#tom holland fluff

[dragoneyelashart]

girl next door | peter parker

pairing: peter parker x stark!reader (stark!reader will always hold a special place in my heart i fear) summary: spider-man is your new stalker after saving you one day, and now you have an annoying new neighbor peter parker whos guts you absolutely hate because of how much noise he makes. spider-man ends up accidentally at the wrong window one night which leads to conversation between the two of you. you find yourself falling for spider-man, but how is he going to tell you that he is your annoying neighbor? warnings: arachnid!peter, mutual masturbation, fingering, p in v, doggy style, missionary, creampie, unprotected sex, slight degradation, slight stalker!spiderman if u squint

postcards. u guys #comeback!!!! i haven't written smut in months sooooo..... but anyways brand new day spidey kinda 😛😛😛

wc: 8.4k

the footfalls behind you grow heavier, echoing off the wet brick of the alley as you quicken your pace. a glance over your shoulder confirms what your pulse already knows, the shadow is gaining, closing off the only exit toward the main street. you back up until your shoulders meet cold brick, well and truly cornered.

just as a hand reaches for you, a sharp thwip slices through the silence.

a thick line of webbing yanks the man backward, pinning his wrists to the wall before he can register what's hit him. you barely manage a gasp before something drops lightly onto a nearby dumpster with the soft clang of metal.

you look up to find spider-man crouched there, lit in the neon wash of a diner sign across the street.

he drops down in front of you, planting himself between you and your attacker, then turns to check on you, and freezes the instant his eyes land on your face. for a long beat, the only sound is the low hum of the city while he stands there, head tilted, visibly stunned.

"you, uh—" his voice cracks. he rubs the back of his neck. "you alright down here?"

you manage a nod, too rattled to speak. he clears his throat, backing awkwardly toward the fire escape, gives an uncoordinated little wave, and swings off into the night, though he glances back twice before vanishing over the rooftops.

from the moment spider-man saw your face in that alley, something in his brain simply stopped working correctly. he was certain, with the sudden, total conviction of a man struck by lightning, that you were the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. and so, without quite admitting it to himself, trailing after you became his new hobby. he told himself it was "routine neighborhood patrol." you were not fooled. you'd started noticing the red-and-blue blur perched on lampposts, tucked behind billboards, folding itself awkwardly behind air-conditioning units every time you so much as stepped onto the sidewalk.

the height of his ridiculousness arrived on a humid tuesday afternoon. you'd ducked into a crowded coffee shop, ordered an iced matcha, and were reaching into your bag when a familiar leather-and-spandex arm appeared over your shoulder out of nowhere, tapping a prepaid card against the reader before you could so much as blink.

you spun around, arms crossing over your chest, one eyebrow raised. "are you stalking me?"

his whole body locked up. confusion first, his masked head tilting like a bewildered dog, followed by a wave of pure mortification. he simply stood there, frozen, staring down at you as though he'd forgotten the basic mechanics of human speech. even through the mask, you could tell his jaw had dropped somewhere near the floor.

"uh— w-what?" he finally managed, voice cracking as his hands flew up in open panic, waving through the air like he could physically bat the accusation away. "stalking? me? no! no way! i was just— swinging by! for, uh— high-altitude hydration awareness! it's a whole thing!"

you gave him a flat, unimpressed look. "i can afford to pay for one matcha. it's not exactly a crisis."

you left out the part where you were tony stark's daughter, sitting on enough generational wealth to buy the entire coffee corporation on a whim, watching him squirm was far too entertaining to interrupt.

"right! totally, of course you can!" he wheezed, clearing his throat and backing toward the exit in three panicked steps, nearly upending a display of travel mugs. "just— consider it a friendly neighborhood courtesy. enjoy the matcha!"

he backed out through the double doors, hit the pavement, and shot a web skyward, swinging off so fast he nearly clipped a streetlamp on the way out.

moving into the new place felt like a fresh start, a spacious, open-concept penthouse, full of natural light and sleek finishes, homey enough that it never read as cold or clinical.

on your first day, while you stood in the hallway directing a parade of moving boxes, your next-door neighbor stepped out. messy curly hair, an oversized hoodie, a smile that read equal parts polite and flustered.

"oh, hey — moving in?" he asked, walking over. "i'm peter. peter parker."

"nice to meet you," you said, offering a brief, polite smile, keeping things short.

"need a hand with any of the heavier boxes?" he offered, nodding toward the stack by the elevator. "happy to grab those."

"movers have it covered, but thanks," you said, giving a quick wave before turning back to your keys. he nodded, scratched the back of his neck, and slipped back into his apartment.

a few days later, you'd finally settled in. it was late on a thursday, and you were trying to get some sleep after a long week when, around one in the morning, a heavy bassline began vibrating straight through your bedroom wall, accompanied by metallic clanking and the steady whine of some tool.

you stared at the ceiling for a full five minutes before throwing off the blanket. "what the hell?"

you marched into the hallway and pounded on peter's door. inside, he was entirely oblivious, music blaring while he fine-tuned the wrist-gauntlets on his updated suit, soldering iron in hand.

you kept knocking, harder and faster, until the music finally cut out. a few seconds later the door opened. peter stood there in sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, hair disheveled.

"can you turn the music down? it's one in the fucking morning," you said, arms crossed, staring him down.

he blinked, taking a beat to register the irritation on your face. "sorry," he said, rubbing his eyes with a defensive shrug.

you scoffed. "'sorry' doesn't un-wake me up. some of us actually have somewhere to be tomorrow, try having a little spatial awareness next time."

his eyebrows knit together, his relaxed posture stiffening. the bite in your tone caught him off guard, especially from someone he'd just met.

"okay, first of all, it's a shared building," he shot back, leaning into the doorframe with a slight glare, genuinely stung by how quickly you'd turned sharp. "second, a knock would've worked fine without trying to break the door down like a swat team."

"i knocked for three straight minutes. you were too busy throwing a concert," you said, already turning back toward your own door. "keep it down."

"yeah, loud and clear," he muttered, shutting his door harder than necessary. "you got the loud part right, at least."

he stood in his foyer for a moment, rubbing his temples. irritating as the exchange had been, a quiet realization settled under all the snark, he was still completely, hopelessly drawn to you. whether in a suit on a rooftop or sweatpants in a hallway, peter was in over his head, even if at the moment you could barely stand him.

moving in was supposed to be a fresh start, a break from the chaos, but living next door to peter parker made that impossible from day one. every hallway crossing, every elevator ride, turned into an instant exchange of sharp banter: who'd claimed the good laundry machine, who kept hogging the hallway light, who owed who an apology after the last argument.

at the same time, you'd started noticing spider-man haunting the neighborhood more than usual, a flash of red and blue on the rooftop across from your window, a shape crouched on the fire escape, always supposedly "on patrol."

then came a friday night. your friend matt came over to hang out, and as he rode the elevator up, peter happened to be on it too. he watched, saying nothing, as matt stepped off, walked straight to your door, and let himself in. a hot flash of jealousy went through him, though he tried his best to shrug it off.

an hour later you and matt were on the couch, deep into a movie, loud enough that the sound carried straight through the shared wall, where peter sat in his room, listening to every sound. he was unfazed for a while until he heard the sounds of moans and heavy breathing coming from your house and began growing more irritated by the minute.

driven by pure pettiness, he set out to make as much noise as physically possible, slamming dishes into cupboards, banging pots, cranking music to drown you both out.

fuming, you marched next door and hammered on his. when he opened it, wearing a look of practiced innocence, you crossed your arms and glared.

"we're trying to watch a movie, not listen to you breaking dishes," you snapped. "you're not rihanna. relax."

before peter could land a comeback, matt appeared behind you, poking his head around the door. "what's up? everything okay?" he asked, gesturing broadly.

peter froze. realization crashed into him all at once, matt was very obviously gay, and there had never been a shred of romantic threat to begin with.

he wanted to sink through the floor. the embarrassment wiped out every ounce of his pettiness in an instant.

"uh, sorry, man," he mumbled, staring at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck as he backed into his apartment and shut the door, left alone with his dishes and his own idiocy.

matt left a little after eleven, offering a lazy, two-fingered wave as the elevator doors slowly shut, severing the warm hum of your living room from the quiet corridor outside. you clicked the deadbolt into place, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion immediately settling into your shoulders as you shuffled toward your bedroom. all you could think about was the scalding shower waiting for you, the steam, and the sweet relief of collapse.

you didn't hear the window slide up.

a soft, muffled thud landed against the plush carpet, quiet enough to be mistaken for the building simply settling into the night. a tall, lean shape remained crouched low near the sill, breathing hard from a swing gone slightly wrong, one gloved hand planted on the floorboards to steady himself. spider-man straightened up, muscle memory already steering him toward what should have been his own cluttered, tiny apartment, half-expecting the familiar, nostalgic smell of stale instant noodles, damp laundry, and stack upon stack of old textbooks.

instead, he was met with soft, warm ambient lighting, expensive minimalist furniture, and a sleek glass panel embedded into the far wall that looked distinctly like an early-model stark tech home automation unit.

he froze mid-step, his white lenses wide. that's not my fridge.

his eyes swept the room again, taking in the tasteful arc-reactor-blue accent lights glowing beneath the floating shelves. then his gaze snagged on a framed photo sitting on the dark wood dresser. his stomach plummeted through the floorboards the second he recognized the face staring back at him.

oh, fuck.

he was already halfway pivoted back toward the open sill, knees bent and ready for a graceful, dignified exit, when the adjacent bathroom door clicked open behind him.

you stepped out, enveloped in a cloud of jasmine-scented steam, wearing an oversized graphic t-shirt and short sleep shorts. your hair was damp against your shoulders, a plush white towel slung over one hand as you rubbed the ends dry. you stopped mid-motion, towel frozen against your cheek, as your brain registered the very famous, very blue-and-red figure standing in the middle of your private sanctuary.

"now i know you're stalking me," you said flatly, not dropping the towel.

"uh—no?? i mean—" spider-man's hands flew up defensively, his voice climbing half an octave as he shuffled his boots against the rug. "i swear, i just—wrong window. totally wrong window. architecture in this precinct is super repetitive, honestly, it’s an urban planning disaster—"

you crossed your arms, utterly unconvinced, though the faintest twitch appeared at the corner of your mouth. "sit," you said, nodding toward the small upholstered bench at the foot of your bed. "you're not swinging off into the skyline before i get some answers."

he hesitated, throwing a long, lingering glance at the open night air like it might drop a web-line and rescue him, before finally perching stiffly on the edge of the bench. 

you disappeared briefly into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a chilled glass of water, holding it out to him. he eyed the glass dubiously for a beat, then gave in, peeling up the bottom half of his fabric mask just enough to expose his mouth and chin. he angled his head sharply away from you as he took a quick, grateful sip, careful not to let an inch of skin catch the lamp light.

"you hurt anywhere?" you asked, setting your towel down on the nightstand. your tone was softer now, the initial surprise fading into something far more grounded.

"couple bruises. maybe a light sprain," he admitted, rolling one shoulder in a slow circle until a faint pop echoed in the quiet room. "nothing major. comes with the job description."

"and what exactly is the job description that has you breaking into random strangers' bedrooms at midnight?"

"i told you, wrong house," he insisted, a little too quickly, tucking his chin back down into his suit and pulling the mask tight. "total accident. glitch in the navigation."

"sure, spidey." you studied him for a long moment, a knowing flicker behind your eyes, the subtle look of someone who had clocked the crimson shadow perched on the brick roof across the street far more nights than you’d ever admitted aloud.

you didn't push him, though. not tonight. instead, you climbed up onto the edge of your bed, pulling your knees up to your chest, and let the conversation drift into lighter, safer waters.

he relaxed by increments, his hands dropping to his lap. he talked about the chaotic pulse of the city below, the bizarre night traffic, and a stubborn stray bodega cat in queens that had taken to following him along the fire escapes during his evening patrols. every time your questions veered anywhere near his life under the mask, he deftly pivoted with a joke or a rambling detour. you noticed every single deflection. you let every single one slide.

eventually, he glanced toward the moonlit sill, checking some invisible internal clock, and rose to his feet in one fluid motion.

"i should, uh—swing home," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"bye, spidey,” you said quietly. there was an unmistakable, fond warmth in your voice that lingered in the air between you.

he gave a brief, awkward bow, flipped backward out the open window, and vanished into the cool night air. you walked over to the sill, leaning out to watch him go. you caught the dark silhouette arc across two buildings before he abruptly doubled back, diving low into the shadows of the alleyway opposite your complex.

peter waited until he was entirely sure he was out of your line of sight before pulling off his mask, yanking a worn hoodie over his suit, and racing down the fire escape on foot. he made a deliberate point to sprint around the block and enter through the front lobby of the building, taking the stairs two at a time so you wouldn't suspect a thing.

a minute later, the heavy timber of his front door, slammed a little too hard, echoing through the thin walls.

you stared at your own closed bedroom door, rubbing your temples as the realization clicked into place that your annoying neighbor was back home.

you groaned out loud to the empty room. "great."

the evenings folded into each other until the pattern became a quiet, unwritten ritual. every night, after the city settled into a muted hum, a soft shadow would cross the fire escape, followed by the familiar tap-tap against the glass. spider-man would drop by for twenty minutes, sometimes an hour, right before heading back to his own apartment. you stopped questioning the "wrong window" excuse entirely; some things were infinitely sweeter left unspoken, left to hang between you like a shared secret.

one tuesday evening, he caught you mid-cooking. he leaned casually against your kitchen doorway, folded arms resting against the frame, watching you handle a skillet with far too much confidence for someone who had already set off the building's smoke detector twice that month.

"you know, high heat doesn't mean it cooks faster," he observed, his lenses narrowing slightly in amusementt. 

"i know how to cook," you lied, tossing a handful of chopped garlic into the hot oil with a dramatic sizzle that immediately filled the kitchen with a sharp, fragrant aroma. "it’s called searing. it’s high culinary art, spider-man."

"right. searing. is that why you have the balcony door cracked to air out the smoke?"

you turned around, spatula pointing at his chest. "stay and eat. prove me wrong."

"eating in the suit isn't exactly practical," he said, a genuine laugh laced through his voice as he gestured vaguely to the tight red-and-blue fabric covering his jaw. "the whole chin-peel maneuver is a delicate science, and frankly, i don't trust myself not to spill garlic butter down my suit"

you rolled your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. grabbing a glass container from the drying rack, you packed a generous portion of the pasta into it, snapped the lid down tight, and pushed it directly into his hands.

"then take it home, genius."

the next evening, he showed up at the sill holding the clean, freshly washed container in one hand and a slightly windblown bouquet of flowers in the other.

"i, uh... brought these," he muttered, holding them out like a peace offering. "and the tupperware. washed it twice. thank you. seriously. it was... really good. better than my usual microwave ramen by a mile."

he thanked you with a solemn, intense sincerity that the simple plate of pasta didn't remotely call for. you felt an unexpected heat blossom across your cheeks as you looked for a vase to put the flowers in and didn't bother pretending you hadn't noticed. somewhere between the terrible acoustics of the street traffic below, the quiet banter, and the returned tupperware, you'd developed something that felt suspiciously like a deep, helpless crush.

you ended up stepping out onto the balcony that night, the crisp night air biting gently at your skin as the endless sprawl of new york hummed softly beneath you. inside, through the glass patio doors, the apartment was bathed in warm gold light, highlighting the sleek, minimalist tech mounted seamlessly along your living room walls.

