⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, college setting, inaccurate depictions of arachnology and entomology, established relationships, fluff, rough p in v, porn little plot, breeding kink, mask stays on, dirty talk, inappropriate use of webs (bdsm), soft dom!peter
⭐︎ word count: 4.2k
⭐︎ a/n: this literally came to me in a vision right before bed and i woke up like a sleeper agent and got to work. kinda proofread so we kinda die like men
synopsis:
You're an overworked entomology student trying to finish a report on spiders and their mating cycles. At the same time, Peter Parker is undergoing strange, ravenous arachnid changes in his body. Lucky for you, Peter also happens to be your boyfriend.
← previous fic | marvel masterlist
Another rainy evening results in you staying cooped up in your dorm, eyes heavy despite being dosed up on caffeine, the warm lamp light on your desk ghosting over your laptop screen and papers in a golden blur.
It’s that point in the semester where the weather is getting colder, the stakes are getting higher, and everyone is cramming to memorize fifteen weeks of school work in one night. For you, an Entomology major, your current ball and chain is a thoroughly written report on arachnids, their mating cycles, and their habits.
The sound of the rain thumping against your windowsill makes it hard to focus. But it’s not just the rain that tears away your attention—it’s the fact that your boyfriend, Peter, is out doing God knows what on his exam night. He assured you he would be back no later than ten, but one quick glance at the clock tells you he’s late. It reads 12:45 AM.
You’re eager to reach for your phone and shoot a quick call to Evie, but you try your best to resist so you don’t get in the way of his typical superhero duties. As the minutes tick by and your daunting report burns bright on your screen, your worry gives way.
With a sigh, you sit up straight in your chair and snatch your phone. As you’re dialing his suit, a hard crash against the window makes you gasp and jolt in your seat.
As if he knew you were about to call, Peter is right there.
He quickly slides your window open and sneaks in smoothly—drenched in rain and panting hard.
“Christ, Peter!” You try to will away the adrenaline from the scare. “You told me you’d be back at ten. I was just about to call you—”
Peter nearly collapses over your desk as he tries to hold himself up, scattering your research papers. Normally, you’d give him a lecture for messing up your study station, but as worry washes over you, you don’t even glance at the pages you’ve slaved over for the past twenty-four hours.
“Peter? Peter, look at me—what happened?” you hurry over to him, your hands cupping his cheeks through his mask.
His suit is soaked through, cold rain pooling on the floor, but despite the chill, his body radiates a feverish, unnatural heat. His breathing comes in hard pants and desperate gulps. He rips his gloves off harshly and tears at the neck of his suit.
“I—I don’t know,” he rasps, his voice strained as if he’s trying to swallow down a growl. “Something’s wrong. I—I’ve been feeling like this for days, and I thought it was just a fever—but then I started producing my own webs, and I—”
“Okay, okay, just breathe. Help me get you down.”
You wrap one arm around his waist and guide him toward your bed, but the contact makes him hiss sharply, as if your touch hurts him. You quickly help him undress out of the rest of the suit, eager to examine him for any injuries.
He lies before you in just his underwear—and as you scan Peter’s muscular frame, you notice nothing unusual except for a strange pulsing in the veins at his wrists.
“Peter,” you frown, eyeing him up and down to make sure you haven’t missed anything. “You’re not injured—are you?”
“No,” he reassures through ragged breaths. “No, I’m not injured—it’s just—I don’t know, everything feels so warm and I—”
“Here, let me help you remove your mask.”
Without warning, you lean over his body and reach for the hem of his mask at the base of his neck. He gasps sharply the moment your fingers graze his hot skin. “No! Don’t touch it!”
His hand shoots out and clasps your wrist tightly, making you wince. He has never grabbed you like that before.
Peter, realizing what he’s done, loosens his grip on your wrist just slightly.
“Crap—I’m sorry. I just… don’t remove it, okay?” He pants heavily. “My eyes—they’re pitch black. I’ve never had this happen before, and I don’t want to scare you.”
A line creases between your brows in worry. “I could never be scared of you.”
“I know, I know,” he sucks in a deep breath, the pillows rustling as he turns his head toward you. You can’t see his face, but his voice betrays his pained expression. “Please don’t remove it. Not yet.”
“But what if you’re injured?”
“If I had a head injury, I would tell you.”
You search the white lenses of his mask, but eventually, you give in with an exasperated sigh and slowly lower your hand from his neck. Peter doesn’t let go of your wrist; he intertwines his clammy fingers with yours.
With a solemn expression, you cup your free palm over his knuckles while holding his hand.
“Peter, what’s happening to you?” you ask softly, kneeling beside him at the edge of the bed.
He swallows hard, his neck flushing a deep, embarrassing shade of red where his mask pulled up.
“It’s hard to explain,” he stammers, his lenses focusing on the ceiling of your warmly lit dorm room. “For the past few days, my body’s been feeling restless. It’s like every single instinct I have is screaming at me to do something, but my brain couldn’t figure out what.”
His hand—the one that isn’t holding yours—clenches into a fist, the veins and muscles in his forearm popping with frustration.
“And then tonight,” he continues in almost a bashful whisper, “I started producing my own webs. Like Peter Two did—” He turns to you real quick. “You remember Peter Two, right?”
You nod. He looks back up at the ceiling.
“Anyway, the webs weren’t strong enough to control at all. It felt… almost painful. It wouldn’t stop spurting out. There’s also this feeling in my gut— like I’m hungry.”
The white lenses of his mask narrow in embarrassment. “And I don’t mean for food,” he mutters, shifting his hips awkwardly until the bed creaks. “My body was screaming at me to come back to you. To feel your touch, to hear your voice… and now that you’re here, my skin burns every time you touch me, but I don’t want you to stop. I feel like I’d die if you did.”
You hum softly, your fingers stroking over his knuckles as your eyes rake over his body once more. Without even looking at you, Peter can feel the weight of your gaze—and fuck, it’s heavy. You’re his girlfriend, and you’ve seen him through all his ups and downs, but for some reason, this feels completely different.
His body is tense, his skin is burning hot, and his heart is beating erratically. The longer you stare at him, the longer you stroke your fingers against his hand, the more he feels an unmistakable ache in his groin.
Before he knows it, his underwear begins to tighten, revealing a prominent, pulsing bulge right in front of you—begging for your touch to move from his hands to somewhere much lower.
You swallow hard, your face heating up instantly at his size.
Your mind—trained by months of endless lectures, lab practicals, and late-night readings—slowly begins connecting the dots. The feverish body temperature, the blacked-out eyes, the hyper-fixation on your presence, his restlessness, the involuntary production of silk, the sudden surge of physical arousal—it isn’t just a random mutation spike.
It’s textbook arachnid behavior. It also happens to be exactly what you’re writing your report on right now.
“Peter,” you try your best to pry your eyes away from the space between his legs. “You’re in an ultimate molt cycle.”
Through the white lenses of his mask, he squints at you in confusion. “A... a what?”
“Ultimate molt,” you repeat, pushing yourself off the floor so you’re sitting at the edge of the bed. “In mature male spiders, the final molt signals sexual maturity. Their bodies undergo a massive physiological shift. They stop eating, their metabolic rate and temperature skyrocket, and their brain gets overtaken with one goal in mind.”
Peter swallows hard. “And what’s that?”
“Um,” you say, sheepish. “Reproduction.”
His head slumps back onto the pillow with a small thud. “Oh, God.” He shuts his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. “I’m pretty sure you’ve explained this to me before.”
You squint at him. “I did. During the beginning of the semester. I also told you this was something you should keep in mind—but you insisted that none of it actually applied to you.”
Peter doesn’t say anything, but you can already see the smug grin sitting behind his mask.
“Anyway,” you quickly glance down at his erection before continuing. “When a male reaches this stage, his silk glands change. He builds what’s called a sperm web—a small, specialized sheet of silk where he deposits his genetic material so he can charge his pedipalps.”
“English, please.”
You roll your eyes. “Your body is trying to build a sperm web, Peter. Your spider DNA is hitting its final maturation phase, and your bloodstream is swimming with reproductive hormones.”
“And the only way to fix it is by…” Peter drawls.
