synopsis: You're tired of hearing Peter moan on and on about MJ (again.) Done and angry at her for stringing him along and at Peter for trying to excuse her behavior, you finally show him that there are other (and better) options than MJ.
WARNING: 18+ Smut Ahead
The rain had followed you both to Aunt May’s small apartment. Peter sat slouched on the edge of his bed, his hands gripping the comforter like he was afraid he might float away if he let go.
“She said it’s over,” Peter muttered, staring at the floor. "That she needs someone who understood her and didn't place her below Spiderman. That she's tired of feeling like an afterthought."
You could feel your jaw clench, anger simmering beneath your skin. Nothing new. Nothing changed. It was always the same pattern. Her sharp words, her finality, her exits, and then, inevitably, her return. And every single time, Peter took her back.
“Peter, why do you let her keep doing this to you?”
His head shot up, confusion sparking in his wide eyes behind the glasses. “She, she doesn’t mean to—”
“Doesn’t mean to?” you cut in, rising from the bed. “She’s a grown woman, Peter. She isn’t some kindergartener who switches best friends over some dumb shit. She’s a woman who gets with your best friend, dumps him, goes back to you, then dumps you for the next guy who so much as looks her way. That’s not confusion. That’s not love. And it sure as hell isn’t someone you should want for yourself.”
You softened, crouching so you were eye-level.
“You’re Peter Parker,” you said, firm but quiet. “You’re kind. You’re brilliant. You’d throw yourself into traffic for the people you love without hesitation. Anybody would be lucky to have you.”
He laughed, a broken, humorless sound. “You don’t mean that. You’re just saying it because you’re my friend. Because you feel sorry for me.”
He pulled off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand, refusing to meet your gaze. “You’re you. Everyone wants you around. I’m just...I’m just the guy people forget about until they need SpiderMan.”
The words cut deeper than you wanted to admit. You caught his wrists, pulling his hands away until his gaze met yours again, trembling and vulnerable.
“Don’t,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare talk about yourself like that. You’re fucking gorgeous, Peter. Inside and out. I’m not saying this out of pity. I’m saying it because it’s the truth. Because I’ve been holding it in for too damn long, and I can’t stand watching you give yourself to someone who doesn’t deserve you.”
Something in his chest cracked open then, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned in. Peter let out the smallest gasp against your mouth, then clutched your shirt like he was afraid you’d vanish. You pushed him back onto the bed, straddling his hips, swallowing his broken gasps with your mouth.
“God,” he gasped when you broke away to kiss down his throat, sucking at the sensitive skin until he arched. “I don’t know what to do—”
“You don’t have to do anything,” You tugged his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before running your palms down his lean chest. “Just let me take care of you. Let me show you what you’re worth.”
You wasted no time, unbuckling his belt, dragging his jeans and boxers down in one smooth tug. His cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, and Peter instantly tried to cover himself with one hand.
“Don’t,” you warned, pinning his wrist back to the mattress. “Don’t hide from me. You’re perfect.”
The praise made him whimper, eyes squeezing shut, thighs trembling as you wrapped your hand around him and stroked slow. “Oh god—” His back arched, lips parting in a moan that had you aching.
“That’s it,” you murmured, brushing your lips against his jaw. “Let me hear you, Pete. Don’t hold back.”
He didn’t. His soft whimpers grew into moans, each sound spilling from him with less hesitation than the last. His chest heaved under yours, skin flushed pink, sweat beading at his temple. Every time your fist tightened around his cock, he bucked helplessly into your touch, as though his body couldn’t stand the distance.
“Please,” he begged, eyes glassy. “I—I need more—”
You stilled your hand, pressing your forehead to his. “Peter, I don’t—I don’t have lube on me.”
“I don’t care,” he gasped, grabbing your wrist to guide it back down to his cock. “I need you. Please, I can take it—”
“Hey.” Your tone snapped sharp as you caught his chin, tilting his face back to yours until those wide, trembling eyes locked with yours. “I’m not hurting you just to get off. That’s not what this is.”
His throat bobbed, tears pricking the corners of his lashes. His voice cracked when he whispered, “And you won’t. I swear. Just, I want you. I want you so bad it hurts.”
Your chest ached at the words, at the rawness in his tone, at the way his body trembled under your touch. You kissed him, hard and slow, pouring every ounce of want into him until he whimpered, clutching at your shoulders like you might vanish. When you pulled back, you rested your lips against his.