"so," he began, resting his forearms against the cool metal railing beside you and nodding toward the equipment inside "i’ve gotta ask... what’s with all the stark gear? that panel by the door isn't exactly consumer retail"

you hesitated for half a second, thumbs lightly tracing the delicate stem of a daisy before you answered. "my dad was tony stark."

the air went still for a beat. beside you, his entire posture shifted, a sudden, rigid jump of surprise, followed almost immediately by something far softer, far warmer.

"i knew him," he said quietly, his voice dropping into a tone you hadn't heard from him before. "he was... kind of a mentor, honestly. one of the best people i ever met."

you looked up, caught off guard by the genuine tenderness in his tone, and felt a quiet, grounding comfort settle between you. you offered him a gentle smile. "he spoke about a kid from queens sometimes. guessing that was you."

"yeah," he murmured, looking out at the skyline. "that was me."

"okay," you said, nudging his knee with yours to break the sudden heaviness in the air. "your turn. we’re trading secrets now. tell me something you’ve never told anyone."

he shifted on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "oh, come on. you can't put me on the spot like that. my identity is literally a national secret."

"i'm not asking for your social security number idiot,” you laughed, leaning back against the brick wall. "just a fact. something small."

he hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, before lowering his voice dramatically. "okay. fine. i have... a small tattoo of a spider on my shoulder."

you froze, blinked once, and then burst out laughing. "you do not."

"i do!" he insisted, mock-offended, though his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter under the suit. "it’s small! and it’s sentimental!"

"you're spider-man!" you wheezed, leaning into him slightly as you laughed. "you already wear a giant spider on your chest! why would you get a tiny one tattooed on your shoulder?!"

"it was a whole thing!“ he stammered, his lenses adjusting widening in defensive humor. "and it’s artistic, okay? it’s classic!"

you laughed harder, the sound bright and ringing out into the midnight air. he stopped defending himself and just watched you do it,head tilted slightly, his entire demeanor softening as if your laughter was the absolute best part of his night.

gradually, the laughter died down, leaving a heavy, quiet stillness in its place. the noise of the city seemed to recede into the background. the air between you shifted, growing charged, warm, and sweet.

he looked at you for a long moment, the white lenses of his mask motionless.

"i really wanna kiss you," he said. the usual deflection, the fast-talking jokes, the nervous rambling, all of it vanished, replaced by a simple, quiet honesty that made your heart skip a beat.

you didn't hesitate. "then do it."

you reached up, your fingers brushing against the cool, textured fabric at the base of his neck, and gently lifted the bottom of his mask up, revealing his square jaw, soft lips, and the faint dust of stubble along his skin. you closed the small distance between you yourself.

the kiss was soft, unhurried, and grounded, a slow, tender grounding after days of cautious dance around each other. his breath caught for a second before his hand came up to rest gently against the side of your waist, holding you close. when the kiss broke, neither of you moved. his forehead rested lightly against yours, both of you breathing in the cool night air.

"i... i gotta go," he murmured eventually against your skin, though he didn't make a single move to pull away.

"you should," you whispered back, a faint smile touching your lips. "it's late."

he lingeringly pulled the mask back down over his face after pressing one sweet, lingering kiss to your cheek, and backed toward the balcony railing. he offered a small, almost bashful wave before vaulting backward into the night, swinging off toward the rooftops, same as always.

peter grinned the entire way home. he swung through the air with a smile plastered across his face, equal parts utterly thrilled and quietly panicking about how exactly he was going to navigate the fact that his least favorite, most stubborn neighbor and the person he was completely, hopelessly gone for happened to be the exact same human being.

peter dropped down onto his own fire escape, pulled his mask off to take a breath of fresh air, and scrambled through his front door. he changed out of his suit, and into his boxers before lying in bed, his heart hammering against his ribs, a slow, unstoppable grin spreading across his face.

it was nearing 1am when peter heard sounds coming from your bedroom. faint, muffled, but unmistakably moans through the paper-thin shared wall separating his apartment from yours. he was about to put on his headphones to drown out the sound before hearing something he never thought he would hear. 

“fuck, spidey, need you” instantly the thought of you needing peter so badly made peter’s cock throb. he rubbed his dick through his boxers mentally cursing at himself, but it wasn’t his fault you were so fine. the second another soft moan traveled through the walls he jerked his boxers down already hard from the thought of you touching yourself to him.

his tip was red and pre-cum leaked immediately, coating his palm as he started stroking with long, firm pulls. the wet sound of his hand sliding over his cock mixed with the faint, muffled noises coming from your bedroom.

on the other side of the wall, you were spread out on your bed, two fingers thrusting in and out of your cunt. your clit throbbed under your thumb as you rubbed tight circles, hips rolling up to meet your own hand. you thought about spider-man touching you and fucking you senseless, which only made you thrust your fingers faster. slick arousal coated your fingers, dripping down to your, chasing the pressure building in your core.

"mmmph—fuck," you whined louder, the sound carrying clearly through the drywall. your fingers pumped faster, curling against that sensitive spot inside while your thumb worked your swollen clit. your thighs trembled as you edged closer. 

peter's fist tightened around his cock, matching your rhythm through the wall. he stroked faster, the head of his dick glistening with pre-cum that he used to slick his shaft. as he listened to your sounds he continued to fist his dick faster. gosh this was wrong, but he couldn’t stop. he was obsessed with you.  

“fuckkkk” you gasped, adding a third finger. the stretch burned so good, your walls clenching around your digits as you fucked yourself deeper. 

peter bit back a groan, his cock pulsing in his grip. he pumped harder as he jerked himself to the sound of your desperate moans. his thumb swiped over the leaking slit, as his thoughts were jumbled with the thought of you all spread out and perfect for him. you made him crazy, so crazy to the point that he could feel his arachnid senses taking over. 

your breathing grew ragged, punctuated by soft whimpers and the obscene sound of your fingers pounding your dripping cunt. "close—fuck, i'm so close, please, fuck fuck fuck” you whined, your voice breaking as your orgasm built. your clit throbbed under your thumb, pussy clenching rhythmically around your fingers as you teetered on the edge.

peter's strokes became frantic as he listened to you fall apart. 

your cry cut through the wall as your orgasm hit, your thighs shook, back arching off the bed as you came hard, slick gushing around your digits.

peter's cock jerked violently in his fist. thick ropes of cum shot from his swollen head, splattering across his abs and chest as he came to the sound of your orgasm. his hand kept stroking through it, milking every pulse from his balls until he was spent and panting.

through the wall, your breathing slowly evened out, the wet sounds of your fingers finally stilling. peter lay there in the dark, already wondering how long he'd have to wait before he could cross that wall and give you what you were moaning for. if only he could just reveal himself. 

you padded down the creaky back stairwell to the basement laundry room early the next morning, arms full of an overflowing hamper you hadn't bother to sort, your hair a wild, tangled halo from sleep, and whatever lingering restlessness had kept you tossing and turning after last night. you weren't expecting company at this ungodly hour, and you definitely weren't expecting to find peter parker already there, hunched over one of the industrial washing machines with a coffee cup clutched in his hand.

you shoved the heavy metal door open with your hip. it groaned on its hinges.

peter jumped like he’d been hit with a cattle prod. his arm jerked, and the scalding drip coffee tipped straight down the front of his faded graphic t-shirt.

"fuck!" he hissed, slapping at his chest and yanked the fabric away from his skin as a massive, dark brown bloom soaked through to his collarbone.

"wow," you said, setting your heavy hamper onto the folding table with a dull thud. you didn't bother hiding your amusement. "didn't realize you were such a scaredy-cat, parker."

"i wasn't scared, i was startled, there's a massive difference," he shot back, scowling as he grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulled it over his head in one sharp, annoyed motion, and crammed it directly into an empty washing machine. he reached for his sweatpants next, wincing as the hot liquid apparently had bled clean through the waistband. without missing a beat or giving you time to process the sheer audacity of the move, he stepped right out of his pants and threw them into the drum too.

which left him standing in the harsh, flickering glare of the fluorescent lights in nothing but a pair of navy boxers, toned, lithe, covered in faint faint pale scars, and glaring at you with his arms crossed defensively over his bare chest.

"cute," you said dryly, popping the lid on a washer beside his and dumping your darks inside, determined not to let him see you blush at his figure. "really thought this morning routine through, didn't you?"

"in my defense, i didn't expect anyone else to be wandering down into this dungeon at six in the morning," he muttered, shifting his weight. his jaw was set, eyes snapping back at you with an edge that was far more combative than his usual timid hallway persona. "and for the record, you're the one intruding."

"yeah, well, now you're stuck doing laundry practically naked with someone who can barely stand you," you said, your tone sharpening. old habits crept back in effortlessly now that the moonlight, the balcony breeze, and the sweet, quiet conversations felt a million miles away from this cold concrete room. "real smooth move, romeo."

"i didn't hear you complaining about my smooth moves last—" he started, his voice rising with a bite, before he caught himself. his jaw snapped shut so hard his teeth clicked.

"last what?" you pressed, narrowing your eyes as you leaned back against the edge of the washing machine table. "finish the sentence, parker."

"nothing," he snapped, rolling his shoulders and staring at the brick wall like it owed him money. "forget it."

you opened your mouth to deliver sharp comeback, and stopped dead.

your eyes had drifted, entirely by accident, down the slope of his broad neck to his bare left shoulder. resting right there on his skin was a small, unmistakable, dark ink design.

a tiny, stylized spider.

your mouth fell open. your gaze snapped from the tattoo up to his sharp hazel eyes, then back down to his shoulder, doing frantic mental math that your brain was fundamentally unprepared for before full consciousness had even set in.

peter smirked at you staring at his figure, though his posture remained stubborn and defiant. "if you wanted an excuse to stare at my abs, you could've just said so," he bit out, aiming for a cocky sneer and hitting somewhere much closer to defensive panic. 

"shut up," you said softly, barely hearing him, still staring at the ink as if it might morph into something else.

 "nice tattoo, mean anything?"

"it's a bug," he said instantly, his voice entirely too sharp. “you’re like a bug” you whisper under your breath  "plus spiders are common. people get them all the time. "

"uh-huh." you crossed your arms, stepping away from your hamper and taking a slow, deliberate step toward him. the pieces were colliding in your head with the force of a freight train, the bruises, the insane late-night schedules, the 'wrong window' excuse that was complete bullshit, and the mention of last night…

"so, hypothetically," you said, your voice slow as you reached out. you pressed the tip of your index finger against his chest, right above his ribs, and slowly traced a line down the center of his abs, watching his jaw clench as his breath hitched, he was trying so hard to not show it in his boxers. "if i asked you where you were last tuesday around midnight... would i get a straight answer?"

"depends on what you count as straight," he muttered, his eyes tracking your hand, his skin warm and vibrating under your touch.

"and if i asked how you knew my father personally?"

peter's face went through three distinct stages of existential dread in under two seconds, his combative front fracturing into sheer chaos. “i told you, he was my mentor we worked on—fuck“

"you're spider-man," you said. it wasn't a question. it was a slow, dawning realization that erupted in your chest, delivered somewhere in the space between utter disbelief and absolute, mind-spinning delight. "fucking hell, all this time, my whiny, annoying neighbor is spider-man."

"fuck this," peter muttered.

before you could finish your sentence, he closed the distance between you in a single, explosive stride.

he didn't ramble, he didn't apologize, and he didn't give you another second to process. his hand shot out, cupping the back of your neck while his other arm wrapped like an iron band around your waist, pulling you flush against his bare chest. he cut off your rant by slamming his mouth down over yours.

the kiss was hard, hungry, and completely devoid of the polite restraint he’d shown on the balcony. it was all the pent-up frustration of the last week, the teasing, the fighting, and the absolute relief of being exposed poured into one relentless motion.

you gasped against his lips, but instead of pulling away, your hands flew up, your fingers tangling into his messy brown hair and wrapping around his bare shoulder, right over the small black spider ink. you pulled him closer, kissing him back just as fiercely, your mouth opening to his as the heat in the room skyrocketed.

peter let out a low, rough sound in his throat. he shifted his grip, lifting you off your feet effortlessly and hauling you backward until your lower back hit the front of a heavy industrial washing machine with a metallic thud. he crowded between your legs, pressing his weight against you, refusing to give you an inch of space.

his hands slid up your waist, beneath the hem of your shirt, his fingers warm and rough against your bare skin as he deepened the kiss, tilting your head back to catch your lip between his teeth. the machine behind you hummed and vibrated as a wash cycle kicked in, but neither of you paid it the slightest bit of attention.

when he finally pulled back a fraction of an inch to breathe, his forehead rested against yours, his dark eyes blown out, his chest heaving against yours.

"you talk too much," he whispered, his voice breathless, dark, and utterly devoid of his usual hesitation.

"you kissed me first," you breathed back, your hands gripping his bare hips, pulling him right back in.

"make me stop," he growled against your lips, and then he was kissing you again. 

the elevator was only a few steps away. he continued kissing you until you both reached the elevator. the elevator doors hadn't even finished closing before his mouth was on yours again.

peter's thigh shoved between your legs, pinning you to the cold mirrored wall. the chill bled through your thin shirt, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body boxing you in. his hands found your ass and lifted, grinding your core against the hard ridge straining his boxers. your tongues slid together, slick and uncoordinated, as you sighed into his mouth. the elevator hummed upward, a distant mechanical purr beneath the sounds of the kiss.

a soft chime announced your floor. peter broke away only long enough to grab your wrist and pull you stumbling down the hallway. his free hand worked under your shirt before you'd taken three steps, rough fingertips skating up your ribs. your back hit his apartment door with a thud. his lips bruised yours while he fumbled the lock. the door swung open, and he walked you backward into the dark room.

the bed caught you, springs groaning, your head sinking into the pillows. peter crawled over you, his silhouette blocking the slice of city light from the window. "fuck baby, since i saw you that day, been wanting to do this forever." his voice had dropped an octave, rough and strained. those eyes, usually a warm brown, had gone black. his arachnid instincts taking over. you remember him talking to you about it one night, imagined it multiple times when you would try and touch yourself, and here peter was staring you down like prey.

"heard you last night through the wall," he said, teeth grazing your jaw. "whining like a spoiled girl for my cock. you were so fucking loud while you moaned my name."

heat flooded your cheeks. the walls were thin, you knew that, but you never realized he heard you. 

your hands flew to his boxers, fingers hooking the waistband, desperate. he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand. the grip was unbreakable.

"look at this, i’m giving you my cock after you've been such a bitch to me this whole time." his free hand trailed down your throat, tracing a possessive path between your breasts, as he kissed your neck between words. "teasing me, running your mouth, acting like you don't want it when we both know you do."