He already knows the answer, but the way he dances around the words makes it clear he’s trying to get you to admit it out loud. You can’t believe that even in such a vulnerable situation, he still manages to find a way to tease you.
“Having sex,” you finish, a shy expression creeping onto your face.
A silence settles between the two of you—a silence filled with so much tension that most people wouldn’t consider it “normal” for a couple.
The few times you and Peter had sex, it was gentle, intimate, and respectful. It always involved him whispering sweet nothings into your ear and making sure your pleasure came first. Even without saying it aloud, you both know that if you were to do it right now, it would be entirely different. Peter isn’t even sure he could control himself.
You clear your throat, trying to break the tension.
“Well—that’s what I’ve been writing my research paper on. Male spiders can get extremely aggressive at this point in their lives, so scientists are trying to find remedies that don’t require a female partner,” you explain, slowly prying your hand away from his and standing up from the bed. “If I check my references, I might be able to find something that can help you—”
Peter’s whole body tenses. With your touch gone for even a millisecond, he feels like he’s starving. Before you can step away, he stops you with a firm grip around your wrist.
“No,” he breathes roughly. “Get back here.”
With a harsh tug, he pulls you back down onto the mattress. “If having sex is what’ll solve this,” Peter rasps in a low, hungry voice, “then that’s what we’re going to do.”
Warmth spreads rapidly across your face and down your neck. You look down at him, reaching to gently cup the side of his masked jaw. He shudders.
“Peter… look at me,” you whisper softly, your voice trembling just a bit. “I’m always going to want to help you. Always. But… is this something you actually want?”
Peter’s body tenses—not because of anything you said, but because your touch feels like throwing gasoline onto a roaring flame.
“More than anything,” he breathes out, his hand blanketing yours to keep it there. “Every cell in my body is begging for you.”
His white lenses stay locked on your eyes as his hands move down to his waist. Even just lying in his underwear, he feels restricted. Contained. His body screams at him to get rid of it. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and shoves them down his legs, kicking them aside.
Freed from the restraint, his length springs heavy and hard against his lower stomach, so swollen it looks almost painful. The dark tip is already glistening, leaking a clear, hot bead of pre-cum. His whole body twitches at the release of pressure, a low groan escaping his throat as he guides your hand down to his hip.
You’ve touched him plenty of times, but tonight, even the simplest graze of your fingertips feels like nothing he’s ever experienced before.
“It hurts so bad,” he whimpers behind his mask. “Please… I need you to ride it.”
His cock twitches, his balls sitting heavy and full between his legs. You swallow hard, clenching your thighs together. You’ve never ridden him before, and the thought of doing it now—when he needs it most—makes you feel self-conscious.
“Peter, I’ve… I’ve never—”
“I know,” he reassures, though his voice strains painfully, like he’s fighting to hold back. “Just try your best, okay? I know your body can take it. I can smell how wet you are.”
His spider sense is buzzing violently. He can hear the uneven thump of your heartbeat, feel the heat radiating off your skin, and smell the scent of your arousal filling the air—sweet and intoxicating, driving every instinct in his blood wild.
His masked head tilts up, white lenses expanding slightly as he watches you straddle his hips.
Hovering over him, you reach for the hem of your shirt. You pull it over your head and cast it aside, followed by your sleep shorts, until you’re straddling him in just your underwear.
Peter lets out a trembling exhale. His large hand wraps around the base of his cock, his hot fingers closing tight over himself. He begins to stroke lazily—up and down in long drags that make his hips roll for more. The wet slicking noise of his pre-cum against his palm echoes in the quiet room.
“Fuck,” he groans. Through the white lenses of his mask, you can tell his gaze is glued to you, tracing every curve, watching every move. “Look at you… you’re so pretty.”
Emboldened by how much of an effect you have on him, you discard your panties, baring yourself completely. You settle yourself back over his hips, positioning yourself right above him. Peter’s hand rests at his base, holding his cock steady as he watches you slowly lower your body until the tip presses against the tightness of your entrance.
A choked, almost sobbing sound breaks from his throat.
Control yourself, Peter tries to remind himself. He thought he had it handled, but his senses are louder than ever—telling him to grab your waist and drive you down in one ruthless pull.
“Oh, God,” he curses, tossing his head back against the pillows as you sink deeper.
You stop halfway, your face flashing with worry. “Is this hurting you?” you ask. “We can stop.”
Peter feels like he’s going insane. His hands fist the blankets beneath him, because he doesn’t trust himself to touch you right now.
“No,” he hisses. “It only hurts because I’m not inside yet. Don’t stop. All the way in, baby. You’re almost there.”
You take a deep breath, resting your hands flat on his broad chest to steady yourself. You push your hips down, taking the remaining inch of his girth until your hips flush against his. The stretch is dizzying, making your heart take flight in your chest.
Peter’s cock sheathes hot inside you, twitching as it savors every surface of your tight walls.
You can’t make out his expression past the mask, but from the way his head is thrown back and the veins pop in his forearms as he grips the bedsheets, it’s clear he’s about to lose his mind. You tilt your head back with a soft breathy sigh, letting your hips roll against his in a slow, testing rhythm.
The movement alone drives his heightened senses over the edge.
Whatever thin thread of restraint Peter was clinging to snaps entirely.
With a sharp hiss, his hands shoot out from the tangled sheets. His large hot palms slam against your bare hips, his long fingers digging into your skin with an inescapable grip—holding you tightly in place as his primal instincts take over.
“I can’t—I can’t wait,” he rasps painfully. “I’m sorry, baby, I need it now—”
Without giving you time to answer, his hips snap upward in a ruthless thrust that sends a gasp flying from your lips. Before you can even catch your breath, he sets a punishing pace from underneath you, using his grip on your waist to guide your body up and down his length in hard, unrelenting pistons.
The wet slap of skin meeting skin echoes loudly through your dorm room. You feel his chest heaving against your hands while the white lenses hide the obsession behind his pitch-black eyes. It’s a good thing he kept the mask on—because with the way his cock is kissing your womb, he knows his eyes are crazed.
“Oh, God! Peter!” You cry out, your tits bouncing with every upward thrust of his hips.
“Fuck—fuck, you feel so tight,” Peter groans.
He lifts his hips, bridging his back so he can thrust deeper, angling his length so every hard drive grinds right up against your most sensitive spot. Your vision swims as he ravages you from the inside, a tight, coiled pressure building deep in your lower belly.
The pleasure is overwhelming, yet it’s still not enough for him. His cock needs to drive even deeper—until your wetness coats his entire length from tip to base, until both of your juices combine into a thick sheen right where his brunette curls rest at his pelvis.
He wants to make a mess out of you, to see you crying his name and begging to be filled.
Filled up…
The idea of it makes Peter go crazy.
Peter sits up fast, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you to his chest before you can even blink. Your positions are flipped as he hovers over you from behind.
His knees bracket your thighs while his chest presses flush against your spine. You gasp at the sudden shift, his hands wrapping firmly around your hips to pull you back against his cock as he aligns himself once more.
“Peter—” you cry out, your voice muffled into the mattress. It smells just like him.
“Stay right there,” he growls into your neck, his hot breath searing your skin. “Don’t move.”
He’s got you in a perfect position—face down, ass up, completely bared and vulnerable for mating.
He’s never had you in such a vulgar position before—all of your lovemaking before was face to face so he could see every whimper and tear that spills. But in this position, the angle is even deeper. Your back arches perfectly. His cock finds your entrance again, and with how wet you are, he finds no trouble burying his cock all the way back inside you, a harsh grunt breaking from his throat as your tight walls clamp around him. His hands dig into your hips, locking you in place as he begins to pound into you from behind with a speed he’s never used on you before.
“Oh!” you cry into the pillow.
Every thrust pushes you forward into the sheets, the wet, slapping sound of his hips against yours filling the air alongside his groans.
“I feel so backed up,” he grunts so quietly, it’s like he’s speaking to himself. “This feels so good—gonna dump it all inside you. Make me feel better.”
Peter’s balls slap against your folds, obscenely hot and heavy. It’s in this moment that you realize what exactly this is. He has you in the same position you’ve seen in countless textbooks during your studies.
During spider mating, the male must align his pedipalps with the female’s epigyne for a successful sperm transfer.