“Then I’ll give you everything, but tell me if it’s too much.”
He nodded frantically, curls bouncing, lips kiss-swollen and wet. “I will. I promise.”
You kissed him hard, swallowing the whimper that broke from his throat as your free hand slid down, slicking your fingers with his own precum. Crude, but it would have to do. You circled his entrance with a finger, slow at first, giving him the chance to stop you. His whole body shuddered, thighs tense, but he nodded, clutching at your shoulders.
“I can take it.” he gasped. “I want to.”
“Okay,” you breathed, pushing in carefully. He gasped, body clenching, but you kissed his temple, whispered against his skin, “That’s it, baby. Breathe. You’re so good for me.”
By the time you eased a second finger inside, using what little slick you could manage, Peter was writhing under you, moaning into your mouth, hips rocking desperately for more.
“God, you’re so tight,” you groaned, nearly undone just from the way he squeezed around your fingers. “You sure about this?”
His answer was a frantic, “Yes, please, I need you now.”
You didn’t make him wait. Taking your fingers out, ignoring the way Peter whined at the loss, you lined yourself up and pressed the head of your cock against him, holding there just long enough to make him squirm. His thighs trembled where they wrapped around your waist, heels digging into the small of your back as if he could pull you in himself.
“Easy,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth, your voice rough with restraint. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
You kissed him as you pushed forward, slow and steady, inch by inch. His cry broke into your mouth, his fingers clawing at your shoulders, but he didn’t push you away. He clung tighter, every ragged gasp muffled against your lips.
“Shhh,” you whispered against his jaw as you bottomed out, both of you shuddering from the overwhelming closeness. “You’re doing so good for me. So perfect.”
His eyes fluttered open, glassy and wet, lips trembling. “God, you’re so big. I can feel all of you—”
You stilled, giving him time to breathe, your forehead resting against his. “Tell me when.”
It took a moment, his chest heaving, his body trembling around you. Then he nodded frantically, whispering, “Move.”
The first thrust drew a sound from him you’d never forget. A broken moan that cracked into a gasp, his nails dragging down your back. You groaned in answer, starting slow, rolling your hips deep. His head fell back against the pillow, mouth falling open, every sound spilling out raw and unrestrained.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” you growled, finding a rhythm that had him crying out beneath you. “So tight, taking me so well—”
“More,” he begged, wrapping his legs tighter, forcing you deeper. “Harder, don’t hold back—”
You obeyed, thrusting harder, faster, the bed groaning beneath the force. His cries filled the room, every moan a plea, every gasp your name. His cock was trapped between your bodies, leaking against his stomach, twitching with every snap of your hips.
Your hand wrapped around him, stroking in time with your thrusts. That was all it took. With a strangled cry, Peter came hard, spilling across both your stomachs, his body clenching tight around you and dragging your release from you with a guttural groan. You collapsed into him, kissing his sweat-slick skin, your breath still ragged.
He was trembling, face buried in your neck, murmuring brokenly, “Yours. I’m yours.”
Synopsis: After Peter swings in to save you from a plunge into the Venetian canal, the truth comes out; however, you learn in the quiet aftermath that a hug says more than words ever could. {GIF Creds: steve-rogers }
WC: 1069
Category: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Fluff, Identity Reveal, Friends to Lovers (if you squint) {TW: Post-Near Death Experience}.
Now I know this isn’t part of the series, but I had this random oneshot idea, and I had to write my thoughts out.
『••✎••』
You stand frozen on the edge of the narrow Venetian alley, the ancient stone archway behind you still dripping from the chaos that had just unfolded. The canal water laps gently at the steps below, calmer now, but your pulse still hammers in your ears like the aftermath of a storm.
Peter Parker is slumped against the weathered wall only a few feet away, his chest heaving. His soaked curls are plastered to his forehead in dark, glistening strands. Water traces slow paths down his temples, mixing with the faint sheen of sweat on his flushed cheeks. His blue plaid shirt clings to his shoulders, the fabric darkened and heavy, the backpack straps cutting into them as if they weigh a thousand pounds. He looks every bit the exhausted classmate you’ve shared late-night gelato runs and whispered museum jokes with these past few days—not the hero the world knows.
But the web-shooters on his wrists give it away.