"please," you gasped, hips rolling up. your body arched, seeking friction, anything. "peter, please i need—"

"shut up."

he yanked your shorts down your legs, rough enough that the button popped. the denim scraped your thighs, leaving a quick burn. peter's gaze dropped to your bare cunt, already glistening. "no panties? did you want me to fuck you baby, hm?" two thick digits pushed inside without preamble, and the stretch wrenched a broken cry from your throat. your walls clenched around him immediately, a needy spasm, but the stretch wasn't enough. not nearly.

"you're dripping already." his thumb pressed down on your clit, circling in a steady, practiced rhythm. "pathetic."

"then stop teasing and fuck me," you bit back, even as your hips bucked into his hand. the defiance was instinct, a reflex you couldn't snuff out, not even now. 

peter's jaw tightened, you were just as stubborn as your father about everything. the blackness in his eyes seemed to pulse.

"you just don't shut up, huh?" his fingers curled inside you, finding that sweet spot that made your vision spark white. "driving me fucking crazy with that mouth of yours."

he worked you with a brutal, focused precision. no hesitation. his thumb pressed harder, his fingers plunging deeper, and the pressure built low in your pelvis. the wet sounds of his hand filled the room, obscene and rhythmic.

your wrists strained against his grip. your thighs trembled. his name tumbled from your lips in fragments. “peter! oh—fuck i’m so close”

"come on, then, cum for me baby“

the command tipped you over. your orgasm crashed through you, your back bowed off the mattress. a guttural moan ripped from your chest, and peter watched every second of it in awe, his black eyes cataloging the flutter of your throat, the way your eyes got glossy.

he didn't give you time to recover, however. his fingers slid out, glistening, as he placed them in his mouth, groaning at your taste, making you close your legs. peter was quick to stop it though, placing his hand between your thighs and spreading you open for him. 

you moved your hands from above you to bring peter closer and grip his dick through his boxers. you shoved it down, and watched as his dick sprang upward, flushed dark red, a bead of moisture already beading at the tip. “s’ all for me peter? do i make you hard hm?” you say trying to provoke him. you stroke his dick in your hand twice watching as peters forehead creases in pleasure. he kisses you again with just as much pressure as he begins to line himself up with you. he started out slow, teasing you with the tip, pressing it against your puffy clit and then pushing the head just between your folds. your eyes shut in pleasure, but you needed more. “please, peter mmph, need more, fuck!” you ramble as peter continues to tease you. you watch a smirk fall on his face “sure baby? won’t be too much huh?” “please peter, baby please, need you inside s’bad” you’re just a whining mess at this point, and so frustrated from being edged by peter. he catches you by surprise though when he thrusts inside. the stretch was overwhelming, he was bigger than you’ve ever had and that made your head dizzy just thinking about it. your walls spasmed around his length, trying to adjust.

"fuck," he hissed, dropping his forehead to yours. "you feel that? that's what you wanted, isn't it? so fuckin needy"

your answer was a moan. he began with short thrusts to have you adjust to his length, but it didn’t last long because his hips began snapping forward, setting a punishing pace that rocked the bed frame against the wall. every thrust forced the air from your lungs in punched-out gasps. his chest pressed against yours, his mouth trailing open, wet kisses along the column of your throat. teeth grazed the sensitive spot below your ear.

"fuck—yes—you're so big" you cried out, but peter just drove into you harder, his cock stretching you open with every deep stroke. one hand still shackled your wrists; the other cupped your jaw, forcing your gaze to his as he caressed your cheek. he watched your expression twist, lips parted, eyes glazed.

"look at you," he grunted. "all that mouth and now you can't even form a word."

the second orgasm built fast, coiled tight by the angle and the friction and the sheer force of him. your clit bumped his pelvic bone with every drive forward, a maddening spark. your inner muscles began to flutter, a telltale pulse around him, and peter felt it. his rhythm faltered for a beat, then quickened.

"that's it. let go. c’mon give me another baby”

your climax hit differently this time, deeper, a rolling wave that started at your core and radiated outward, liquefying every bone. you clenched around his cock in rhythmic pulses, and he groaned, jaw tight, fighting his own release. he kept thrusting through it, drawing out every aftershock until you went limp beneath him.

he pulled out abruptly, leaving you achingly empty. 

"turn over f’me” it wasn't a request. his hands flipped you onto your stomach, making you lie with you face down ass up. the position left you exposed, trembling. your cheek pressed into the damp sheets. peter's palm smoothed over the curve of your ass, a deceptive gentleness, before he pushed his dick back into your aching pussy.

the angle allowed him deeper, impossibly deeper, and the moan that tore from you was nearly a sob. his hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise, fingertips denting your flesh.

each thrust forced a broken sound from your throat as he continued to drive into you, his cock hitting a spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

"take it, fuck, i know you can,” 

his pace became punishing. the wet slap of skin on skin echoed off the walls, obscene and relentless. his cock swelled inside you, thickening, and his breath grew ragged. he reached around to rub your clit in needy uncoordinated circles, the extra stimulation pushing you toward the edge again.

you were still trembling from the last one, oversensitive, but your body responded anyway. a third climax coiled, tighter and meaner, refusing to be ignored.

peter's rhythm stuttered. he was close. you could feel it in the way his hips lost their precision, in the desperate grunt that vibrated against the back of your neck.

"c-can you give me one more baby?" his voice cracked, hoarse and strained. "hm? acting so smart earlier but can you not take my dick anymore huh?"

you were tear-streaked, your throat raw. but his taunt lit something feral in your chest. you nodded frantically into the sheets, pushing your hips back against him, meeting his thrusts. wanting more. needing him to finish you off and fill you up.

peter let out a rough, breathless laugh. "yeah, you can take it. look at you, so fucking perfect”

his fingers pressed harder on your clit, circling ruthlessly. his cock drove into you with renewed intensity, every stroke a demand. the coil snapped. your third orgasm detonated, a violent clench that had you sobbing into the mattress, your whole body seizing around him. it ripped through you, leaving you gutted and shaking.

peter buried himself deep and followed. his cock pulsed, flooding you with his release. he kept thrusting through it, slow and deliberate, pushing his load deeper. 

the room fell still except for ragged breathing. he stayed buried inside you, softening slightly, his cum dripping from your used hole onto the sheets. 

the black in peter's eyes receded, leaving behind that familiar warm brown. his pupils contracted, adjusting to the dim room, to the reality of what just happened. the hand on your hip lifted away.  "shit." his voice had gone ragged, stripped of the dark authority from before. "i'm so sorry, was i too rough? you know the arachnid se—" he said as he pulled out, making you both hiss. the emptiness was immediate and strange, your walls still fluttering around nothing. peter turned you over with gentleness, his hands cradling rather than gripping. your back met the mattress. the sheets beneath you were damp and cooling.

you pressed your hands to his cheek, stilling the words. his mouth was warm and slightly swollen. your fingers traced a path from his lips up into his hair and tugged him closer to you, coaxing him down until his weight settled over you.

"peter, it's okay." you say “if anything, it was hot. didn't know you had it in you."

his brow furrowed, a crease forming between his eyes. "i could've hurt you. the instincts, they just—i saw you and i couldn't—"

"hey." you raked your nails lightly along his scalp, and his eyes fluttered half-closed. "i'm still here. still in one piece."

he let out a breath that was half laugh, half relief. his forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his lips found the curve of your neck leaving small kisses. you let your legs fall wider, hooking one ankle over the back of his knee. 

a comfortable silence settled between you. his mouth continued its lazy exploration, trailing from your throat to your collarbone, then back up to the sensitive spot behind your ear. you hummed, fingers still tangled in his hair.

"plus," you said, keeping your voice deliberately casual, "i didn't really feel much. your dick's pretty small."

peter's head snapped up. his eyes had narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched, a smirk fighting its way through the post-orgasm haze and the lingering guilt. "oh yeah?"

"yeah." you shrugged, the motion rolling your bare shoulders against the sheets. "barely noticed anything was happening."

"says the girl who was whining." his voice dropped, a shadow of that earlier growl bleeding through. "what was it again? something like—" he pressed his thumb to your clit without warning, barely any pressure, just a tease of contact.

your hips bucked. a strangled whimper escaped before you could swallow it.

"’fuck, your dick's sooo big,’" he quoted, high-pitched and mocking, his thumb circling once, twice. the touch was featherlight but your nerves were still raw, still sparking from three orgasms. "that was you, wasn't it? or was that some other neighbor i was fucking?"

"nope." your voice cracked on the word. "don't remember saying that at all."

his thumb pressed harder, a quick, mean circle that made your thighs clamp around his hips. a gasp tore from your throat.

"you remember now?"

"okay," you breathed, nodding frantically. "okay, okay. maybe. maybe i said that. a little."

"mhm." he withdrew his thumb, trailing it up over your hip bone, leaving a path of goosebumps in its wake. "thought so." he propped himself up on his elbows, his face hovering inches above yours. the smirk had fully won now, tugging at his lips. "then why don't we go another round, huh? since you barely felt anything? let me make up for my apparent shortcomings."

you laughed. "did you just say shortcomings?"

"shut up."

you considered it. the offer was tempting, he was still half-hard against your thigh, a slow-warming pressure that promised more. but your body had other opinions. your clit throbbed with its own heartbeat, oversensitive and swollen. every brush of his skin against yours sent a jolt that was closer to too much than just right.

"sure," you said anyway, because backing down wasn't in your nature.

peter raised an eyebrow. "yeah?"

“c’mon then spidey” you shifted your hips, lining yourself up, and the blunt head of his cock nudged your entrance. wetness from his previous release still slicked your folds. he slid an inch inside.

your whole body seized. the overstimulation taking over. you slapped your palm against his chest.

"okay okay fine, not right now!" the words tumbled out in a breathless rush. "m'too sensitive, fuck.”

peter pulled out immediately, but he was grinning now, a wide, unguarded smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes. he dropped onto his side, pulling you with him so you lay chest to chest, your leg hooked over his hip. his hand settled on the small of your back, thumb tracing lazy circles.

“you’re so stubborn y’know,” he said, still smiling. 

“my dad’s tony stark, what do you expect,“ you reply. silence fell over the two of you for a moment before you break the silence "i hate you."

"no, you don't."

"no," you admitted, muffled against his skin. "i don't."

"for the record," he murmured into your hair, "it's not small."

"oh my god, let it go."

"you brought it up—"

"i was joking—"

"and i'm just saying—"

"peter." you tilted your head back, meeting his eyes. the brown was fully back now, warm and teasing. no trace of black remained. "you just came inside me, and fucked me three times. you don't need to defend your dick's honor."

"four's a nice round number." he smirked at you.

"absolutely not."

"in five minutes?"

"maybe in five minutes." you paused. "ten."

[tomsparkyr]

𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍!

he’s complicated, he’s irrational… but i hope someday he’ll take me away and save the day!

summary: you couldn’t exactly put a label on whatever you and spiderman had together. since he had never taken his mask off around you, it was capped at merely acquaintances. after spiderman agrees to let you interview him for an article, you try to gain an understanding of the man underneath the spandex. but is it worth exhausting yourself falling for a man you’ve never seen? and who seems hellbent on protecting himself from his past mistakes?

warnings: (loosely inspired by the clark x lois interview scene in superman) angst to fluff, happy ending, brief mention of injury, kissing, journalist!reader, mentions of peter being a photographer bc we deserved that with tom's spidey, links to insomniac!spiderman, reader doesn’t know spider-man’s identity / didn't know him pre-bnd, post-no way home, takes place during spiderman bnd (no direct spoilers but it’s recommended that u watch the film before reading this in case i missed anything!) (and stream superman by taylor swift :))

word count: 5.9K

main masterlist / peter parker x fem!reader

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃 mentioned to your friends that you were considering finding a roommate for your apartment in New York, they thought you were referring to one of your classmates or someone on the internet that had been searching high and low for a reasonably priced room within the city.

They would have never guessed that Spiderman, the friendly neighbourhood hero, would be the person to have his own room in your flat. There was no lease in place, Spiderman had his own apartment, no doubt. He just preferred to spend his time outside of crime fighting with you. Not that you ever objected to this, you appreciated the company.

When you had first met the man in the red spandex, how he came tumbling into your window with a limp and disturbing the silence you found yourself resting in. You assumed it was a one time thing, that he wouldn’t remember your face in the thousands of civilians he saved everyday; then he appeared at your window again, claiming he needed help stitching a wound on his chest and this was the first place he stumbled, or swung across.

Coming to your flat twice was a coincidence, but then he perched on your fire escaped for a third time. Three times became five. Then five times became every day for an entire week. Five months after meeting you, he had become part of your routine. A routine that consisted of Spiderman currently being lounged back on your couch, his foot nudging your own as he pestered you with questions about your upcoming article.

If you didn’t find it so endearing you would’ve kicked him out by now. But something about Spiderman made you feel seen, like he’d known you his whole life. Of course, you couldn’t say the same.

You had no idea who Spiderman was beneath his mask. You only knew what he wanted you to know about him and what the rest of New York knew about him; that he saves the city and the neighbourhood loves him. And you despised yourself for falling for a man you’ve never truly met.

FIVE MONTHS AGO

You were nose deep into an article that was due to be published the next day. Your back was aching from being hunched over your laptop and your eyes were burning from reading word after word, flickering through countless sources and making sure your work had zero to no flaws. 

Being so preoccupied with your writing, you failed to notice the superhero slumped on your fire escape. His suit was torn at the torso, drops of blood staining the skin that peeked out. He reached the hand that wasn’t clutched to his side towards your closed window and pried it open, grunting as his body protested against the movement.

You flinched as his hand connected with the glass, the sudden arrival causing you to jolt to your feet. “What the—” You yelped as Spiderman shuffled his body through the window, landing harshly against the wooden flooring.

“Oh, God.” He wheezed out, rolling onto his back and coughing as he gripped his ribs. He looked around the room until his eyes landed on you standing beside the chair that had fallen when you stood, your brows furrowed and eyes blinking rapidly as if you were trying to battle with reality and your imagination as they comprehend that Spiderman was a bloody mess in the middle of your flat.

Peter’s eyes widened as he took in your shocked state, “I’m sorry! I’m not here to hurt you!” He stumbled over his words as he tried to comfort you while his body screamed the opposite, the blood seeping into the floorboards.

“I promise I’ll clean all this up,” He gestured to the faint red marks and pulled himself up into a sitting position, “Wouldn’t want you getting in trouble with your landlord because of my mess. I know mine charges me when I—“

“Why are you in my apartment?” You questioned, your feet rooted to the spot you stood up in. “Right, I’m sorry.” Spiderman nodded and braced a hand on the window sill, “I got into this huge fight with Scorpion."

Peter stood slowly, his voice strained as he continued, “It was like, big potato stuff.” He watched you squint your eyes, “It’s— whatever, nevermind. And I was swinging back and needed a place to crash for a second, that’s all.”

You nodded and loosened the tension in your shoulders, “That’s reasonable.” You could almost see a weak smile behind Spiderman’s mask, “Do you need some help?”

Peter’s body relaxed at your question. Your voice was hesitant and soft, like you were worried about crossing a boundary with a masked superhero even if it was necessary. He liked the consideration, he hadn’t experienced it for a while.