Peter is going to breed you.
A low growl escapes him when his cock hits a particularly sensitive spot. Your walls, tight and rubbing against the underside of his cock, drive him insane, his muscles tensing as he throws his head back in pleasure. He’s sweating profusely under the mask, almost making it harder to breathe, but he doesn’t care. His body screams for something else, and as his cock pistons in and out of you, accompanied by your moans and cries of his name, he feels himself getting close.
His girth makes your eyes roll back, an overwhelming cry tearing from your throat. Instinctively, you scramble your legs and arms for purchase, trying to get into a more suitable position, but in Peter’s blacked-out eyes, he thinks you’re running away.
A disapproving groan vibrates in his chest as one hand releases your hip to grab your wrists, pinning them behind your back. His legs wrestle against yours to keep them still from behind. Then, he shoots out a web—an organic, self-made web that slings around your wrists like a band, and then another to keep your ankles pinned, effectively keeping you in place.
“Almost there,” Peter grunts, his sweaty chest pressing up against your bare back as he ruts into you. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. God—my balls are so full, I needed this. Just stay like that—let me fill you up.”
His hand moves to the back of your neck, his palm resting gently over your nape to press your head into the pillow.
“You’re trapped,” he rasps, his voice deep and gravelly. You have never heard him talk to you like this before, and the filth of it makes your body clench with desire. “Look at you… bound up, completely wide open for me. You can’t get away.”
His hips snap forward to bottom out inside you, it makes your heels twitch against the web binding your ankles.
“You’re gonna take all of it,” Peter grunts, the words coming in shallow bursts against the shell of your ear. “Every single drop. I’m gonna flood you so deep you’ll feel me inside you for days… make sure everyone knows you belong to me. My sweet, beautiful mate…”
The biological urge to plant his seed, to mark you, and to fill you until you overflow turns his pace crazed.
The wet slapping of his pelvis against your rear sings like a song in the room, mixing with the strained, needy whines escaping your throat. His cock swells inside you, pulsing and stretching your walls to their limit. It’s more than you can take, and you feel yourself getting close.
“Peter—! I’m—I’m going to—” you cry out, your chest heaving against the bed.
“Come for me,” he commands, his fingers tightening gently on your neck as his thrusts turn short, vicious, and frantic. “Clench around my cock and take it. Breeding you, baby… I’m breeding you.”
Your mind is hazy with an overwhelming sense of desire. His words, the position—it’s like a whole new side of Peter you never knew existed, and your body is enjoying every second of it.
You cry out his name, your body twitching as your pussy clenches around his shaft, milking him for every drop. Peter’s muscles pull taut at the sensation, his forehead pressing into your damp shoulder blade as his balls draw tight against your entrance.
One pulse, then another, and your womb fills with his cum.
Thick, scorching floods of semen pump deep into your core. Spurt after heavy spurt fills you past your capacity, the force of his release so strong his entire frame shakes violently, his breathing erratic as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.
His instincts move his body on command. Just like a spider aligning with the epigyne, he pulls out quickly and spins you around so your back hits the mattress. He spreads your legs, positioning himself between them as his cock slaps heavy against your lower belly, letting the rest of his cum seep onto your skin.
He groans incoherently as he watches his body mark you, holding himself at the base and smearing his seed over your stomach with his tip.
He stays above you for a long moment until you both catch your breath. Finally, he sits back on his knees.
His cock, now half-limp, slaps against his stomach lazily as a trickle of his seed drips down your inner thigh and lower belly. He slumps onto the mattress, but wastes no time pulling you in close against his chest.
He doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s never allowed himself to take you so vulgarly—almost monstrously. Now, he’s terrified of removing the mask; he doesn’t want you to see the burning shame etched on his features.
Peter’s hands cradle your back, his chin resting gently against your sweaty temple. He tries to muster up an apology, maybe say something along the lines of, “I don’t know what took over me.” Because truthfully, he didn’t.
But then your laugh comes first—soft, raspy, and utterly spent.
“You know what female spiders do to their partners after they’ve finished mating?” you ask into his neck.
Peter stiffens. “What?”
“They eat them. It's a good source of nutrients for the babies.”
Peter tries to remember if you had anything to eat before he got here. “Oh.”
📝 idk what to say. if you've read my first peter parker fic, i felt like i just put on an evil mask because this is a complete 180 twist from my last story. again, i only proofread like half of it and got lazy, so i apologize for any mistakes !!
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
just want to let y’all know that there’s only 24 hours left to send me requests for spiderman (mcu and tasm) !! send me an ask or a message if you want to request <3 as usual the rules are found here.
as for the people who already sent in a request, i’m still organizing my ideas and will start working on them next week. if you’d like to beta read, please PLEASE message me! 🥹
p. s. you’re also welcome to join my community if you want to get updated!
⭐︎ warnings: pre-brand new day canon compliant, fluff, huge idiots in love, hurt/comfort, typical depictions of violence (fighting, blood, guns, injury), near death experience, angst, light banter, suggestive themes, abandonment issues, touch-starvation
⭐︎ word count: 9.6k
⭐︎ a/n: there are no major spoilers for bnd in this fic !! i've only mentioned/alluded to things that were already shown in the trailers, so you do not need to watch the movie to understand.
synopsis:
You have been Spiderman’s communicator—his eyes for crime and the voice on the other end of a staticky little radio that took him less than an hour to build. He doesn’t know your name, or what you look like. And you don’t know a single thing about him. Peter tells himself it’s better this way, that keeping you at arm’s length is the only way he can keep you safe. But the longer he speaks to you, that promise slowly begins to fray.
← previous fic | marvel masterlist | next fic ➜
“Alright, Spiderman. There’s a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect is—uh, hello? Is this thing on?”
Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say ‘Spiderman.’ While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.
“Yep, I hear you loud and clear,” Peter says from his end. “I’m already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look like—”
“Spiderman? Hellooo?” Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. “Ugh—is this radio even working? Are you still there?”
He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearer—and preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.
“I’m here!” Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.
“Ah! There you are!” you say, sounding like you’re smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. “Missed your voice for a second.”
Peter’s face flushes under his mask.
“Detecting a sudden increase in body heat—specifically around the facial region—and a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performed—”
“Shut up, Evie,” Peter mumbles, hoping you didn’t hear him from the other end of the line.
He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.
“Are you blushing, Spiderman?”
“What—no!” Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. “Just tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?”
You chuckle again. “Okay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsome—if it weren’t for the ski mask covering his face.”
Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.
“Now’s not the time to play around,” he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.
He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesn’t need your comms in here—he can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, and…
“Spiderman!” A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. “You’re dead, kid!”
“Oh, jeez,” Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.
“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” your voice statics through. “He’s heavily armed.”
“Yeah, good comms,” Peter scoffs sarcastically.
“Who the hell are you talking to?” the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. “Is that a bomb? Drop it!”
Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?
The man’s grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.
“Come on, man. Don’t shoot—there are innocent people in here!” he tries to interject.
“Innocent dead people soon, if you don’t put that weapon away!” the man barks back.
“The police are on their way,” you explain, serious this time, through the radio. “Take care of that gun now, or he’ll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.”
“Okay,” Peter says. “Time me.”
“Starting now?”
“Starting now,” he confirms before switching off the radio’s microphone input.
The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shoot—but Peter moves faster.
Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesn’t even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.
From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. “You got it, Static?”
He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. “That was fifteen seconds. Good job,” you applaud. “And are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.”
Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.
Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fight—if you would even call it that—was just a quick pit stop.
“Well, that’s just what I’m gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,” he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. “Unless… you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.”
You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.
As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.
This isn’t the first time he’s teased you to get you to give up your name, and you’ve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.
“Very funny,” you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. “I could say the same thing to you.”
Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. “I don’t know—I think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.”
For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luck—when Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thing—you find yourself completely at a loss for words.
He doesn’t even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe it’s the suit, or maybe it’s that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.
But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.
Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.
“That’s a shame,” you tease. “I would’ve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.”
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said it—that sultry little rasp that even the static couldn’t mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.
“Dramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suit—specifically around the groin region—appears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousal—”
“Evie!” Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesn’t help his situation at all.
“Got you to blush twice today.” You taunt. “I think that’s a record, Spidey.”
