing. Just awkward dates, ghosted messages, and a lingering sense that love might just be a myth. But maybe, just maybe, the problem wasn’t you. Turns out, slim pickins didn’t apply when the best option was right under your nose.

he does melt! | @thceseus

‘seeing if he melts into a kiss' trend with your best friend, Peter Parker.

it's brutal out here | @/thceseus

Peter's class is going on a field trip to Stark Industries. The catch? No one believes he's an intern at SI and no one knows he's dating Tony Stark's daughter—other than Ned and MJ. Surely nothing will go wrong, right?

Skyline | @astronomyparkers

out of time | @mgparker

in which two best friends are in love and their feelings are revealed a bit too late

Snap | @tomholland1996simp

It’s been a long stressful day for Peter, so when you come over he can’t help but get mad at certain things you do. Leading to him snapping at his girlfriend.

breathe | @starkissedtom

in which y/n and peter are forced apart by something bigger than them. but when it’s meant to be, they’ll always find each other.

i'm all yours, i've got no control, part 2 | @mxnlgmy

after a mission leaves peter shaken and unstable, (y/n)’s told to keep her distance for his safety and hers. but when he shows up at her door in the middle of the night, trembling and barely holding on, it becomes clear: this is more than just recovery. whatever’s happening to him, it’s changing everything. and he only wants one thing to feel whole again — her.

SPIDER-BOY, part two | @filmjules

where peter parker’s best friend starts calling him by a silly nickname, not knowing how true it is.  aka peter has a hopeless crush on his best friend who has a small habit of drawing on his hands and arms. who also may have a crush on spiderman.

spin the lie | @gossameres

midtown's decathlon team is back together—all thanks to liz allan. but what starts as a harmless party game takes an unexpected turn when peter spins the bottle... and it lands on you.

No. of fics: 66