“I’m fine. I heal quicker than…” His voice trailed off as his eyes focused on your open laptop behind you. He honed in on the names written in bold, titling your piece before his crash landing had disturbed you.

“Are you a journalist?” Peter titled his head, his voice quirking in interest. You turned to look at the article with its deadline rapidly approaching, “Yeah.” You responded.

“Writing a piece on the New Avengers?” His voice was almost teasing and for the first time that night, Peter saw a smile creep up on your face and ignored the surge he felt in his chest as a result. 

“Something like that. My boss asked me to do it but it’s practically impossible to find an image to go with it,” You repositioned your chair and sat in it, pulling up a tab that showed Yelena flipping off the cameras that spotted her own her way to her ‘office’, “Any that are appropriate at least.”

Peter laughed as he looked at the photo, “I could help you with that, if you want. To compensate for me crashing in like this." You turned to look at him and gestured towards his mask, “What? Are you a photographer under there?”

Spiderman shrugged, instantly regretting the movement as he winced in pain, “One with connections,” He watched you raise your eyebrows in interest, “Look, I’ll talk to Yelena and organise a photo with her.”

“I want two pictures.” You challenged, watching how the red mask disguised the grin that was gracing Peter’s face. “I’ll give you three.” He chuckled.

You pursed your lips and pretended to dwell on the offer, “Okay. You’ve got yourself a deal, Spiderman.” You nodded turned sideways in your seat to face him completely. “And you’re pretty lenient, maybe I should let you crash in my place more often.” You joked.

Peter, failing to pick up on your sarcasm, tilted his head in questioning, “Really?” You nodded, “Totally, I’ve been looking for a roommate.” 

You laughed to yourself and turned back to your open laptop, fingers itching closer to the keyboard as your mind switched back to its journalistic state. 

Across from you, Peter (or who you knew strictly as Spiderman) glanced around the apartment before his eyes landed back on you. He hadn’t been inside someone else’s home since everyone forgot who he was, no one knew him well enough to entrust him to do so.

For the first time in years, Peter didn’t feel like he was talking to someone through Spiderman. He was existing in the moment as Peter Parker, just behind a mask that was practically glued at the seams with past guilt. 

You treated him normally. Well, as normally as someone could do when a masked hero stumbles into their apartment when they’re in the middle of an article with a deadline glaring straight at them. 

Peter liked normality. He didn’t experience it much. He liked existing outside of the mask, to have someone talk to him and not see him the same way everyone else in New York City does, as Spiderman. To have a conversation, although brief, that didn’t revolve around himself and how he took down Tombstone with ease, or perhaps the time he was gifted with the key to the city; it was almost refreshing for Peter to dote on someone else this time, rather than receiving.

So, he took up your offer of crashing in your place more often. Whether you were serious or not (you definitely weren’t but you appreciate his company nonetheless), Peter liked having someone in his unpredictable world. 

He enjoyed having a reason to go out on patrol every night, swinging past your window to check if you were safe or hovering on the fire escape until he built up the courage to tap gently on the glass. Because seeing your face smiling up at him after a long day of glaring into eyes that wanted him dead, ensured him that everything he has ever done was worth it.

PRESENT DAY

"What if I interviewed you?"

Your words snapped Peter out of his thoughts, “What?” He laughed as you hastily removed your laptop from where it was perched in front of you and onto the coffee table, twisting your body to face the masked man lounging on your couch.

“What if I interviewed you? As Spiderman.” You repeated yourself. Although you couldn’t see his face, the squinted lenses and tilted head told you that the man sitting opposite you wasn’t understanding your proposition.

“Come on,” You groaned and shuffled closer to Spiderman, “I’ve been put on the Superhero column ever since my article about the New Avengers, but imagine if I got a personal interview with the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman.”

Peter opened his mouth to reply but you quickly continued, “I’ll make you sound good. I promise.” 

“And,” You raised your eyebrows and lowered your pitch, trying to convince the arachnid who was silently deliberating, “People read my columns. The more people that like you, the more J. Jonah Jameson gets annoyed because people aren’t falling for his whole ‘Spiderman is the root of all evil’ bullshit.” 

Peter scoffed, “I don’t care what Jameson thinks of me.” You hummed, “You definitely do, you listen to his podcast on my account, Spidey. Did you forget we share one?”

Spiderman groaned and let his head fall on the back of the couch, realising that he had been caught out and perhaps a little positive publicity would do him some good; especially after he’d grown to think the world hated him before they forgot him.

“Yeah. I’ll let you interview me.” He finally said. A wide smile grew on your face and Peter understood why a part of him wanted to agree to this in the first place.

“Really?” Your voice barely contained your excitement and Peter thanked everything that he had a bright red mask covering his face, although it told the same story as what colour his cheeks were painted as.

Peter nodded, “Sure. It'll be fun.” You practically leaped out of your seat and rounded the kitchen counter, grabbing the voice recorder from where it was tossed with your stacks of notepads and pens, fiddling with it before placing it on the coffee table in front of Peter.

“Let's do it right now.” You pressed the record button and lent back in your seat, watching as Spiderman’s head darted between the device and you.

“Are you serious? Like— Right now? Right now?” He choked out and you nodded with a barely suppressed grin. 

Peter leaned up, straightening his posture and dusting off any crumbs he had resting on his suit. He reached a hand up to fix his hair before he realised it was flattened underneath his suit. He glanced over at you looking at him with a bewildered look, “What?”

“You know this isn’t filming you, right? Just your voice.” You gestured towards him and pressed your lips together to stop the smirk from etching across your face.

Peter scoffed and relaxed his body, attempting to be nonchalant about the movement but his awkwardness betrayed him, “Totally,” He stayed quiet for a moment before pointing at the voice recorder, “Can we start again?”

You chuckled, “That can just be off the record.” The lenses in Spiderman’s suit blinked twice, “Off the what now—”

“So, Spiderman.” You cut him off, your voice turning slightly professional but teetering on the edge of teasing.

Peter stared at you for a moment before leaning forwards and resting his elbows on his knees, he responded by saying your name in the same tone. You wished you could see the smile underneath his mask, but you doubted you would be able to source a good interview if the eyes you’ve never seen, but knew were beautiful, bored into your own.

“Let’s start with the obvious,” You started, “People have noticed you’ve ditched the web-shooters, have you developed an ability to swing without them?”

Peter turned his wrist and rubbed the spot the web-shooters used to occupy, “Well, apparently my body has become more arachnid over time.” You nodded, “Are you more human or more spider then?”

“I’m—” Peter chuckled, “I’m both. Somehow." You smiled at him and gave him a reassuring nod that his response was something the fans of your column would want to hear. “I just hope I don’t get a web block like... my old friend.”

You watched as Spiderman nodded at you, silently asking to move onto the next question. “It’s been a couple of years since the first and only appearance of the Night Monkey, so tell us right here and right now, Spiderman. Was that you?”

“Nope. Not me. Not at all.” You laughed as he nodded his head enthusiastically, his words completely contradicting his actions, “Never met the guy, he seems nice though.”

“Of course you’d say that,” You shook your head at him and tried to hide your smile, leaning down and picking up the voice recorder to hold close to your mouth, “Just for reader’s satisfaction and future me writing this that can’t see him, Spiderman has something to tell you.”

You leaned forwards and held the voice recorder to Spiderman’s face, the device catching his defeated sigh, “Yes. I was the Night Monkey.” 

Peter nudged your foot with his own as you returned to your seat opposite him, a proud smile on your face and singing a teasing, “Thank you!” Before placing the device back to its spot on the table between coasters and miscellaneous trinkets.

“You know, you have a lot of young fans out there,” Peter looked over at you with a softened smile that you couldn’t see as you began your question, “If you had to give them one piece of advice, what would it be?”

Peter took a deep breath and tore his gaze off you, “Someone told me something once and it stuck with me,” He cleared his throat and felt his mind begin to wander to places that left an irreversible scar on him, “Someone that meant a lot to me.”

You didn’t say anything, you respected the silence Spiderman left as he fiddled with the fabric of his suit. “She told me once,” He swallowed the nausea that would always remain at the pit of his stomach, “With great power, there must also come great responsibility.”

Your eyes softened as you watched the man sit in a shell of someone he’d yet to introduce you to. “So… that would be my advice.” He nodded and scratched the back of his neck.

“That’s beautiful,” You smiled gently, “She sounds smart.” Peter looked at you, a grateful smile etching onto his face as you brought light onto a woman you’d never met. 

“She would’ve loved you.” Peter wondered out loud, his eyes marking the way you breathed out and the tension in your face vanished, you truly looked moved by his words. May really would have loved you.

You’ve never seen Spiderman like this before. You never knew he could feel vulnerable or open up to you like this. This was the first thing he had ever told you about himself that didn’t involve what was already plastered across billboards around New York, that wasn’t centred around which crime faction he took down before he arrived, or didn’t start with ‘I beat Scorpion again tonight and it was awesome’; it was like the bottom of his mask had lifted and you saw a glimpse of the man you’d found yourself falling for.

When Spiderman first stumbled into your apartment, it was never in your intentions to fall in love with him. Because falling in love with a superhero was stupid and irrational, but it was a trap that was so easy to fall into.

The fact that over the course of five months, he’d never found the comfort you discovered in him to be reciprocated crushed you. You’d told him parts of your life you never uttered to another, and he told you the same story about himself that you’d heard from your co-workers. It wasn’t like you expected him to tell you his life story, but the absolute refusal to even hint at his true self behind the mask felt disheartening.

You thought you were being selfish in your mindset. And perhaps you were. But you can only push yourself so far until you’re exhausted in love with a man you’ve never known.

“I’ve never—” You wanted to say, you or we’ve never seen him like this before. But a part of you bit at the thought of it being too insensitive. So you gently moved around the statement.

“You seem like a good person, Spiderman.” His lenses blinked at you, “Really.” You reassured him.

You clasped your hands together, “That person under the mask. Who is he?”

Spiderman’s eyes widened and he leapt out of his seat, hands frantically reaching for the voice recorder, “What are you doing?” He borderline yelled, his voice panicked.

You flinched at his sudden movement and slapped his gloved hand away from the device, responding in the same tone, “What are you doing?” Spiderman stumbled over his words, alternating between scoffing and mumbling incoherent words before landing on, “You can’t ask me that!”

You squinted your eyes at him and he waved his hands about exasperated, “You don’t even know my identity! I’m not gonna answer it in some stupid superhero column!”

“First of all, what’s with the hostility towards the superhero column?” You started and watched Spiderman pace down the length of your living room, “And secondly, that’s not what I was asking you!”

Peter whipped his head around and froze, “That was your exact words!” You rolled your eyes and stood up with him, “I wasn’t. I was just trying to make it sound all cool and interesting.” You heard the hero whisper, ‘Journalists and their twisted words’ under his breath.

“I was just asking what you’re like under… you know.” You sighed and gestured towards his red and blue suit. Spiderman looked down at himself and shook his head in question, “You know?” He repeated your words.

You scratched the back of your head as you thought of unprompted questions on the spot, “Like… What's the first thing Spiderman thinks about when he wakes up?” You smiled, thinking your question was reasonable and a gentle start.

“That’s— no, it’s too deep.” He immediately shut down your question and ignored how the smile instantly dropped from your face. “Are you serious?” Your voice sounded unconvinced, as if he was about to turn around laughing and answer a question with the sound of a smile in his tone.

“Yeah!” Peter yelped, “Anything I say can be incriminating! You know I have a fan club of people trying to figure out my identity and one little slip…” His voice trailed off as he mumbled the times he’d open the internet and find people drawing what they thought his face looked like.

You stood awkwardly across from him, contradicting his stressed state as you attempted to tone down the questions brewing in your mind. “Okay,” You hummed, “What’s Spiderman’s favourite take out?”

The question was stupid. It meant nothing in terms of journalism, you were just weighing out the boundary between Spiderman’s identity and his definition of ‘incriminating evidence’. He stayed silent, you could only see his jaw tighten under the mask.

You gave him another grace period of quiet as he thought of some lie he could say, something like stating his least favourite take out just so the question could be off his back.

When he stayed silent, you furrowed your brows, “You won’t even answer that?” Spiderman shook his head and leaned back against the wall near the window, “You know I can’t.”

You looked at him in disbelief before snatching the voice recorder off the table, pressing the button to pause your audio, “Okay. Off the record, what is it?” Spiderman crossed his arms over his chest, “Which question?”

“You pick.” You pressed your lips together as embarrassment flooded your veins, “You won’t even tell me?” You muttered as he refused to answer your question, let alone look your way.

Peter sighed, “I… Can we just continue with the interview? Let’s go back to the big slash small potato stuff, please?” He pointed to the recorder balanced between your fingers.

You stared at him, humiliated at the prospect of you telling him about your life every time he stopped by and him unwilling to tell you the bare minimum about himself; he didn’t like you enough to tell you what his favourite meal was. You felt like you were standing in the middle of a public humiliation ritual.

You took a deep breath, feeling annoyance brewing inside you, “Fine,” You pressed the record button and tossed the voice recorder back on the table, “Tell me, Spiderman. Why do you keep your cards so close to your chest?”

Peter’s arms dropped to his side, “Are we—” He felt guilt swarming in his chest, “Are we really doing this right now?”

You shrugged and sat yourself back down, “Just asking a question. You know, doing my job.”

“Do you hide everything about yourself to everyone?” You asked him, raising your eyebrows when his body language shifted slightly, his shoulders hunching in on himself.

When he refused to give you a verbal reaction, you pressed into the bruise that was forming, “Or just the woman you’ve practically lived with for months?”

“Don’t.” Peter mumbled. He knew you were right and you had every reason to feel angry in this moment but every time he tried to let someone in, his mind replayed the events that changed his life and the people that were no longer in it. 

He’d kept you for this long. He should be thankful for the little time you had together, but every selfish part of him wanted more.

You scoffed, “Why do you keep her at arms length and refuse to give her a reason to trust you?” Your voice remained calm but the fury etched into your face told Peter all he needed to know.

You slowly stood up and walked towards him, pointing to the window where civilians swarmed the streets. Peter followed your finger and looked down at them, walking around unbeknownst to the hero perched in the apartment above them, seconds away from losing another person he loved.

When Peter turned his head back to look at you, your eyes were slightly watery, “Or do you just see her the same way you see the rest of them?”

Peter wanted to respond. He really did. But he couldn’t fathom the thought of you, the person he’d grown to love, seeing yourself through what you thought were his eyes. And he despised himself for letting you think that way.

“This isn’t going well, is it?” Peter murmured, his heart pounding as you turned away from him and picked up the voice recorder, turning it off and saying a barely audible, “No.”

He sighed and traced his fingers against the window sill, “I should leave. You know, the city needs me.” He tried to joke but you had already rounded into the kitchen, taking his heart with you.

Peter pulled the window open and was about to crawl out before he heard your voice echo from the other room, “It’s probably for the best.” You sounded defeated. He backed away from the window and followed in your footsteps, watching as you gathered the dirty utensils and placed them in the sink.

“This wasn’t working anyway.” You sighed and turned the tap on, drawing out the sound of Spiderman’s heart dropping into his stomach.