“I wasn’t blushing,” Peter lies. “Anyway—enough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?”
You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. “Nothing,” you say. “But what’s the rush? You’re given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard you’ve been pushing yourself.”
Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. “Aw, you don’t have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.”
You blow a raspberry, and Peter’s smile widens.
“Yeah—well, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she can’t make as many good jokes as I can.”
Peter’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. “Are you getting jealous of my assistant now?”
A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.
“God—you’re so full of yourself, aren't you?” you huff. “I’m your partner—so it’s only natural for me to look out for you.”
“We’re partners?”
“Haven’t we been this entire time?”
Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.
Partners. He hasn’t had anyone he could call a partner since everything happened—since he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasn’t had a real, caring partner since… them. Ned and MJ.
And now, after all that time spent in solitude, he’s finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone he’s never even seen, whose name he doesn’t even know. All he knows about you is that you’re smart—smart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequency—and that you live in New York. He could’ve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe you’re even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.
“Spiderman? You still there?” you ask, snapping him out of his daze.
Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so… small. Like you don’t want to hang up, even if there aren’t any crimes to report.
“I’m here,” he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You smile at that. He can hear it. “Okay. Good.”
The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your end—judging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.
“How about we play a game?” you ask before the radio falls into silence again.
Peter raises a brow under his mask. “A game?”
“Yeah—every time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.”
He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. “Okay, sure. And since I just finished one—does that mean the game starts now?”
You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. “Sure. Want to go first?”
Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling you’re both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.
And by letting him go first, it feels like you’re giving him the chance to set the tone.
“Hm. Let me think.” He rubs his chin through his mask. “Okay—I’m ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.”
You snort. “The first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?”
“Hey—coffee can be fun!” Peter interjects. “Now tell me yours.”
A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. “Fine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.”
The white lenses of Peter’s goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. “Oh—so you’re pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?”
“What?” You giggle along. “I’m not! That’s my actual order—especially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.”
Peter imagines it: a girl—a pretty one, judging by your voice and personality—ordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.
“Sure. And I’d tell you to try a hot Americano—but based on the order you just gave me, I don’t think you’d like it very much,” he jokes.
You chuckle. “No, probably not.”
Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.
He clears his throat. “So, uh—”
“Can I ask you something?”
You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
“Okay,” you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever you’re about to ask. “I’ve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?”
Peter pauses, confused by the question. “No. It’s on twenty-four seven—just in case something happens, you know?”
You hum softly. “I get that. But I guess what I’m trying to ask is… don’t you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?”
Peter stays quiet for a moment.
In truth, there’s a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring through—just in case you might… need him.
There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isn’t during consistent parts of the day—meaning you’re either at work or in class. It’s usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, he’ll see your receiver light up and you’ll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.
Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.
Peter finally found someone he cares about—and he isn’t going to risk losing you.
“I… I guess I do,” Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. “I always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.”
You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasn’t enough to buy it.
“And I guess I also keep it on… just in case you ever want to talk.”
Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasn’t enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. You’re quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.
“In that case,” you speak softly, “I’ll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.”
His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.
Peter hasn’t felt this way since high school. He’s grinning ear to ear—a smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that there’s a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.
“Don’t say that,” he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. “You’re gonna get annoyed with me.”
“Who’s to say I’m not already?” you joke back.
And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.
He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that he’s actually surprised Evie hasn’t called him out on it yet.
He wants to make this last—to say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.
Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.
“Oh, God,” you mutter quietly.
Every hair on Peter’s arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. “What is it, Static?”
“There’s an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,” you explain. “NYPD comms just flagged it—there are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.”
Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. “How many hostages are we talking?”
“At least fifty. Commuters, staff—they were trapped during rush hour,” you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. “I’m tapping into the security feed right now. They’re holding guns, and… it looks like there’s a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.”
The wind roars through Peter’s mic as he accelerates through the air. “How much time is on the clock?”
“I’m trying to zoom in—eight minutes,” you say. “They’ve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.”
“Alright, no breaches,” Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. “You’re my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.”
“The skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,” you reply instantly. “It leads directly into the ventilations—high enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.”
“Got it,” Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.
Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.
“Okay, I’m in position,” Peter breathes through the radio. “Time me?”
He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.
“Be careful, Spiderman.”
He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.
Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him to—he wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.
He lands gently right in the center of the terminal—but his plans for discretion don’t last when a hostage looks up and yells, “We’re saved, everyone! It’s Spiderman!”
Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.
“Oh,” Peter smiles. “Making my job a lot easier. Thanks.”
Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.
The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the men—who are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.
Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.
When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.
“SWAT is moving in—mind the doors and tripwires!”
“Shit,” Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exits—but it’s already too late.
The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peter’s ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freeze—and a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.
It’s quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.
“Wait!” Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.
But it’s too late.
“Spiderman! Get out of there!” you cry out through the radio—right before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.
Pressure and heat slam right into Peter’s chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.
Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.
Evie’s voice sings in his ear like a taunt.
“Detecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathing—”
Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.
“Spiderman! Answer me!” Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.
He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. It’s broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.
“Please—are you there? Spiderman! Check in!”
“Time, Static,” he manages to croak out.
Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. “The ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longer—”
“What’s the time, Static?” he repeats with a wet cough.
You suck in a sharp breath. “Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!”
“Peter,” he croaks, coughing up more blood.
“W-what?” you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. “You’re breaking out.”
“Our little game—remember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,” he wheezes, fighting for air. “My name is Peter Parker.”
A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.
“Static? Are you still there?”
“I can’t hear you, Spiderman.”
The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.
On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.
“…we return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,” the reporter’s voice echoes through your quiet room. “It has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.”
You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you haven’t touched.
“In a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,” the reporter continues. “According to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffled—and deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.”
Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.
He woke up.
He survived.
You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that he’s been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to know—because you felt like that might’ve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.
A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesn’t mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. You’re not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.
You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.
Your receiver light blinks green—it has been on this entire time.
For the past seven days, you’ve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that you’ll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you won’t miss him if he calls.
A few more days pass, and you’re sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like you’ve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.
Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s 3:41 in the morning.
With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair back—but the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.
A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.
You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.
“Hello?” you say, your heart racing. “Hello? Is someone there?”
The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that you—and whoever is on the other line—are connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.
“—atic?”
That voice—so familiar, so gentle—rings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. You’ve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.
“Sta—t—ic,” Peter’s voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clear—clearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. “This is Spiderman. Are you there?”
Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. “You’re okay. You’re here. Thank God. I—I thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospital—I hoped you were okay. I’ve been waiting for your call all week. I—”
“Hey, hey,” Peter coos softly on the other end. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”
You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like he’s lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.
“Where have you been?” you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”
“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. “My suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.”
A shaky breath leaves his lips. “With the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding it—I even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.”
You let out a wet, teary laugh. “So that’s why you sound like that.”
You can picture him grinning on the other end. “A lot better, huh?”
That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.
“I missed hearing your voice.”
Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, you’re collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.
“I missed hearing you, too. You’d better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely can’t bear losing you forever,” you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.
Peter’s grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you don’t lose me.”
You smile into your pillow. “Good.”
A comfortable silence settles between you two—not the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.
“Were you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?” Peter asks softly.
You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. “You were cutting out too much.”
He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.
“It was about our game—the fun facts one,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s walking on eggshells.
You couldn’t catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himself—a piece he wanted you to have in case he didn’t make it.
You hold your breath, waiting to see if he’ll offer it up again.
“And since I completed a successful mission,” he continues, swallowing hard. “I thought I’d continue with that trade.”
You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confession—for him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.
Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.
“Do you… have a boyfriend?”
You blink.
The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to say—a big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his life—that was not on your bingo card.
“What?” you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.
Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.
“O-or girlfriend! Sorry—I shouldn’t have assumed! I mean, you don’t have to answer! It’s just—it’s a fun fact! A personal fact! That’s how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something… or—”
A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.
“Spiderman,” you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.
“Yeah?” he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.
“No,” you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. “No boyfriend. No girlfriend.”
A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.
“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesn’t catch it—but you hear it anyway. “I mean… cool. That’s cool.”
You snort. “Okay. You know how the game goes. Now it’s my turn to ask.”