You never truly believed it until now—not really. But when he’d swung down from the church tower to catch you mid-plummet, when that sticky white thread had materialized from nothing to grab hold of your jacket and snap you out of the air, the truth had hit you like a splash of the ice-cold water that had you almost drowning. And now, as he sits there catching his breath, you’re hit all over again by the surrealism of it.
You take a slow, shaky breath, the faint smell of brine and damp stone filling your lungs. Your heart is still racing, the phantom feeling of falling lingering in your stomach. “Peter,” you manage, your voice sounding foreign and shaky in the sudden quiet. “You…”
You can’t finish the sentence. Instead, you gesture vaguely at the wall beside him, where a faint patch of white webbing still clings to the brick, slowly sliding down the ancient surface like melted wax.
Peter flinches at the sound of your voice and looks up at you with wide, weary eyes. The usual warmth in them is replaced with something raw, vulnerable, and deeply afraid. He follows your gaze to the web, then quickly looks away, guiltily tugging the sleeve of his plaid shirt over the device on his wrist. He doesn’t speak, just watches you, his chest still heaving, as if he’s waiting for you to yell at him for lying, to turn on him for keeping this monumental secret—to do anything but stand there and stare at him like he’s a puzzle you’re only now seeing clearly for the first time.
And maybe you are. Because this changes everything. The boy who had quietly carried your heavy sketchbook when your shoulder ached, the one who had shyly offered you half of his sandwich when you’d skipped breakfast—somehow, he’s also the one who has been saving this city, this world, in secret. Your gaze drifts down to his hands, resting palms-up on his knees. They’re trembling slightly. They’re the hands of a boy, yes—but now you see them as the hands that have stopped cars, that have swung between skyscrapers, that have held the fate of strangers in their grasp.
The fate of you, just moments ago.
Your best friend. The clumsy, brilliant, kind boy you’ve somehow weaseled your way into the heart of. A hero. A secret hero. And he’s looking at you like he’s terrified he’s about to lose you because of it. Something inside you twists, painful and profound, at the sight of that fear.
So you move.
Slowly, deliberately, you close the small distance between you, your sneakers making soft, wet sounds on the uneven stone. You don’t give him a chance to flinch away or build up any more walls of defense. You simply lean in, your hands coming up to frame his shoulders, steadying him—and yourself.
And then you pull him into a hug.
It’s awkward at first. He’s stiff and unyielding in your arms, still coiled with the tension of the fight and the fear of your reaction. His wet shirt seeps into your own clothes, but you don’t care. You just hold on, pressing your cheek against his damp hair, your fingers digging gently into the fabric of his shirt. He smells like canal water and rain and something uniquely Peter—something warm and familiar.
“Thank you,” you whisper, the words muffled against his hair. “You idiot. Thank you.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. You can feel the rapid, unsteady beat of his heart against your chest, a frantic drum that echoes your own. Then, slowly, like the thawing of ice, he relaxes. His arms, hesitant at first, come up around your back. One hand rests between your shoulder blades, the other on the back of your head, his fingers gently tangling in your hair. He tucks his face into the crook of your neck, and you feel the warm puff of his breath against your skin, shaky and uneven.
“Sorry,” he breathes out, the word so quiet it’s barely audible. “I didn’t… I didn’t know how to tell you.”
You squeeze him tighter, your own eyes burning with unshed tears from the adrenaline and the overwhelming, terrifying relief of it all. It wasn’t a betrayal of trust; it was a burden carried alone. And looking at him now, feeling the way he trembles in your arms, you realize just how heavy that burden must have been.
“I’m not mad, Peter,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him—to see the glistening of his own eyes in the sunlight that’s starting to break through the clouds. “I’m not. Just… next time you swing in to save me from a watery grave… maybe a little heads-up?” You try for a smile, a small, shaky thing that feels like a victory just for existing.
A wet, disbelieving laugh escapes him—a choked sound that’s part sob, part relief. He nods, a small, jerky motion. “Yeah,” he says, his voice raspy. “Okay. I can… I can do that.”
As you stand there, wrapped in the hug you never expected, surrounded by the quiet aftermath of chaos, you know that you’re in this now—all of it. You know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that you’re not letting him carry this burden alone anymore.
Although, as you found out later, he was never alone to begin with. Ned had apparently known since the beginning. The traitor.