“What do you mean?” Peter swallowed. You turned around and gestured between the two of you, “This. It’s better it ends now.”

The lenses in Spiderman’s suit blinked twice and he shook his head, “I don’t want this to end—” “You don’t get to decide that.” You interrupted him.

“Yes, I do.” Peter walked towards you, “I know that you’re the only thing I think about when I’m on patrol. Knowing that I get to come back here after is the only reason I do it—”

“I don’t even know you!” You shouted, turning the tap off and facing him completely. You’ve never seen Spiderman so still, like one wrong movement and the floor would cave underneath him. If you looked close enough, you could just about see a frown painted into his masked face.

“What?” His voice was borderlining on timid, his hand wound together like he was trying to ground himself back to the shattering reality he found the two of you in.

You sighed sadly, “I don’t even know your name. I have no idea what you look like. You don’t let me know anything about you; what you’re interests are, the life you’ve lived this entire time, who exists underneath this mask,” Your fingers gently grazed against the fabric of his masked, tracing the cheekbones you’d never see, “You’re saying all this but I only get to see the same parts of you that the rest of the world does too.”

Peter leant into your palm, closing his eyes at the contact that was blocked by the barrier that felt molded into his skin. After losing everything many years ago, Peter didn’t know how to exist as Peter Parker. He felt like Spiderman was a necessary part of him now, something he couldn’t live without.

“I’m doing this to protect you. I need you to trust me…” Peter’s hands wrapped around your wrists, keeping your hands pressed against his face just so he could savour the moment, knowing it wouldn’t last much longer.

You shook your head, “I don’t think I can give that to you.” Peter pulled back slightly so he could see your face, furrowing his brows as he whispered, “You don’t trust me anymore? Is that what this is?”

“You never gave me a reason to,” You closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his own, “And how can I trust someone I’ve never met?"

Peter closed his eyes and tightened his grip against you, trying to press you further into his embrace before he lost you for good. Maybe this was for the best. Spiderman would be far enough away to keep you from danger, protecting you just as he promised himself to do so the second he laid eyes on you.

But Peter Parker would miss you. He didn’t know if his unmasked self could handle living without you. 

Peter had lost so many people in his life, and you were another to add onto the tally. If he let you go, that was.

He slowly let go of you and detached his body and heart from you. He backed out of the kitchen, his eyes never leaving your own as you stood still. Spiderman walked towards the open window and placed a hand on it.

You watched him hover, wondering if you should try to reach him one more time. But you protested against it. 

Spiderman spared you one last glance before ducking out of the window, swinging into nearby sirens as New York called his name. It was the right decision, Peter told himself. He had to let you go, even if a selfish part of him yearned to stay.

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒 selfish. He was the most selfish man he knew.

Because after a day of trying to forget you and move on, Peter found himself perched on your fire escape with his knuckles tapping against the glass of your window.

The one night Peter didn’t visit you in your apartment was pure hell. He’d swung there on instinct and almost squeezed his way in before he remembered the reason his mask felt suffocating the entire day. 

He felt physically sick to see you hadn’t left the living room light on for him to welcome himself in, with your coffee machine fully restocked in the kitchen for his free use. You weren’t even in your usual spot when he passed. You’d usually be tucked under a blanket on the couch, waiting up for him as seeing him was your favourite part of the day, or it used to be.

He should’ve stayed away, it would be protecting you. But Peter was hurting you and him in doing so. 

His knuckles connected with the glass twice, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched the living room light flick on. You froze as you saw the masked hero crouched on your fire escape, a pair of flowers tight in his shaking grip.

You slowly walked towards the window, not breaking eye contact with Spiderman as you lifted the window, the chill air of New York brushing against your bare skin.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Your eyes flickered between the flowers and him, a dreadful sense of hope accompanying your romantic heart.

“I read your column.” Peter said. Your face remaining motionless, you hadn’t expected him to keep tabs on you especially after the short break you two had from each other.

“Why didn’t you publish my interview?” Peter whispered, his grip tightening on the flowers and ignoring his worried state that the stems would snap off before he could hand them to you.

You took a deep breath, “No offence, but it was kind of a shit interview.” Peter huffed out a laugh which made you smile. Peter’s chest felt tighter as he realised 24 hours without your grin made the world seem cold.

“And I knew it would hurt you if I published it. You were vulnerable and I like you too much to do that to you.” You finished and stepped back from the window slightly, offering him to move an inch closer.

Peter leaned closer and nudged the flowers to brush the tips of your fingers, “I promise everything I’m doing is to protect you. You not knowing me is for the better and it’s the responsible thing to do.” 

“But I can’t do it. I can’t get you out of my head. Everytime I try to swing home, I always find myself heading to your place first because you consume my every thought. It’s so unbelievably selfish of me but I don’t think I can live my life without you. I’m in love with you and it kills me knowing I was the only thing standing in our way.” Peter said, his voice wavering.

You furrowed your brows, “Was?” Peter nodded and handed you the flowers, his hands wound with your own.

“I want you to know me and see my face. But honestly, I think I’ll die the second your eyes meet my own.” You laughed as Peter swallowed his nerves, “Every punch I take, I think about the day you’ll see my face stitched up and bruised, that you’ll think this was a mistake. That I’m not the one you want to be with.”

You shook your head, “I like Spiderman a lot. I really do.” You removed your hands from his and let them trace up his neck and fiddle with the area that disconnected his mask from the rest of his suit, “But you… Whoever you are under there. I know that I love you more.”

“You love me?” Peter whispered as you gently lifted the bottom of his mask.

You smiled softly, “I do.” Spiderman placed his hands on top of your own, guiding you to expose the bottom half of his face.

Peter couldn’t find it in himself to wait any longer. With his mouth and jaw visible to you, he placed his hands on your cheeks and pressed your lips together.

You gasped into the kiss and Peter’s hand drifted from your cheek to the back of your head, intertwining with your hair and tugging you impossibly closer. His lips were soft and everything you had imagined them to be. You were gentle with the bruise that was forming on the right side of his jaw, your fingers grazing the skin around it as he lost himself in the kiss.

You were about to pull back from the kiss to check if your mind was playing tricks on you and if you were kissing Spiderman, but when his lips chased your own from the split second of losing contact, you knew you were finally kissing the man you loved.

Spiderman pulled back slowly, pressing quick kisses on your lips as he forced himself back for air. He looked between your flustered face and swollen lips, every part of him yearning to lean back in.

The top half of his face was still covered. You lifted your hands to pull the mask back completely but he caught your hands mid-air. 

You tilted your head in confusion and he snatched the flowers from your hands, “I love you. I’ll be right back.” He pressed his lips to your in a chaste kiss before tugging his mask back down and swinging away from the fire escape.

You stood there dumbfounded, leaning through the open window where you once locked lips with the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman, the superhero that was in love with you.

Your thoughts were cut off immediately as you heard frantic knocking coming from your front door. You stepped away from the window and brushed your clothes, trying to look presentable to whoever showed up and trying not to look like you’d been making out with a man perched on your fire escape.

You pulled open your front door and stood face to face with the most attractive man you’ve ever seen. His brunette hair was curly, a slight mess on top of his head as if he’d appeared here in a rush. His clothes were crumpled and you were sure his jacket was thrown on inside out.

His face was adorning the most beautiful smile you’ve seen, pure unadulterated joy etched between the lines. His brown eyes stared directly into your own and you were sure you’ve seen them in some way before.

And in his hands were the flowers Spiderman had brought you. 

The words got caught in the back of your throat as you looked back up at him, his eyes watering as he looked at you. He nodded at you, heart constraining in his chest as you breathed out a laugh in disbelief, the smile of the woman he loved staring straight back at him.

“I’m Peter, by the way.” He smiled and handed you the flowers. Again.

how i feel writing for peter for the first time in 5 years / hope u liked and this didn't suck lolllll

[waitimcomingtoo]

When Did You Get Hot?

Pairing: Peter Parker x Stark!reader

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

Masterlist

After erasing the same spot on your paper for the fifth time, the paper finally tore. You ripped the page out of the notebook and crumpled it up in frustration. To your luck, Happy walked into the lab just as you threw it, nailing him right on the forehead.

“Oh. Throwing things before 11 am, are we?” He laughed as he rubbed the spot your paper ball hit.

“Sorry.” You grimaced. “I’ll pick it up. And then burn it. And then run into oncoming traffic.”

“Tough day in the lab?”

“Tough week.” You sighed and shut your notebook. “I’m about to throw this whole notebook in the fireplace.”

“Before you do that, I wanted you to say hello to our guest for the week.” Happy said and pointed his thumb at the hallway to signal that he had someone out there waiting.

“Sorry, Happy. I don’t know if I’m in a stable enough mood to be nice to strangers right now.” You told him, but he was already opening the lab door to let someone in.

“He’s not a stranger. He’s an old friend of your dad’s. Don’t you know Peter?” Happy asked as a guy your age walked into the lab. Time slowed down and you could have sworn a gust of air hit you, causing you to stumble back a little. “Bliss” by Mariah Carey started to play in your head as the most beautiful stranger made eye contact with you. He was in an Empire State University t-shirt that fit him just tad too tightly, but only because he was so defined. Curly brown hair that was just the right amount of overgrown spilled into his eyes, which he shook out of the way. He gave you a smile that felt like you just quite possibly started the second immaculate conception in your uterus.

“Did you hear me?” Happy asked, making you realize you’d been standing there in silence as you gawked at the boy.

“Sorry, I have my headphones in.” You lied once you composed yourself enough to speak.

“No you do-.” Happy began to point out.

“Sorry, was did you say your name was?” You quickly cut Happy off so he didn’t expose your lie.

“Peter. We met a couple years ago before the uh, airport battle royale, if you will.” He told you, and even his voice was attractive. You stared at his face for a moment but struggled to place him. You remembered your dad introducing you to some of his new recruits, but you knew you would’ve remembered if you met this man before.

“I was the sticky one in the red suit.” Peter followed up, hoping it would jog your memory.

That’s when it clicked for you. The picture frame on your dad’s desk, untouched in the years since his passing. There was a boy in the picture making bunny ears behind your dad’s head, the same boy in red and blue pajamas you showed your dad videos of all those years ago. That nerdy kid from the videos had somehow turned into the captivating man in front of you in the years since your last seen him.

“Wait, you’re Peter? Peter Parker?” You asked, failing to hide your disbelief. Peter let out a shy laugh and nodded his head.

“That’s me. Sorry, you probably didn’t recognize me. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. Not since the um, well, it’s just been a long time.”

“Clearly.” You blurted, the quickly followed it up with, “I mean, what’s, uh, what’s new?”

“Not much. I’m in college, but I won’t bore you out the details. It’s really good to see you.” He said as he started to come closer to you.

“It is really good to see you too.” You replied, finally sounding normal just as he enveloped you in a hug. You stiffened in surprise before hugging him back. The scent of his cologne wafted off his skin and if he hadn’t been holding you so tightly, you might’ve collapsed on the floor.

“Sorry. I just don’t see many familiar faces lately.” Peter said sheepishly once he pulled away. From how tightly he hugged you, you could tell he really needed it. You had no idea what had happened to him since the last time you saw him, but the sadness in his eyes now told you it wasn’t good.

“It’s okay.” You assured him as you held his gaze. To make matters worse, he had the softest brown eyes you’d even seen. Much to your dismay, you were officially enamored with this man.

“Peter is staying here for the week while he’s home from college.” Happy told you. “Would you mind showing him around? I put his room right across the hall from yours.”

“Of course you did.” You mumbled.

“I can wait outside if you’re still working.” Peter offered politely.

“It’s okay. I need to clear my head a little anyway.” You decided and shoved what you were working on away from you.

As you led Peter through the halls of Avengers Tower, you made absolutely no eye contact with him. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself any further, so you made no effort to make conversation.

“It really is good to see you. It’s been such a long time. So many things have changed.” Peter said to break the silence. You allowed yourself just one glance at him, and immediately caught sight of his enormous bicep. You quickly looked away and sucked in a sharp breath.

“Yes, they most certainly have.” You replied.

“What was that you were working on?” He asked you on the elevator ride to the main floor.

“Just some stupid blueprints that I can’t get to work.” You sighed. “I think just gonna scrap it.”

“What’s it for?”

“I’m trying to make a bracelet for kids that can scan food and detect allergens. It’ll buzz and turn red if they can’t eat the food. But I can’t get it to stop exploding. And I don’t think parents want their kids to explode. Or, maybe they do, and I have a genius invention on my hands.”

“That’s an incredible idea. I don’t think you should scrap it. One of them has to not explode, right?” He asked. His encouragement sounded sincere, making you even more in love with him. You decided to probe for reasons to not be attracted to him, since that would be the only way for you two to coexist while he stayed at the Tower. You brought the tour to the kitchen and showed him the inside.

“This is the kitchen. You probably won’t use it much.” You assumed. “I know most guys our age are all about protein maxxing and pre-workout inhaling.”

“Not me, actually. I love to cook. I make all my own meals. It feels better to eat it knowing I prepared it.” Peter told you, because of course he loved to cook.

“Is that so?” You asked with a dry mouth.

“Yeah! I could show you sometime, if you like. What do you like to eat?” He asked.

“Well, I think my favorite food is something my best friend’s mom used to make a lot when we were kids. They’re called tostones. She made them the perfect amount of salty and crispy.”

“Hm. I haven’t heard of that, but it sounds really good. Are you two still friends?” Peter wondered, making things ten times worse. Asking questions to get to know you was not helping you not fall for Peter.

“We are. It’s just harder to find time for a family dinner nowadays.”

“I bet. Happy told me how busy you are. From what he said, it sounds like you’re ready to take over Stark Industries any day now.”

“That’s the goal.” You admitted. “It certainly pays to be a Nepo baby in a field I actually really enjoy.”

“Hey, you may be Tony Stark’s daughter, but you’re inheriting the company because you earned it.” Peter said sincerely. “I’ve read about the stuff you’ve made. You’re brilliant.”

“Oh, thank you.” You smiled shyly at the compliment. “I remember that you are as well.”

“I wouldn’t say brilliant. I’m nowhere near your level. But I know what to do when I’m in there.” Peter shrugged modestly, highlighting his perfectly broad shoulders.

“I bet you do.” You whispered.

“What did you say?” He asked.

“I asked what you like to do?” You lied. “Physics? Engineering? Chemistry?”

“I love it all. But I think engineering. I made these, actually.” He said as he clinked his wrists together. Two black bands formed on each wrist and he held them out for you to see.

“What do they do?”

To answer your question, Peter shot a web at a flower pot across the room. He yanked it back, caught he effortlessly, and then handed you the flower. You felt your face warm up and accepted it with a soft smile.

“You created those yourself?” You asked him with amazement.

“Yeah. It took me forever to get the web formula right. And then when I did, I had to reconfigure the shooter a thousand times to get it to stop sticking to the inside when I tried to shoot them. But now they work well. See?” He shot another web, but you weren’t sure what he was aiming for this time. You were too fixated on watching his veins when he flexed his forearms.

“Oh, I see.” You said under your breath.