“Do I have a girlfriend?” he prompts.
You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. “Or boyfriend. I don’t judge.”
A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. He’s quiet for a few seconds, making you think he’s just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.
“I—um… I used to have this girl,” he murmurs. “We were dating for a while—but it didn’t work out.”
The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man who’s been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldn’t even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know it’s not your place.
“What happened?” The words spill out before you can stop them.
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.
“Well, that’s something you’re gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,” he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and you’re more than happy to fall right back into it.
You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.
“Deal. But let’s not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,” you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “I just want to keep you all to myself tonight.”
You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.
But Peter laughs—a full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. It’s a laugh that never fails to make you smile.
“Usually, I’d oppose the idea of ignoring crime,” he says softly. “But for you? I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”
You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. “Good. Goodnight, Spiderman.”
“Goodnight, Static.”
And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each other’s breathing lull you to sleep.
It’s a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.
Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.
The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone inside—which is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.
He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.
Standing inside the coffee shop is a face that’s all too familiar—someone he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.
Ned.
Peter’s feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isn’t alone.
He’s standing next to a girl—a pretty girl, at that. And one he doesn’t recognize.
Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.
“And for the missus?” The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.
You glance up at the menu board, though you don’t really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.
“Can I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla—”
Peter’s heart stops.
“—one pump of regular hazelnut…”
That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.
“And two scoops of vanilla bean powder,” Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.
“…and two scoops of vanilla bean powder?” you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.
The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture he’d built in his head—except for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.
The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.
The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.
His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.
“Hey,” you smile politely—a soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. “Are you using this chair?”
This is it.
Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.
Hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. The guy you’ve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.
Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his ear—identical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.
Just in case either of you calls in.
Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeper—adding a slight rasp for good measure.
“No, go ahead.”
That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. “Cool, thanks.”
You slide the chair up to the table you’re sharing with Ned, and just like that—unaware that you’ve completely flipped his world upside down and inside out—you fall right back into conversation with him.
The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.
He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.
Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that night—when he was trapped under rubble and bleeding out—was just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that he’s here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he can’t risk letting you into his world.
Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter can’t afford to lose you.
Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like he’s already lost you anyway.
“So, tell me more about this party.”
“Well, it’s a housewarming party,” you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. “Two of my friends moved into an apartment recently—so we’re celebrating tonight.”
Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in with—if not him.
“That’s… cool,” he finally answers in an indifferent tone.
You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. “Yeah. And since I’ll be busy socializing, I won’t have my receiver on all night. But I’ll try my best to check in with you.”
Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. “I’m a big boy. You don’t need to check up on me.” He glances at the window. “I’m more worried about you, though.”
You step aside for a pedestrian who’s rushing past. “What for?”
Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. “Well, you’re a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where you’re at.”
You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.
“Don’t worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because I’m a woman, then I’ll never get anything done in this city.”
You’re greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.
“Do you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?” You ask Peter.
The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.
Peter’s cackle draws you back in. “And you’re drinking?”
You can’t help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two cases—one in each hand—and shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. “Yes, because I’m an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. It’s Friday night.”
A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himself—a night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.
You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.
“Okay, I gotta head out. I’ll check in with you later tonight—”
The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.
“You know Spiderman?” the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.
A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.
“Static? Who is that? What’s happening?”
“You must be mistaken,” you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. “I—I don’t know Spiderman—”
“Bullshit!” the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.
You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peter’s voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.
“Tell me your location—where are you? I’m coming—!”
“103rd Street,” the man answers with a grin. “That’s where your little lady is at—on the floor, bleeding outta her lip.”
The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where you’re prone on the ground.
“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” Peter’s voice crackles through the wind and speaker. “What do you want from me?”
The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.
“That’s the thing with people like you who try to play hero,” the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. “You stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we aren’t the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to survive—and it’s people like you who keep stopping us.”
He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.
“We’re just trying to eat,” the man spits into the receiver. “So if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick payday—that’s not evil. That’s just survival. There’s a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.”
The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.
If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But he’s not holding just any person. He’s holding you—the only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isn’t a single shred of restraint left in Peter’s mind—not when your life is on the line because of him.
“I don’t give a shit about your excuse,” Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. “If you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to God—”
“It’s too late, Spiderman.”
From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.
The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peter’s eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.
The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesn’t hit you.
Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his anger—so he settles with his fists.
One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the man’s face, tainting Peter’s suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.
“Spiderman, stop!”
You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.
Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isn’t done. He can’t rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.
He can’t rest until he knows, for certain, that you’re safe from danger.
He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for good—until your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.
“Stop! It’s over—it’s done,” you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. “The police are coming.”
Peter looks around, his chest heaving.
Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.
He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.
“Hold on,” he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.
You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. You’re too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding you—the very man you’ve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.
He doesn’t look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.
Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly you’re holding him.
He doesn’t say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.
Your eyes don’t leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man you’ve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isn’t his first time seeing you.
There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like this—under circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.
“I…” your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.
Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.
“Look at what he did to you,” his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like it’s all his fault.
You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. “If I’d known I was going to see you tonight, I probably would’ve worn more makeup.”
You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.
“I can’t believe you’re right here,” he breathes. “And I’m holding you.”
Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means he’ll have to say goodbye—and he doesn’t know when he’ll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.
For the first time in years, it feels like he’s found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves this—even if it's just for a few minutes.
“You know what I look like,” you smile painfully. “Yet, I still don’t know a single thing about you.”
Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. “I’m sorry.”
You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it up—giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants to—holding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.
As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. “I can’t.”
With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.
The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch—the first grace of warmth he’s felt in forever.
His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lips—bruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.
His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like he’s in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.
You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.
Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. “I wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
“I am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmth—”
“Shut up, Evie.”
You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.
“A successful mission,” you smile up at him. “You know what that means.”
He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that you’re hearing it up close for the first time.
“You’re right. You go first.” He prompts.
You tell him your name, but he doesn’t react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smiles—almost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though he’s known your name all along.
Peter repeats it softly. “It’s beautiful,” he says.
Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.
You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. “What’s yours—”
Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.
Peter’s senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.
Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.
“Oh my god, there you are!” Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. “We were wondering why you weren’t answering our calls—then someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Street—which is where you were going—and wait, is that Spiderman?”
Standing right behind him is MJ.
“You scared us!” she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.
“I’m okay, you guys shouldn’t have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,” you motion behind you, “this is—”
Peter doesn’t even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.
“God,” Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. “See! It’s like I told you, MJ! He’s like Peter Pan—if you really believe in him, he’ll show up!”
“Okay—you know, your fanboying really freaks me out,” MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay—”
A shudder passes through your body.
My name is Peter Parker.
“Peter,” you whisper with a sudden realization.
📝 first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
𑣲PETER PARKER X READER MASTERLIST
click for navigation , mcu masterlist
this is an 18+ space that contains peter parker x reader fanfiction. some of these stories can be extremely wholesome, and some of these stories can be extremely dark. please take note of the warnings before proceeding. I am not responsible for your media consumption.
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
nav. ➞ 𐙚 fluff ﾒ૦ spicy ‹/𝟹 angst ⏾ dark
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 ! ʚɞ
call me if you get lost 𐙚 ‹/𝟹 「 wc: 9.6k 」
⠀ pre-bnd!peter parker x fem!reader
⤷ You have been Spiderman’s communicator—his eyes for crime and the voice on the other end of a staticky little radio that took him less than an hour to build. He doesn’t know what you look like or your name, and you don’t know a single thing about him. Peter tells himself it’s better this way, that keeping you at arm’s length is the only way he can keep you safe. But that promise slowly frays the longer he speaks to you.
⤷ You're an overworked entomology student trying to finish a report on spiders and their mating cycles. At the same time, Peter Parker is undergoing strange, ravenous arachnid changes in his body. Lucky for you, Peter also happens to be your boyfriend.
“Why are you wincing, I haven’t even gone near you yet?” You asked with a chuckle, preparing the needle by giving it a good wash in rubbing alcohol.
Peter was breathing in through his mouth, quickly. Near hyperventilating as he attempted to calm down. “Well, it’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”
You brushed his hair away from his ear, not that it was really in the way, you just took any excuse to touch him. “Peter, babies get this done all the time,” You soothed. “And most of them don’t cry for longer than a minute. And that’s getting two - you’re just getting one.”
“Babies, right,” He said, looking up at you through Tony Stark’s glasses, the same ones he had been wearing since the death of Iron Man. “I got this.”
“Yeah you do, you’re Spiderman,” You said, and stood over him, looking at the small sharpie dot that you had put onto his ear. “Why don’t you close your eyes? Might make it easier.”
“Will it -”
You stabbed the needle into his ear before he could fully close his eyes, when he wasn’t anticipating it in the slightest. His eyes squeezed closed, creating wrinkles around them, a small grown leaving his ears. You worked dexterously, putting in the small earring stud that was actually a speaker - a more comfortable way to keep in contact with FRIDAY, even when he wasn’t wearing the suit.
“All done,” You chimed.
“That’s it?” He asked, blinking his wide eyes open. “That felt more like a pinch than a stab.”
“And you know a lot about stabbing, huh?” You teased. “That’s it. You’ve officially just turned into a badass. What do you think, should we do your nose next? Elbow? Double lip rings?”
“No, no no no,” he shook his head. “I think this is … this is plenty, thanks.”
His fingers went up to his ear to feel how it felt but you grabbed his hand quickly. “Wash your hands first, Pete. If this gets infected - well, it’s not going to be pretty.”
spiders on valentine's day - spiderman x gn!reader
posted feb 27th, 2024 6:02 pm
im late on v day posts like bad but who cares it's still love month so heres this :)
summary: a way too short blurb of reader spending the love holiday all alone, until Spider-man has his way. soso short, not proofread, late for v-day.
masterlist
wordcount: 0.5k
It was just past ten on the 14th as you made your way to the roof of your building, a bottle of fruity pink wine and a wine glass in your hand as you pushed the door open and moved towards the little metal table, rusted by rainy days and snowy nights.
A few hours earlier your date had stood you up, so much for Tinder being a reliable Valentine. Now you have learned your lesson, never trust a guy named Brad. So now, your Valentine was the noisy nightlife of Queens, New York. and the cheapy wine that you had just picked up on the way home.
You silently thanked your 5-minute-ago past self as you opened the pre-opened bottle, pouring it into the ice-filled glass. “Should’ve brought my book,” You mumbled before taking an embarrassingly big gulp of the wine. It’s not that you were self-pitying, absolutely not. It was more like the opposite actually. It had been a hot minute since you allowed yourself the freedom to sit down and not think a single important thought, just mindlessly sit on your roof.
Plus it was fun to watch people below you, especially if they were freaking out over Spider-man swinging around the city.
That’s until he swings toward your rooftop.
Great
Just the company you needed.
“You know, it’s sad to drink alone on Valentine’s Day.” Spidey started the second he landed, voice muffled by his mask ever so slightly as he stood up straight.
“Spiders on Valentine’s day, something about that just screams bad luck.” You tease back, leaning back against the cool metal. Spidey looked at the floor, tsking as he shook his head.
”Spiders have to be good luck, I mean, without me, you would have to spend this lovely holiday all on your lonesome.” He shrugged, sitting in the chair across from you. You cracked, smiling at his mask.
“There's that smile!” Spidey all but cheered, clapping his hands together triumphantly. You laughed, shaking your head the same way he had a minute earlier. “Did it ever cross your mind that I wanted to be alone?” You asked with a half smile, taking a sip from your glass.
“I’m kinda hungry, just got back from this epic drug bust, you should’ve seen me I was all, ‘wam!’ ‘pow!’ ‘boom!’” Spidey ignored your question and instead made it a point to stand in the chair and show off his moves. “Anyway, I’m gonna go grab some pizza, you like pepperoni? who are you kiddin’ Spidey, course they do, everyone likes pepperoni, c’mon, man.” He muttered to himself while standing up and moving to the ledge, another tactic to get you to laugh and it worked.
“Should I grab another glass?” You asked, watching as he set himself up in the direction of the nearest pizza place.
“Nah, what kinda role model would I be if I drink and swing?” Spidey shot his first web, swinging towards another building as he yelled out.
Another night, another patrol you couldn’t wait you loved being a superhero even if it was to stop pity crimes everyone starts somewhere. So there you were standing in your suit on the roof of the building observing the streets and waiting. Suddenly you heard him.
“Mm who are you?” he asked you.
You looked up and your smiled under your mask “Oh hi Spiderman” you waved at him.
He jumped and landed in front of you “Hi” he looked around then back at you “Are you the same person who stopped those robbers last week at the bodega?”
You nodded “Yeah that would be me.” You held your hand out to shake his. “I’m y/s/n It’s nice to meet you.”
He took your hands and shook it “Nice to meet you too. Good job on that.” He scratched his head “How long have you been in the superhero business?”
“Oh a long time but I wasn’t here in Brooklyn. You don’t mind sharing now do you?” you asked him.
“Mm no, actually I feel like we could cover more ground with the both of us working together.”
“Wait” You stared at him “You want us to work together as a team?”
“Yeah, I mean that would be more useful don’t you think?”
You thought about it “Yeah you’re right.”
Then a loud alarm interrupted your conversation, the felt your wrist vibrate and you go out your device to show you the location of the crime. You showed it to Spiderman.
“That’s some cool gadget” he commented.
“Oh thanks I have more I need to show you later.”
“That’s cool I have to show you mine as well. Shall we?”
You both jumped off the roof of the building and raced to the location.
❛ sy's notes | masterlist here. please READ THE TAGS. on this fic particularly, i seem to encounter people who trigger themselves.
Miguel had many girls.
None gave a shit when it came down to it. They talked a good game over text messages and phone calls, tried their best to please him sexually, and snuck into their bed. They might even have lunch or dinner with him. Very rarely this.
He was doing his notes that Monday afternoon, scribbling away when his phone lit up. He flicked a look, realizing it was your photo that popped up. Not the many cum stained photos he had in his phone in your own folder. Those were not safe for any of his bosses to see, but one of those sweet photos that Peter’s taken.
Miguel isn’t stupid. He knows a love-sick puppy when he sees one. One look at Peter’s socials reveals many things: volunteering with a high school club to teach photography, stupid little flowers that he finds gorgeous, a number of subjects for his fine arts degrees, and on Sunday-- you. Sitting on a chunky rock in a beautiful dress in a stream, the sun bouncing off your strawberry-dusted cheeks. He has to do something about Peter.
“¿Qué pasó, Princesa? I’m finishing my notes.”
“I have something for you,” you answered. “Come outside.”
“For me?” Miguel tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder, closing his manilla folder that held a time-sensitive report. Miguel grabbed his keys and wallet, heading for the door. Everyone else was gone for the day, but Miguel did his homework in the lab.
“Sí,” you laughed. “¿Quién más?”
“Tch,”
At least those Spanish lessons are paying off. Miguel rushes down the three flights of stairs in record time and pops out the back door. You pushed past the archways into the beautiful gardens that usually obscure pedestrians from staring at scientists as they quickly woof down their food and bolt back inside to deal with whatever piteous work they had. Miguel slips on his dark sunglasses, turning his arms one over another. You have time to stop and appreciate nature, more than he could say about even himself.
“Princesa,” he hangs up the phone and takes a few steps to the tables where you were, twirling around the scent of fragrant orange blossoms. He bites back an amused smile, his voice picking up in a humored lilt. “What are you doing?”
“Dancing!” you hopped on one stone table, then the other.
“Don’t fall,” Miguel snatches you short of falling off the third table, setting your ass down with a mindful pull of your dark burgundy skirt over your thighs. “Why did you call?”
You supply him with a wicker picnic basket that was hooked over your elbow, pulling open the flap. The warm smell of meat and corn greeted his nose, finally shaking loose the smile that he had suppressed since you first called him.
“I brought you dinner.”
He blinks.
“Me?”
“You said you had to study for your test,” you looked up at the red brick building, “It’s better if you don’t get distracted by going out for food.”
He doesn’t have the heart to tell you that he usually brings his own food, regimented as he is. Miguel sets his hands on your hips and watches as you pull free whatever it was you made him. You set aside the basket and offer him the glass container and a bag of tamales, enveloped in their warm little husks.