“What was that?”

“I said it’s this way to our rooms.” You quickly covered up and faked a smile. You showed Peter to his room and then got out of there was fast as you could. You leaned against your door after shutting it and stared up at the ceiling as you caught your breath.

Once you were composed, you slipped the Kimoyo beads off your wrist and used them to call Shuri. When she answered, she appeared as a holographic projection in your room. You caught up with your friend for a little bit, but when she asked why you called out of the blue, you had to confess.

“You know Spider-Man?” You asked her.

“The sticky one? Only a little bit.“

“Have you ever seen him without his mask?”

“I have. At your father’s funeral.” She responded. That answer brought you right back to that day at the cabin. You vaguely remembered seeing Peter that day, but the day was mostly a blur. It suddenly made sense why he didn’t specify the last time you saw each other. He didn’t want to bring back bad memories for you.

“Why do you ask?” Shuri asked, pulling you out of your thoughts.”

“No reason.” You lied. “I just had a quick question about him.”

“I don’t know him too well, so I might not know the answer. What were you wondering?”

“Oh, not much. Just when did he, you know…” You trailed off at the end and gestured with your hand for her to fill in the blank.

“I don’t know.” Shuri said with a laugh.

“You know. Was he always so…” You tried again and gave her a look.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Shuri told you.

“When did he get so fucking hot?” You blurted, followed by you looking at your door to make sure it was shut. Shuri bent over laughing as your entire face heated up.

“I don’t know.” She said when she stopped laughing. “He got bit by that spider.”

“How swol was the spider?” You asked out of the corner of your mouth.

“I think I was told it was radioactive. I don’t remember if I was told about its muscle composition.” She replied, making you roll your eyes.

“I don’t know what to do, princess.” You groaned. “He’s staying here for the week, but I can’t be around him. He’s too sexy. I just tried to show him around the kitchen, and all I could think of was riding on a horse with him and holding on to his gigantic shoulders for support. How am I supposed to stay across the hall from him?”

“If you’re that attracted to him, ask him out.” Shuri said simply.

“I can’t. I can tell that he’s a really nice guy. I don’t want him to think I’m shallow and just trying to hop on that because of his looks. He deserves better than that.”

“Are you trying to hop on that?” Shuri asked, gathering from context clues what you meant by that.

“Oh yeah. Ohhhhh yeah. All day.” You answered, making her laugh again.

“Maybe he’ll be flattered.” She shrugged.

“I don’t think he’s that kind of guy. Which makes it even worse. He’s a gentleman. God, I wish I was dead.” You whined and flopped on your bed.

“People have worse problems.” She reminded you.

“No, I don’t think they do. His eyes are so brown, princess. You have no idea. They’re like the Willy Wonka chocolate river. And I feel like that little fat fuck that got too greedy and fell in.”

“Do I know Willy Wonka?” Shuri asked. “Has he been to Wakanda?”

“Honestly, probably.” You replied. “But no, you don’t know him. Oh my God. What am I gonna do?”

“I think if you’re worried about him thinking you’re shallow, then get to know him first. Maybe you’ll discover you don’t actually like him.” Shuri suggested. You sat up on your elbows and stared at a picture of your dad on your dresser. It was time to come clean about the other reason that had been eating away at you.

“Him thinking I’m shallow isn’t my only reason.” You admitted. “My dad only knew about Peter because I showed him the videos of him. He believed in him because I believe in him. If I mess this up with Peter, it’s like I’m cutting on one of my last remaining ties with my dad.”

“Maybe the reason your dad liked him so much was because he reminded him of his daughter.” Shuri said softly. You thought about her words and as much as you wanted to believe her, you were scared.

“You’re very wise.” You said finally. “Someone should put you in charge of country or something.”

“They should.“ She played along. You moved on and talked about other things, but a corner of your mind stayed on Peter.

When you walked into the kitchen the following morning, Peter was already in there. You were about to turn around to leave when he called you over.

“Good morning. Look what I got at the bodega.” Peter said and held up a bunch of plantains.

“Good morning.” You said back. “What’s that for?”

“Well, I looked up tostones after you mentioned them yesterday, and they looked delicious. And since you haven’t had them in a while, I thought we could make it together.”

“You went out and got plantains because I mentioned that they were my favorite?” You asked slowly.

“Sorry, is that weird?” Peter frowned and put the bunch down.

“No, no, no!” You quickly assured him. “It’s not weird at all. I just wasn’t expecting you to do something so nice after how crappy my tour was yesterday.”

“It couldn’t have been that crappy if I found my way back to the kitchen today.” Peter pointed out.

“That’s true.” You smiled. “Let me see your recipe.”

You helped Peter make the tostones and decided your plan to avoid him would start tomorrow. When they were ready, you sat down together at the table to try them.

“Are they as good as your friend’s mom’s?” He asked you between bites.

“Not quite. But still very good. Thank you for doing this. I haven’t had them in so long.”

“You’re very welcome. I wanted you to have a taste of something familiar since you don’t get to see your friend as much.”

“That was very kind of you. I can’t wait to send her a picture of these.” You told him. “She’s gonna be so jealous.”

“Wait, we should invite her!” Peter realized. “I’d love to meet your friends.”

You froze when he said this, suddenly feeling the urge to run away. He had already gone out of his way to make your favorite food, and now he was saying he wanted to meet your friends. Things were getting too real and you needed to leave.

“Um, I’m so sorry.” You said as you stood up. “I just realized I forgot to do something. I have to go.”

You left the room without further explanation, leaving Peter alone and extremely confused.

The next day, you skillfully avoided Peter in the kitchen at breakfast, and again during lunch. It wasn’t until you walked by the gym that you were no longer able to avoid him. It was your fault really, since you did a double take when you saw him doing pull up’s on the chin-up bar. It became extra your fault when you stopped to watch him.

“Oh, he’s ripped as fuck? Amazing. Just what I wanted to find out.” You mumbled sarcastically to yourself.

You were only there for a few seconds before he made eye contact with you. It was too late to take off running, despite how much you wanted to do exactly that.

“Oh, hey!” Peter greeted. “Can you come in here for a second?”

You contemplated running once more, but knew it wasn’t an option. Instead, you walked into the gym, right up to the man you were trying to avoid. His tight black tank top put all his new improvements on display, and you were fighting for your life not to pay attention to that.

“Hello, Peter.” You said calmly.

“I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk to you.” He said as he continued to move up and down on the bar.

“Talk to me? About what?” You asked and prayed for a bolt of lightening would strike that specific part of the Tower so that you would have an excuse to leave the conversation.

“Could you please wait a minute for me? I just have a few more reps.” He said, with manners he just had to have. You stared up at the ceiling to wait for him to be done.

“Take your time.” You squeaked out. He let go of the bat when he was finished and lifted up his shirt to wipe his face with it, giving you a full view of his torso.

“Fuck. My ovaries.” You whispered.

“Did you say something?” Peter asked as he continued to dry his face.

“I said there’s towels over here.” You covered up and grabbed a nearby towel. Without looking, you handed it to him and tried to compose yourself.

“Thanks.” He smiled at you, but you didn’t look at him.

“You wanted to talk to me?” You reminded him.

“Yeah. Are you busy tonight?” He asked you as he dried himself off with the towel.

“I might be.” You said as you forced yourself to keep eye contact and not look anywhere else.

“If you’re not, would you want to come with me to this party?” He asked. “I don’t really know the guy who’s hosting, but some of my friends from high school are going.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t know anyone.”

“It’s okay. You can stay with me. I won’t leave you to talk to strangers. I hate when people do that.” He told you, making you smile softly.

“Yeah, I hate that too.” You said. “I guess I could come to a party.”

You regretted it as soon as you said it. You were supposed to be avoiding him, but it just wasn’t in your willpower to turn down the cute boy inviting you to a party and offering to stay with you the whole night.

“Great.” Peter grinned. “I’ll come by your room around 7?“

“I’ll be there. In my room. Around 7.” You said and pointed finger guns at him, because why would you possibly be cool ever? You quickly put your hands down and hoped for that lightning strike again.

“Sounds good. I’m gonna do some push ups now. You’re welcome to stay and watch, but it’s not my best angle.” He joked, making you let out an audible gulp at the thought of him at that angle. You quickly cleared your throat to cover up the sound.

“Yeah, I definitely don’t want to watch you do push up’s. That would be crazy if I wanted to watch that.” You said through a forced laugh. Things quickly became awkward, and you decided you had to get out of there as soon as possible.

“So 7?” You said, and Peter nodded. You gave him a thumbs up and practically sprinted out of the room after that. You ran all the way to your room and slammed the door behind you.

Peter gave you another reason to fall for him when he showed up at your door 5 minutes early. Punctuality was rare among boys your age, but of course a quality that Peter possessed. If his workout attire hadn’t been bad enough, now he was in a button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You opened the door and let out a small sound that you hoped Peter didn’t catch.

“Hi. You look beautiful.” He complimented you, making you instinctively smile.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” You replied coyly. Peter smiled at you and offered his arm to walk you to the elevator. You thought he was going to press the button for the ground floor, but he went up to the roof instead.

“Where are we going?” You asked on the ride up.

“I was gonna swing us, if thats okay.” He said, making your heart pick up its pace.

“You want to swing me around the city in your big arms?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

“If that’s okay.” Peter repeated as he laughed.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s okay.” You told him and turned your face so that he couldn’t see you mouthing “Oh my God” to yourself.

When you got to the roof, Peter brought you to the edge.

“How does this work? Do I get on your back Bella and Edward style?” You asked him.

“Yes, actually.” He chuckled, taking you by surprise that he knew the reference. You shrugged and climbed on his back, getting enveloped in the scent of his cologne.

“Hold tight, Spider Monkey. And don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.” Peter said before shooting a web at a nearby building. Your dad was Iron Man, so heights did not scare you. What did scare you was getting attached to the feeling of holding Peter, which was admittedly a pretty great feeling. You let out a happy scream as he swung you from building to building. When you landed on the rooftop of where the party was, you fought the urge to hug him.

“Ready?” Peter asked you as he smoothed down his hair. You adjusted your outfit and nodded your head.

Once inside, Peter introduced you to his friends, Ned and MJ. You and MJ got to talking as Peter and Ned over some movie they had just seen. You liked watching Peter in this relaxed setting, but it wasn’t helping you to not fall for him. You stopped watching him and tuned back into your conversation with MJ.

You felt unexpectedly at ease with Peter’s friends. It didn’t feel like you’d just met that night and instead felt more like you’d grown up with them. They included you and got to know you, making you feel at home. Peter having a great groups of friends was yet another reason you were struggling not to fall for him.

“I’m really glad you said yes to tonight.” Peter told you once Ned and MJ walked off to refill their drinks.

“You are?” You asked him, feeling more comfortable around him now that you had some drinks in you.

“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to hang out with you, but I can never find you.”

“How strange.” You said through a fake laugh, because you 100% avoided him all day. Peter looked into your eyes for a moment with a shy smile on his face. You tried not to look back at first and looked all around the room, but your gaze eventually came back to him. You looked into his eyes and felt all your walls crumbling down.

“Can I say something and then we never talk about it?” Peter asked suddenly, making you freeze.

“Um, sure? You said nervously.

“I’m so sorry that I disappeared. After everything with your dad happened, I just couldn’t bear to come back to the Tower. But I should have.” Peter said with guilt in his voice. You were not expecting him to say this and blamed it on the alcohol.

“Peter, it’s fine.” You assured him. “You don’t have to apologize to me. You were his friend. We didn’t know each other.”

“I know. But I always felt guilty about not reaching out to see how you were. He loved you so much. And I loved him. I should have checked up on you. I should’ve gotten to know you.” Peter continued. You could see his eyes welling up with tears and didn’t know what to do. Without thinking it through, you put down your cup and pulled him into a tight hug. Peter immediately hugged you back and hurried his face in your neck.

“Now we’re the weirdos hugging in the middle of the party.” You said as you rubbed circle onto his back. He let out a laugh and hugged you tighter. He came up after another minute and rubbed his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I had to get that off my chest.” He said, looking shy now.

“It’s okay. And honestly, I should’ve reached out too. It was just all so crazy after he passed. But I saw the picture of the two of you on his desk all the time. I should’ve tracked you down. I should’ve gotten to know you.”

“At least we found each other now.” Peter said with a soft smile. You smiled back and nodded your head.

“At least we did.”

Ned came running back into the room you were in, interrupting your emotional moment. You were admittedly a little glad he did, because things were getting too real once again.

“Guys, they’re playing Spin the Bottle in the other room. In real life. Let’s go!” Ned said and pulled Peter’s arm.

“You coming?” Peter asked as he stumbled towards Ned.

“No thanks.” You shook your head. “I’m not really a kissing strangers type of gal. I just don’t think mono is for me.”

“Me neither.” Peter chuckled. “Maybe we can just watch and silently judge the players?”

You shrugged and followed him and his friends into the room. You didn’t really want to watch, but it would be a good preventative from another deep conversation with Peter. And so, you found a spot against a wall as others took their seats on the floor.

“What do you think about all this?” Peter leaned in close to you to ask. You gave him the side eye from how close he was and then looked away.

“I think someone of definately walking away from this with a cold sore.”

“Not that.” He laughed. “But I agree. I mean kissing for recreation.”

“Oh. I never thought about it like that. I guess I would say to each their own, but it’s not really my style.”

“Me either. I don’t want to kiss some stranger at a party with a bunch of people I kinda know watching. I think a kiss should mean something.” Peter said as he looked at you. You looked back for just a moment and then quickly looked away.

“So when you’re kissing for meaning, who is it with? Girls? Boys? A little bit of both?” You asked him. If he was gay, maybe it would help you get over your crush faster.

“Girls. Though, if you can believe it, I haven’t been too lucky in that department.” He said with a half hearted chuckle. You smiled in response but internally cursed that he wasn’t gay or a player.

“Well that’s probably because you’re hideous to look at.” You said bluntly, making Peter laugh. You cracked a smile but continued to avoid eye contact with him.

“Thank you. I was hoping you’d notice.”

“I’m teasing.” You assured him. “I was honestly stunned when you walked in the other day. I could not believe you were the same Peter my dad used to talk about.”

“Stunned?” He asked. “Why?”

“Because I would’ve remembered if you had that face.”

You folded your lips in after you said it, knowing you had said too much. You hoped he wouldn’t catch it and move on, but to no avail. Peter was leaning in closer to you with a big smile on his face.

“What about my face?” He asked with an amused look. You opened your mouth to respond, but were interrupted by everyone’s eyes turning to you. You looked down at the bottle on the floor and saw it was pointed in the gap between two players and set directly at you.

“It landed on you, miss Stark. Guess we have to kiss.” A guy you’d never met before said as he stood up.

“Oh, I’m not playing.” You smiled politely and turned back to Peter.

“You’re in the room. Rules are rules.” The guy continued as he walked towards you, making you and Peter slowly turn to look at him. You exchanged a look with each other before looking back at the guy.

“Well, the rules don’t apply to people who aren’t playing, so.” You said with zero politeness this time.