“Menudo. And these are tamales con carne. My familia makes them every year. I brought them just for you.”
“You didn’t have to,” he murmured.
“But I wanted to.” You reached for the envelope collar of his lab coat, smoothing it down against his chest. “Besides, every one of my primas do it for their men. I can’t keep just bringing food home for Peter.”
It’s not that serious, he wants to say. There’s something soft about the way you recount it to him. He can’t stand to go against what you’re saying and instead sets the food back in its home, tucking your hair behind your ear. He traces the shell to your lobes, flicking his finger against the dripping earrings.
“Come upstairs.”
“No,” you answer quickly, leaning up to place a meager little kiss on his cheek. “You should be studying and if I go up there…”
He’d definitely get in trouble bringing his fuck buddy up to his office. Still, it might be worth it.
“I won’t get anything done,” he finishes. “Give me a real goodbye kiss.”
“You didn’t like that kiss?”
“It was a sad kiss.”
Peter was an essential part of your life.
He was closer than a friend if such things spaces between friendship and relationships existed. You supposed that in the absence of romantic relationships, friendships were the next best thing. Who else, but family, would support you? You nibbled on a hunk of toast with sweetened cream cheese and frozen berries ala Peter, whose head draped over your thigh. Your fingers combed through his thin brown hair, twirling bits around your index finger as he lay with a full belly and fuller thoughts.
“Sooo, how did it go?” Peter asked, staring at fluffy clouds that whirled by that perfectly cozy afternoon. “Did my super awesome plan go perfectly?”
You’re too shy to talk about it.
“Aw it did, didn’t it? I knew it!” Peter reached up, tickling his fingers through the ribbons of a pearl headband you wore that day. “Is he good? I hear all kinds of stuff about him.”
“Peter,” blood rushed to your face. “We haven’t…”
“Haven’t what?” he asked. “Ohhh. Oh. You haven’t fucked him? I thought…”
“We did-- just not that,” you patted his warm pink cardigan, flapping your hand down. “We haven’t you know--”
“Had sex?”
Peter could be too much sometimes. Today was one of those aggravating days. You settled down your hunk of toast, bobbing your head in a nod, eager to explain without making the words. “Just… oral. I couldn’t Peter, I’m not ready yet.”
“I know,” Peter’s tone goes soft. “But he can’t be happy about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every time Miguel has a new girl, he makes sure to fuck them as soon as possible. Keeps ‘em connected, or something, or that’s what Dana says.”
“Who’s Dana?” you chirped after him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You… looked so sad seeing him with someone else. I couldn’t… break your heart like that."
“You couldn’t tell me, but you could kiss me?”
“It was a nice kiss. Isn’t it about time for him to stomp past here?”
You wonder what Peter might mean by that. He slid his eyes shut, humming with one long leg thrown over the other. About time for his afternoon nap until you shook him awake because of your sore arms or back-- whichever came first. He slides his eyes shut, going to sleep under the feeling of your fingers twirling through his hair.
“You’re impossible, Peter.”
Peter was always right. You spotted your muscular man walking past the hedges, in a clean white shirt that obscured nothing about his muscles. You thought he would do what he usually did: wave, move on, talk to whatever whore of the day was on his arm.
He was walking with a girl who was tall and lithe. She made no moves to cling onto him as he slipped down the slight grassy slope where you sat with Peter, reviewing the intricacies of corrugated pottery before class. Your heart soared in your chest as he crouched down, a hand on his knee, scanning Peter’s face.
“I thought we talked about this.”
You didn’t expect those to be the first words out his lips, but lo, they were. He regarded Peter the same way he might an annoying animal with their favourite human, with blatant distaste and a passing hint of jealousy. You didn’t understand why.
“About…”
“Other men.”
“Peter isn’t another man. He’s non-negotiable.”
Miguel’s thick eyebrows pushed together as he processed the blatant line in the sand that you drew. You weren’t about to give up your dear friend, picnic dates at lunch, or photography shoots on the weekend for a man you sucked off. No matter how good he tasted and how thick his muscles were, crouched with those wild chocolate eyes.
“I’ll stay away from other men-- but not him. You take it or leave it.”
Miguel worked his jaw, clearly debating on the value of fighting you then and there. Miguel didn’t negotiate. It was never in his nature.
“Miggy,” called the woman on the sidewalk. She wore a dark bob, a streak of purple spiraling along her head. She has a terribly squeaky tone, one that is full of ire from having to say anything at all. “The samples.”
“This isn’t over, Princesa.”
He relented. Not because he wanted to, but because time was undoubtedly limited. You were pretty sure it was.
Miguel is breaking another rule. Not only does he glaze over Peter in your life, but he brings you to his apartment for tutoring. He’d deal with Peter after he secured you. You were proving one of the most difficult of his women to keep.
Come over, it'll be private, he claimed in a text message. It’s absolutely not to peel away your soft pale pink panties nestled up against your cunt, drag them down your hips, and onto the floor. He’ll keep those.
It’s not because the desk in the study room would do nothing to obscure his sinewy frame, shoving your legs apart and dragging you to the very edge of the seat.
“Take your vocabulary quiz.” You nibbled on your pencil as Miguel buried his head between your thighs, biting down on your thick thighs to encourage you to spread your legs wider. You breathed out an elongated hiss at another bite to your opposing thigh.
“Pero, Miguel-- how…” you murmured, making the mistake of looking between your legs. Miguel met your gaze, possessed with the smell of your body. You greet him with a choked-out groan of his name the second his mouth connected with your pussy. He knew you would taste sweet.
“It’s very simple. You start writing,” The quiz should be easy. A simple finish the sentences with the right word and vocabulary word box to boot. It was terribly easy-- if not for Miguel’s tongue suckling the juices that dripped from your core, you might have already finished it. It was hard-- too hard-- to focus on anything but Miguel’s warm tongue prodding your cunt, his fingers sliding within your hole. Miguel urges his finger around the rim. “Preferably something in Spanish.”
His tongue slid from your entrance to your clitoral hood. Another finger joins the first, twisting and pulling apart your impossibly tight hole. He just knew you would feel amazing. He suckled along your lips, suckling them wet as you struggled to read and make any sense of what was on the page. It wasn’t going to happen.
“Miguel, Miguel--” Your voice drew out, it had been so long since you had a partner. “Dame más.”
“There you go,” Miguel hummed, closing his mouth around your puffy clit in worship for the admittance. The pencil tumbled free from your fingers. Without thinking, your hand buried into Miguel’s silky dark brown hair, rolling your hips onto his face to pursue an orgasm. He suckled it fat and needy, his fingers curving in your body. With a soft sob, the pleasure caused you to gush messily all over his fingers. Your fingers knotted up in his hair, riding his face until you’re left with nothing but the cozy haze of your pleasure.
You don’t know how you’re going to pass this stupid language requirement now.
Miguel kisses you, soft and sweet, gentle and light. You taste yourself on his tongue and worry about the way you taste. Miguel doesn’t seem to have a single complaint. He grabs your hands, helping you to stand upright, even though your legs were as stable as a newborn giraffe’s. With your body against Miguel’s, you could feel the outline of his cock nice and hard, tenting his sweatpants.
“Should we take this to bed?”
“I…” you asked, shyly so. “I’m not ready for that. Is that… okay?”
Coño. It’s not the answer he hoped for, but Miguel can be patient. He dips his head down and resigns himself to a night of jerking himself off. He had been looking forward to today, fucking his new girl. He steeled himself from any reaction that may inch across his face and offered you his hand.
“Claro que sí, princesa,” Miguel finds himself saying. It’s not that you can’t retract the consent, but he knows that you have some shyness to do so. He rather honesty over concern for his ego. The session had at least been an hour-- with Miguel’s focus fading at the sight of your cute little pink dress. “We can stop here. You can take the test as homework. Have it done by next time.”
“But… you’re hard.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve jerked off,” Miguel shrugs off the thought. It wasn’t how he imagined today going, but it wasn’t-- Miguel dropped his gaze down to his waistband. Your fingers tingle over the white ties, pull them loose.