“Hey, if you have an issue, take it up with the bottle. Just give me a quick one. I’ll be gentle.” The guy chuckled and stood in front of you. Peter stepped in between you suddenly and pushed the guy back.

“She said she wasn’t playing.” Peter said sternly. The corners of your mouth tugged into a smile after seeing the fire in Peter’s eyes.

“Woah. Sorry, dude. I didn’t realize you were her boyfriend.” The guy said in a different tone than the one he used with you. You rolled your eyes at the guys sudden ability to be respectful.

“Don’t say sorry to me. Say it to her.” Peter demanded. “She should not have had to say no more than once before you got it through your thick skull.”

“I’m sorry.” The guy begrudgingly said to you. You didn’t say anything in response.

“Go on. Fuck off.” Peter ordered, and the guy walked away. Everyone was staring at you at this point and a few had their phones out to film, one of the perks of being the child of a micro-celebrity. You looked around the room and felt your face getting warmer by the second.

“I think I’m gonna go.” You whispered to Peter. You swiftly left the room and Peter followed after you.

“Are you okay?” He asked once you were alone in the next room.

“Yeah, it’s just not really my scene. Thank you for inviting me though.” You said sincerely and started walking to the door again.

“I can walk you home.” He offered.

“Don’t worry about it. Stay with your friends. I don’t want you to miss the party.” You assured him, mostly wanting to be alone after that last encounter.

“I don’t care about the party if you’re not there. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I don’t want you walking alone.” Peter said as he gently caught your arm. You looked at where his hand was holding you and sucked in a little breath. Being protective of you was making it hard not to fall for him right then and there.

“Okay.” You decided. “We can walk together.“

And so you did. You walked side by side in silence all the way home. Peter had a no swinging and drinking rule, and you were both a little tipsy. But the cold New York air was helping you come back to your normal state of mind. The silence between you as you walked was comfortable, and you were grateful for that. You liked that he was someone you could be comfortable around without having to exchange any words.

“Brought her back safe, Parker?” Happy asked when the two of you entered the Tower.

“Yes, sir.” Peter said with genuine manners.

“Knew you would, kid. So, was this a date, or can I sleep peacefully tonight knowing you two are across the hall from each other? Because I’m not ready to be a grandfather.” Happy asked, making you start to choke on air. Peter clapped your back to help you out and you finally composed yourself.

“It wasn’t a date.” You finally croaked out. You looked over at Peter, was who surprisingly bright red.

“Not a date.” Peter agreed. “I just took her to meet my friends.”

“Good answer.“ Happy nodded. “Because your dad always told me any boyfriend of yours would have to go through Navy Seal level training before he was allowed to spend the night.”

“Again, not my boyfriend.” You stated as you glared at Happy for embarrassing you. Peter was smiling shyly and scratching the back of his head.

“Well if anything changes in the next 48 hours, let me know. I can have Peter sent off to bootcamp by the weekend. Night, you two.” Happy said before walking away. You and Peter stood there in silence for a minute, this time, a very uncomfortable silence.

“I’m gonna…” Peter finally broke the tension and pointed in the direction of your rooms.

“Right. Me too. Goodnight, Peter.” You said and forced a smile. Peter caught your eye and looked at you for just long enough to make your knees wobbly.

“Goodnight.” He said with a soft smile. You gulped and waited where you were until he was gone. When the coast was clear, you let out a loud sigh and rubbed your face. The week wasn’t up yet and you were losing the battle against falling for him more and more every day.

You eventually retreated back to your room, but you couldn’t settle down. Tonight felt very different between you and Peter, and you didn’t like how things ended after the connection you shared. After pacing your room for a full half hour, you decided to go knock on his door.

Peter just had to open his door with nothing on but a towel around his hips. You had caught Peter just coming out do the shower, and for some reason, he decided to open the door before getting dressed. He had another towel in his hand that he was rubbing back and forth on his damp curls.

“Fuck.” You practically shouted in his face. You instantly clamped your mouth shut and felt your eyes go wide.

“Um, what?” Peter laughed in confusion. You had to think quickly and your eyes landed on his phone cable on his night stand.

“Fuck…my phone charger. It’s broken.” You said weakly. “I guess. Can I borrow one?”

“Oh, sure. Come in.” Peter said and went back into his room.

“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll wait here.” You said and kept your eyes glued to ceiling to stop probing him with them. His back was to you now, which was not helping anything. Even his back was hot.

“You can come in. I want to show you something.” He said as he turned back to face you. Your eyes instinctively dropped to his waistband before going back up to his eyes.

“Show me something?” You asked in a low voice.

“One second.” He said and went into his connected bathroom. You blew out a breath once he was gone and fanned yourself. After emotionally connecting with him at the party, he just had to remind you why he caught your eye in the first place.

Peter came back after a minute in his pajamas, thankfully. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his desk drawer and handed it to you.

“What’s this?” You asked as you took it.

“Your scrapped design for the allergy bracelet. I hope it’s okay that I took it out of the trash. I thought it was too creative to throw out. But it was super crumpled, so I rewrote it as best as I could.”

“You saved my design?”

“Yeah. I think if we look at it together, we can figure out what’s missing. Maybe we can get it to stop exploding?” He asked hopefully. Thus, reminding you of the other reason you liked Peter. He was incredibly thoughtful.

“Thanks, Peter. That was really nice of you.” You smile softly as you looked up at him.

“It’s no problem. I had to save it. You’re an amazing inventor. You are totally going to run the world one day.” He said with a shy smile on his lips.

“If I don’t blow it up first.” You replied. It suddenly dawned on you how close you and Peter were. He was just inches away, close enough for you to smell the body wash he just used. You gulped a little and hoped it wasn’t as audible to him as it sounded to you.

“I don’t think you will.” He said softly. “And even if you did, you’d probably do it in a really cool way.”

He was so close now that a droplet from his hair landed on your shirt. You could see every freckle on his nose. He has creases by his eyes, something you somehow hadn’t noticed before despite all your staring at him. Peter seemed to be getting closer by the second, and you suddenly remembered you were not supposed to be falling for him. You pulled away and cleared your throat, leading him to do the same. He turned his face so you wouldn’t see his disappointment and grabbed a phone charger off his desk.

“Uh, here.” He said quietly and handed it to you.

“What’s this for?” You frowned.

“You said yours was broken.” He reminded you.

“Oh.” You laughed in embarrassment. “Right. I did say that.”

You and Peter stood in uncomfortable silence once again. You had come over to smooth things out, but somehow managed to make things feel worse.

“I should probably go.” You said, not bothering to hide how defeated you felt.

“Oh, yeah. I should probably get some sleep.” Peter said without looking at you. The vibe in the room had become palpably bad, but you didn’t full understand why.

“Goodnight, Peter.” You said for the second time that night.

“Goodnight.” He answered with a smile you knew was fake. You saw yourself out and shut your bedroom door behind you before dramatically throwing yourself on your bed.

For the next two days, you got serious about avoiding Peter. You made FRIDAY scan rooms for him before you left your own so that you wouldn’t run into him. If he did come into a room you were in, you made up a quick excuse to leave. You had nearly 48 hours of success avoidance of Peter until he found you on a late night trip to the kitchen to get string cheese.

“Can we talk?” Peter asked, making you jump in surprise. He had concealed himself behind the open refrigerator door so you didn’t know he had entered the kitchen.

“I can’t. I am extremely busy.” You lied as one of your cheese sticks fell on the floor. Peter bent down and picked it up for you.

“I feel like you’re avoiding me.” He said as he handed it back.

“What?” You forced a laugh. “What would make you think that?”

“Because ever since the night of the party, I haven’t seen you. You find an excuse to leave the room as soon as I walk in. You’re always running off if I try to talk to you. You don’t even look at me anymore.”

“Peter, I’m not avoiding you. I just have to leave the room a lot.” You lied, already feeling guilty for what you’d been doing. He sounded so upset and it was killing you.

“Did I do something to offend you? Because if I did, I am so sorry. Please tell me so I can make it right.” He pleaded. You felt a pit form in your stomach knowing you had caused him to feel punished for something he did not do. And yet, you did not have it in you to come clean.

“Yeah, actually.” You lied. “You did.”

“What was it?” Peter asked desperately. “Something I said?”

“Uh huh.” You weakly went along with whatever he said.

“Can you tell me what it was?” He begged.

“Wow.” You blew out a breath. “You really don’t remember?”

“No, I’m sorry. What was it?”

“I can’t believe this. How can you say the very offensive thing you said and not remember?” You asked him. You had dug yourself so deep now that there was no turning back.

“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything.“

“Wow, y’all, wow.” You shook your head. “You’ve changed, Peter.”

You walked away from him after that, feeling yourself well up with tears once he couldn’t see you. You hated yourself for letting things get to this point. You wished you hadn’t avoided him and just spoken to him, or at least not convinced him he did something to hurt your feelings. You went to your room and wiped your face clean of your tears. The blueprint Peter had rewritten for you that was sitting on your desk caught your eye. You picked it up and looked at it again, admitting the swoops and slopes of his handwriting. That’s when you noticed something at the bottom.

“Genius girl, don’t give up. The world needs you to keep going.” He had written to you.

“Ohh, so I’m a massive bitch.” You said decidedly to yourself. You put the blueprints back down and went straight to Peter’s room to set things right. He opened the door after the second knock, looking that he too had shed a few tears.

“Can I come in?” You asked him. He didn’t say anything, but nodded his head as he stepped to the side. You sat down on his bed and he sat beside you.

“Peter, I’m so sorry.” You began. “I’ve been such a jerk to you.”

“What’s going on?” He asked in a quiet voice. “What did I do to offend you?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” You assured him. “You have been completely perfect since the moment you got here.”

“Then why have you been avoiding me?” He wondered. You looked into his eyes and let out a sigh. It was now or never to make things right.

“I just don’t know how to talk to you.” You admitted to him.

“Oh. I mean, I can kinda understand that. We haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

“A really long time. And I wasn’t expecting you to be so…” You trailed off and felt your face warm up.

“So what? Annoying?”

“What? No.” You quickly assured him and shook your head.

“So weird? So rude?” He kept asking.

“Nope. Not those either. So, ummm….whats the word I’m looking for?” You asked and clicked your tongue.

“So what? What is it?” Peter put his hand on you shoulder and leaned it to ask you. You stared at him like a deer in the handsome headlights and blinked.

“Hot.” You said in the smallest voice you could muster.

“What was that?” Peter asked and leaned in closer to hear you better.

“So hot.” You said louder and flung your hands in frustration, making Peter jump back at the sudden loud noise.

“I heard you the first time, I just didn’t believe it.” Peter admitted out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re telling me you haven’t talked to me the last few days because you think I’m hot?”

“That’s what it was at first.” You confessed. “But it’s changed now.”

“I’m not following.” Peter told you, making you sigh.

“Look, Peter. When you first walked in, I was stunned, like I told you at the party. Because the last time I saw you, you were this excitable 14 year old kid who was filming himself doing parkour on top of buildings. And now…” You trailed off again and gestured to all of him.

“Now?” He asked, looking down at outfit as if you were referring to his clothes. You let out a groan and rubbed your face with your hands.

“Are you really gonna make me say it?” You whined.

“Yes, actually.” He said firmly, making you groan again. You gave him one last look before letting all your bottled up feeling out.

“Now, you look like Zeus, and I’m sure you have the lightening rod to match. I literally cannot look at you without getting bricked up. When you opened the door the other night in just your towel, I was like oh okay, I’m 21 weeks along, and it might be twins. When you were doing pull up’s in front of me, I had to clench my legs together to not flood the whole Tower and the surrounding neighborhoods. Probably New Jersey too, if we’re being honest. And if that’s not bad enough, you cook my favorite foods and ask to meet my friends. You stand up for me and make douche bags apologize for making me incompatible. You save my freaking scrapped designs and compliment my mind. You’re too perfect! So no, I can’t talk to you!” You finally said, shouting by the end of it.

Peter leaned back and stared at you with a stunned expression for a long time. You stared back with your lips folded in, not moving a muscle. This staring contest went on for quite some time since there was really no appropriate response to what you had said. You may have gone for overkill, but you figured he deserved to know the truth after avoiding him for two days.

“Lighting rod?” He said finally, making you bury your face in your hands.

“Is that really all you heard?” You asked through your hands.

“I don’t really know what I just heard.” Peter admitted. “So you won’t talk to me because you think I’m too perfect?”

“I can’t talk to you because I didn’t want you to think I was throwing myself at you just because you got hot.” You explained. “But then, I started finding out you’re this too good to be true stand up guy who is also hot. So now I hate you and I can’t be around you.”

“If you feel that way about me, why didn’t you just tell me? I wouldn’t have exactly been mad if you threw yourself at me.” Peter told you, making you smile a little. He gave you a look and you were suddenly feeling a little silly for ever coming up with your plan not to fall for him before finding out how he felt about you.

“Because. You were friends with my dad. And I didn’t want to mess that up. And I’m really busy in the lab. And we barely know each other. And…” You trailed off as Peter leaned in closer to you.

“And?” He asked, tilting his head to the side. Your faces were just inches apart now and your eyes were locked on his lips.

“And I can’t take it anymore.” You decided before climbing into his lap to pull him into a kiss.

Tag List 🏷️

@thebookwormlife @imanativeofswlondondahling

@whatareyouhidingpeter @takenbyheartstrings

@imyourliquor-youremypoison @andreasworlsboring101

@peterparkoure

@justcallmehitgirl @jackiehollanderr

@emmamarshmellow @unbelievableholland

@sovereignparker @every-marveler-ever @undiadeestos @eridanuswave​ ​

@solarxmoonchild @canyouevencauseicant

@quaksonhehe @lovelessdagger

@thesuitelifeofafangirl @marshxx @nooneinvitedfascistbarbie

@maybemona

@alexxcorona113 @lethal-wisdom

@pandaxnienke

 @itsemohours

@olixerwxxd @leilanixx

@whereismytelephone @so-very-asleep

@spideyspeaches @hihiweezing

@mathletemadison  

@dhtomholland @insomniac-nerd-posts-things @prancerrparkerr

@hallecarey1 @adayasgeorgia @blackwidowisthebest @imawhoreforu

@ciarahollands

@nellabellaa @pinklxmonade @boogywoogywoogy @wordsarelife @caramelfondu

@anonymousprettygirl @roseidol

[reggieslilslut]

soft landing

peter parker x fem!reader • established relationship • 4.3k words

summary: after a long night as spider-man leaves peter bruised, exhausted, and bitten by an unfortunately fearless terrier, he comes home to the one person who knows exactly how to put him back together.

reader is in the veterinary field (a bit self-indulgent of me but also works for the plot)

requested <3 | masterlist ♡ | read on ao3

the first thing peter texts you is: running late

the second arrives forty-three minutes later. sorry

the third comes close enough to midnight that you have already eaten without him, washed your plate, put his portion of dinner in a tupperware container in the fridge, and moved from the kitchen table to the couch with clean laundry folded beside you.

you stare at the message until the screen dims beneath your thumb. love you, don’t wait up <3

then, you send back a photograph of the television. some veterinarian you recognize from three previous episodes is explaining to a confused couple that their labrador had swallowed half a bath towel. the camera cuts dramatically toward an x-ray.

peter reacts with a heart.

the apartment settles around you in familiar pieces. the refrigerator hums from the kitchen. the radiator clicks despite the weather being far too warm to justify it. traffic moves six floors below, changing pitch whenever tires cross the metal plate covering the construction trench near the intersection.

one of peter’s sneakers sits beside the front door, and the other has somehow migrated beneath the coffee table. you reach down, retrieve it by the heel, and set it beside its partner. then you fold your last scrub top.

tomorrow’s is still hanging over the back of the dining chair. dark blue pants beneath a pale grey top patterned with tiny black spiders suspended from cartoon webs.

peter bought it for you three months ago. you told him immediately that it is obnoxious, but he said that your reaction wasn’t the same as saying you dislike it. you haven’t worn it once.

the window behind the couch scrapes open, and you don’t turn around immediately.