“I want to take care of you,” you shoved his sweats onto the floor, pooling around his slender feet. Miguel’s cock bobbed in the cool air, impossibly hard. You walked him back from his desk to his bed. He falls back on it, his big dick kissing his muscular stomach. “Lay back.”
He found himself eagerly complying. You snatched the lube he keeps on his desk, likely knowing that he kept it there for just this reason. Miguel likes to think that his sexual needs are usually met-- but sometimes, they aren’t. You shoved his legs apart and climbed onto the bed, gliding your hands up the inside of his thighs. A warmth filled his lower belly as you popped open the plastic bottle and drizzled it over his cock. The cool liquid made him flinch.
“It’s not that cold,” you asked, a tease on your lips.
“You find it funny? Let me pour some on you, then,” Miguel remarked, his gaze following your fingers. You gripped him, soothing your palms over the top of his cock and back down, milking him like with your soft hands. You spend particular time smoothing over his root, tracing his veins up to the tip. Your thumb massaged his slit, smoothing a soft bead of fluid that gathered there.
“Do you like it?” you asked.
“It’s nice.”
He hummed and lolled his head back onto his pillow. You met him where he was, your lips against his, exchanging a soft and wet kiss. A groan escaped his chest, clearly appreciating your affection. You want him to love it, need it, and crave it at the end of the day. Maybe you could not do all the things the other women could, but there was something about the way you looked and touched him that he knew he could not easily replicate.
“Miggy. How do I make it better?” You asked, more of a whine than anything.
"Better?" Miguel reached up, cupping your breast with one hand. He gives you a squeeze, urging your nipple to harden underneath the fabric. His hazy eyes turn to the other breast, repeating the treatment. You nodded as he worked-- and it's cute how much you want to make him happy.
“Let me fuck your tits. Get on your back, take the dress off,” Miguel looked toward the bottle of lube. He finally has you naked. Every inch you peeled away revealed a little more precious skin that he’s craved to see all week. You slipped off the dress, then your bra, laying back on the sheets. The lube is lukewarm, but when it hit your warm skin, it caused you to flinch too.
“Oh, now it’s cold,” Miguel teased. You smeared the wet lube over your breasts, pushing them together just right. Warmth bit your cheeks as Miguel mounted you, either muscular thigh on the side of your ribs. Between his large body cradling your breasts and his eyes on yours, he realized that you were terribly shy. He rubs the head of his cock against your nipples before sliding between your breasts. “You’re so shy.”
“I’m sorry,” you nodded. It becomes clear that as much as you trust him-- there is some barrier to complete trust. Miguel began to thrust, his hips cantering in the warm, wet lubricant. You could appreciate every day he spent at the gym, making a physique that other men could only aspire to. He was so thick-- so handsome. His breath came out in sharp little puffs as he worked, hands coming on top of yours for both stability and the opportunity to touch you. His fingers slid between the empty gaps of your own, eyes closed, face taut with pleasure.
You knew, as much as he knew, what he was thinking of. His cock wrecking your pussy for the first time because no matter how many times you jerked him off, sucked his cock, or let him fuck your tits, he’d always wonder. He was certain you wanted it too, wanted to feel what it would be like to be under him-- pounded pretty. Your head rose to watch his cockhead peep out between your breasts. Every sweeping motion was rewarded with a little lick, earning a hiss of your name. His measured features hardened.
“Coño,” Miguel cursed as the thick ropes of his cum coated your tits. He forced himself forward, cum pumped over your collarbone and neck, dripping into your hair. The grip on your breast was unrelenting, while the other jerked himself through the bolts of aftershock. To his surprise, you gathered his cum between your fingers and suckled it, tasting his warm salty fluid on your tongue. He watched you, enraptured, as you cleaned yourself-- then went after his softening dick, suckling the spent seed there.
“Beautiful,” he murmured as he pulled away. You followed, inching up his chest to kiss him. He tasted himself, finding that he liked how he tasted much more when it was on your tongue. “Stay the night.”
He never asked anyone to stay the night. It was a flagrant violation of another rule that all the others knew he had. Miguel was open to having another roommate. A pretty girl to fuck and keep. She just had to be the right kind of girl. He has a feeling you’re that girl, nestling between his arm and chest, holding him close.
He just had to fuck you first to find out.
The thing about having multiple girls is-- his interest wanes.
He never knows the exact cause. Only that he’s distracted with you. Perhaps it’s your resistance to letting him actually fuck you. Not eat you out, not have his dick sucked, not fuck your tits, but fuck you. He’s thought about how a hundred different ways. Against the museum, in his bed, in the library, his private office-- It encompasses much of his attention. You were at Peter’s art showing Friday night, which was how he ended up here with Dana, yet again.
She wants to see this stupidly romantic movie that no one else is really into from the looks of the empty seats. Miguel isn’t invested either, his mind is racing with thoughts of someone else. Her lips are wrapped around his dick in the dark movie theatre, he goes soft. Soft-- Miguel rarely goes soft, he’s looking for a hole to fuck into. Apparently, this one is no good. He eventually sighs, pushing on her head to remove her from his cock.
“What is it, Miggy?”
A balance of light and shadows highlight her face as she sits there, looking positively aggravated with her failed Friday night date. Miguel knows that he can’t perform like this. He glances down at the near-empty theatre and itches the back of his neck, tucking himself back into his jeans.
“I’m not horny,” he murmured, folding his arms one over the other. He’s surprised she can hear him over the beaming sound of the movie theatre. She does, shoving his shoulder in protest over his shitty performance.
“You’re usually horny,” she bites back.
“Then maybe it’s you.”
The impulse to take it out on Dana is out before he can control it. She flicks her head at him, her slight eyes popping wide open. She searches Miguel’s flat features for an apology, ruffling her fluffy purple bangs away from her eyes. He doesn’t give her one.
“Oh, now you don’t want me? Ever since you’ve started seeing that teashop bitch,” Miguel perked his brow up, “You don’t have time for me. What? Is she that good?”
Tea shop bitch. It’s been over a week of trying to get you to fuck him at multiple intervals. He hasn’t been able to. Not for a lack of trying, but your shy deflection and offers to do things like-- pick an orange off the trees by his building, walk around on a date, or just touch one another. He tried to understand: you weren’t a girl that ran out to date many men. In fact, he’s pretty sure that he is the outlier in your sex life.
“You’re right,” he says. “We should stop fucking.”
“What?”
“You’re too attached,” Miguel stood up, his hands forming tight balls in his pockets. “And I’m just not that interested.”
“When did that change? A month ago? Miguel?”
He doesn’t have time for her stupid possessiveness, her obsession with keeping her slot as his default bitch. Other women told him all about Dana-- how she tended to show up where they were, bumping into them, or the rumors she spread in the department. He jots down the stairs, ignoring her squealing call of his name. The issue with Dana was this: she loved him far too much and he loved her far too little. As with so many of his once-were fuckbuddies, it was better for Miguel to go on his way.
Or, it would have been. He received a concerning message the next day.
I don’t want to see you again.
It’s from your number. Any attempted calls go straight to voicemail. Logically, he should have been able to count it as a loss and move on with any of the other women he had in his life. Illogically, Miguel wants an explanation. If he can’t get one from you, he knows just who will give him one.
Jess already knows what it’s about from the look behind her yellowed sunglasses. Her arms are turned one over the other, clearly having some sort of reservation from this meeting alone. She seems pissed off at him too despite the fact that he has no idea what the fuck he did. He only knows that you’ve virtually disappeared from his life.
“Are you going to tell me?” Miguel asks.
The crispy bagel sits forgotten before him, alongside the coffee that plumes wisps of heat into the air. Jess flicks her eye down to the steam, then back to Miguel.
“I told you to leave that girl alone in the first place.”
“You also set us up. I should know why she left.”
Jess looked off to the wind wisping through the trees, then to everybody that walked on by. There was an undeniable truth to what he said, her involvement was obvious and disconcerting. Whatever had happened, he deserves an explanation. You weren’t going to make this easy to talk to you, but he was intent. So long as he knew the depth of your irritation with him.
“Someone burned Peter. Something about… what was it? Stealing her man?”
He hates that he doesn’t have to ask who.
"Is he hurt?"
"Bad enough," Jess answers. "Y'know how special he is to her."