“you have keys,” you say, keeping your attention on the tv.

the window gives another reluctant groan.

“window was closer.” peter’s voice sounds wrong, not frightened or breathless, just tired enough that the words barely survive the distance between you.

you turn. he crouches on the sill with one hand against the frame and his mask rolled above his mouth. rain has darkened his hair where it escapes the fabric, and the suit looks as though somebody tries to remove several sections with a belt sander.

one shoulder is torn, there is a long scrape across his ribs, and his lower lip is split. blood covers enough of the red fabric that determining how much belongs to him takes longer than you would like.

peter notices where you’re looking. “most of it isn’t mine.” you stare at him until he pulls the mask completely off. “okay, some of it isn’t mine.”

“peter.”

“hi.” something about the quiet little word takes every remaining edge out of you. you cross the room. 

peter steps down from the windowsill, and the second both feet reach the floor, his posture loosens. his shoulders simply drop by an inch, and his head tips toward you.

you reach for his face but stop before touching the swelling near his cheekbone.

“what happened?”

peter bends enough to press a kiss into your hair. “long day.”

his lips barely leave you before he starts toward the kitchen. 

you watch him pass. “where are you going?”

“food.”

“no, bathroom.”

peter opens the refrigerator. “food first.”

“you’re bleeding.”

“i can eat while bleeding.”

“you’re not eating over an open wound.”

he looks down at himself as though he has forgotten the state of his body. “counterargument,” he says. “i’m really hungry.”

“bathroom.”

“half the chicken?”

“peter.”

he closes the refrigerator. “you’re very strict for somebody who spent yesterday telling a pomeranian he was brave while he tried to bite you.”

“the pomeranian was brave.”

“the pomeranian was possessed.”

“he was scared.”

peter points at you. “exactly.”

you narrow your eyes, and he lowers his hand.

“bathroom,” he agrees.

the first-aid box lives beneath the sink now. once, it held spare bandages, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, expired cold medicine, and three loose cotton swabs. now it is divided into plastic compartments you restock with the same attention your clinic uses for the treatment room.

gauze, nonadherent pads, saline, medical tape, antiseptic, sterile gloves, and a small penlight because peter complains every time you use your phone flashlight to check his pupils.

he sits on the edge of the vanity without being told. the routine is practiced enough that neither of you thinks about it anymore.

peter pushes himself onto the narrow stretch of counter beside the sink and lets his legs hang over the front. you step between his knees while he peels the damaged upper half of the suit away from his body.

fabric sticks near his ribs, and he hisses when it pulls his skin. you wet gauze with saline and ease the material away more carefully.

the scrape beneath it looks ugly but shallow. bruising spreads beneath the skin around it, dark enough to be dramatic without showing any obvious deformity.

you inspect it from several angles. “anything feel broken?”

“no.”

“anything feel like it could be broken?”

“also no.”

“peter.”

“i know what broken ribs feel like.”

you look up, and he gives you an apologetic smile.

“which is not reassuring,” you say.

“but technically useful.”

you press two fingers gently along the ribs around the injury.

peter’s hands settle at your waist. the touch is so automatic that neither of you acknowledges it at first. his palms rest against the sides of your shirt while you work, thumbs moving against your back.

you reach the tenderest section based on how his fingers tighten.

“there?”

“little bit.”

“is there a sharp pain?”

“no.”

“trouble breathing?”

“no.”

“nausea?”

“no.”

“are you dizzy?”

peter thinks about it, and his pause makes you immediately stop.

he hums before saying “not now.”

“were you dizzy earlier?”

“maybe when i got hit.”

you reach behind yourself for the penlight.

“you know,” he says, “your patients usually have four legs.”

“most of them cooperate better.”

“that feels unfair.”

you click the light on, and peter squints before you even raise it.

“eyes.”

“i have two.”

you sigh at his joke. “follow the light, peter.”

“this is so romantic.”

you move the beam slowly from one pupil to the other, and both respond normally.

“headache?”

“not really.”

“is your vision weird?”

“no.”

“did you lose consciousness?”

“no.”

you lower the penlight and look at peter. his expression remains perfectly innocent, but you know that expression well.

“did you almost lose consciousness?”

“that feels like moving the goalposts.”

“peter.”

he sighs. “everything got fuzzy for maybe two seconds.”

you study him. his pupils remain equal and his speech normal. he climbed six floors and through a window without falling, which would be a reasonably reassuring neurological assessment for anyone except someone capable of sticking to walls.

“if you were anybody else,” you say, “i would be taking you to the emergency room.”

peter’s mouth pulls sideways.

“on you?”

you inspect his face again. the cut on his lip has already begun closing.

“annoyingly, probably just a good breakfast.”

he smiles. when you touch gauze to his lip, the smile disappears.

“ow.”

“you got thrown through something, didn’t you?”

“maybe.”

“brick?”

“drywall.”

“and this hurts?”

“it’s a different kind of hurt.”

you shake your head while cleaning the blood from his chin. peter leans forward until his forehead touches your shoulder.

you pause, and his hands remain around your waist.

“tired?”

“no.”

his answer is muffled against your shirt.

“you’re using me as furniture.”

“‘m multitasking,” he mutters.

you resume cleaning the cut near his cheek, and peter stays exactly where he is.

“what actually happened today?” you ask.

he exhales against your shoulder. “started with a robbery. the guy had a gun.” your hand slows, and peter feels it. “nobody got shot,” he reassures.

“including you?”

“including me.”

“then?” you continue.

“car accident on forty-second.”

“bad accident?”

“looked worse than it was. everybody got out.” his thumb moves against your waist while he talks. “then part of a scaffold came down.”

“of course it did.”

“i caught it.”

“with your bad wrist?”

“it wasn’t bad yet.”

you glance down. the wrist in question is already developing faint bruising.

“how did it become bad?”

“later.”

“naturally.”

“then somebody reported a kid on a fire escape.”

“was there a kid on a fire escape?”

“yeah.”

“did you get him?”

peter lifts his head. the exhaustion remains in his face, but something softer moves through it now.

“yeah. he gave me a sticker.”

you look at him. “what kind?”

“a dinosaur.”

“where is it?”

peter pats the shredded remains of his suit, then his expression falls. “i think i lost it. it was a stegosaurus.”

“that’s devastating.”

peter leans against you again. you work your fingers carefully beneath damp hair near his temple, checking for swelling.

“then what?”

“a guy with enhanced strength.”

“there it is.”

“wasn’t that bad.”

“your suit disagrees.”

“the suit is dramatic.”

“you made the suit.”

“exactly. it gets that from me.”

you laugh quietly. peter’s arms tighten around you at the sound.

“then it started raining,” he continues. “my web-shooter jammed, and i lost the other one on a laundromat.”

you stop. “how?”

“it’s complicated.”

“where?”

“brooklyn.”

“we live in queens.”

“i’m aware.”

you stare at the top of his head. “anything else?”

peter goes strangely quiet, so you look down. his mouth presses into a line.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“peter.”

“…i got bit.”

your hands stop. “by what?”

he avoids your eyes.

“peter.”

“a dog.” you stare at him as he shifts. “he was scared.”

“you got bitten by a dog.”

“technically.”

“how big?”

“that isn’t relevant.”

“how big?” you repeat.

peter examines the grout beside the sink. “maybe twenty pounds.”

you pull away enough to look at him properly. “spider-man got bitten by a twenty-pound dog.”

“i didn’t get defeated by him.”

“did he break skin?”

peter lifts one hand and gestures vaguely toward his calf. you step backward to look, but it’s still covered by what remains of his suit on him. “peter parker.”

“it’s already healed.”

“let me see.”

“it’s literally gone.”

you point downward. he sighs and peels one leg of the suit high enough to reveal two faint crescent-shaped marks already disappearing into his skin.

you fold your arms. “terrier?”

peter looks offended by your accuracy. “how did you know?”

“professional experience.”

“he was very upset.”

“they are fearless.”

peter brightens. “thank you.”

“i’m talking about the dog.”

his hands find your waist again. “you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“i am on your side. i’m also on the side of whatever terrified terrier suddenly found himself face-to-face with a six-foot spider.”

“five-ten with the suit.”

“still.” you smile despite yourself and return to the scrape along his ribs.

by the time you finish, the worst of the blood is gone.

peter is not. he remains perched on the edge of the vanity with his forehead gradually lowering until his chin rests against your shoulder.

you put the last piece of gauze in place.

“shower.” he makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a complaint. “peter.”

“thinking about it.”

“you smell like wet pavement.”

“new cologne.”

“and smoke.”

“it was expensive cologne.”

you step out from between his knees. peter’s hands slide reluctantly from your waist. he reaches behind himself and tests his shoulder, and the wince is immediate.

you see it. “want help?”

his gaze lifts toward yours, the joking disappearing. “please.”

the answer is quiet enough that you lean in and kiss his forehead before moving toward the shower.

steam fills the bathroom quickly. you leave the damaged suit in a heap near the vanity and step beneath the water with him, keeping the temperature warm without making it hot enough to irritate the scrapes.

peter stands beneath the spray with his eyes closed.

without the suit, he looks younger somehow. not spider-man, not the person strangers point cameras toward from sidewalks or call for from rooftops, just peter. your peter.

you wet his hair first. he bends automatically so you can reach more easily, curls flattening beneath the water.

you work shampoo through his hair carefully. peter’s shoulders gradually loosen beneath your fingers. you massage around the sore spot near his temple, avoiding the swelling, then move your thumbs along his scalp.

his head gets heavier. then heavier. finally, his forehead settles against your shoulder.

you laugh under your breath. “you’re falling asleep.”

“no.”

“you’re putting your entire body weight on me.”

“that’s trust.”

“that’s approximately a hundred and eighty pounds.”

“still trust.”

you rinse the shampoo from his curls. peter stays folded around you, one hand resting loosely at your hip.

water carries pink traces of diluted blood toward the drain.

you’re washing carefully behind his ear when peter exhales. “today sucked.”

you smile against wet hair. “yeah?”

he nods against you. “really sucked.”

“the dog?”

“among other things.”

you kiss his temple. “poor spider-man.”

his arms close around your waist. for a moment neither of you move. water runs over his shoulders and down your back. the bathroom fan hums overhead, mostly useless against the steam gathering on the mirror.

peter breathes. not the controlled breaths he uses when something hurts or the measured ones he takes after a fight, just breathing.

you run one hand slowly over his back. “better?”

“yeah.”

after another moment, peter lifts his head. “your turn.”

“i’m fine.”

“you have blood in your hair.”

you reach toward it instinctively, but peter catches your wrist.

“my blood,” he clarifies.

“that’s great.”

he reaches for your shampoo.

“peter, your shoulder.”

“it’s my other arm.”

“you don’t have to.”

his expression changes. not much, but just enough. “i know.”

so you let him. 

he works shampoo through your hair one-handed, clumsier than you were with him but infinitely more determined.

when soap threatens your eyes, he laughs. you elbow him lightly.

“you’re a trained professional,” he says. 

“only veterinary medicine.”

“that’s still medicine.”

“tell that to the terrier,” you tease.

“i’m never telling you anything again.”

“you’ll forget by tomorrow.”

“probably.”

afterward, peter dresses in grey sweatpants and one of your old very oversized shirts.

you watch him pull it over his head. “that’s mine.”

his face appears through the collar. “community property.”

“we’re not married.”

peter stills for half a second. “…yet.”

then he pulls the shirt down as though he says nothing unusual.

you stare, your mind stuck on what he muttered. yet.

he looks toward you. “what?”

“nothing,” you dismiss.

“okay.” 

he walks out of the bedroom. you follow several seconds later, still trying to decide whether exhaustion makes him more or less dangerous.

dinner reheats in the microwave.

peter sits at the kitchen table with damp curls, fresh gauze, and a blanket around his shoulders despite insisting he isn’t cold.

you set the plate in front of him, and he eats nearly half before you sit down.

“thought you weren’t hungry,” you say.

“never said that.”

“you argued about food for ten minutes.”

“because i was hungry.”

“right.”

peter cuts another piece of chicken, then holds the fork toward you. “try this.”

“i made it.”

“so?”

“i already ate it.”

“yeah, hours ago.”

you stare at the fork. peter waits unwaveringly.

you finally lean forward and take the bite.

he smiles. “good, right?”

“shockingly similar to how it tasted earlier.”

“just checking.”

you reach across and move damp curls away from his forehead. the swelling already looks better.

peter catches your wrist before you can withdraw. he turns his face and kisses the inside of it. 

“thank you.”

“you don’t have to thank me.”

“i know.”

his thumb rests over your pulse. the distinction sits quietly between you.

you squeeze his hand. “eat.”

“very romantic.”

“your food is getting cold.”

“still romantic.”

he finishes everything, then he insists he is not tired while lying down with his head in your lap five minutes later.

the television continues playing the veterinary show you leave on earlier. another dog has eaten something medically inconvenient.

peter watches for approximately four minutes, then his eyes close.

your fingers move through his hair. “peter.”

“‘m awake.”

“sure.”

“listening.”

“what did the vet just say?”

“dog.”

“incredible.”

“thank you.”

you smile and keep combing your fingers through his curls. his hand finds yours blindly, and he presses your palm against his chest. beneath it, his heartbeat moves strong and steady.

“stop checking,” he murmurs.

“it’s a habit.”

“you don’t check your patients like this.”

“my patients don’t usually climb through windows covered in blood.”

“some probably would if they could.”

“that’s unfortunately true.”

peter opens one eye. “you make everything quieter.”

you look down at him. “wow.”

his brow creases. “what?”

“very sweet way of telling me to stop talking.”

“that’s not what i meant.”

you smile. peter closes his eye again. for a few seconds, you think he falls asleep.

then he speaks. “everything was loud all day,” he mutters. “sirens. cars. people talking three blocks away. trains. construction. heartbeats.” he swallows. “spider-sense.”

you trace your thumb along his hairline.

“and then i come home.” his hand tightens around yours.

“and?”

“i don’t have to listen anymore.”

something in your chest pulls tight. 

“because it’s quiet?” you ask.

peter shakes his head slightly against your lap. “because you’re here.”

you look toward the window. outside, queens continues exactly as it always does. sirens somewhere south, music from another apartment, a truck braking at the intersection. nothing is actually quiet.

you bend and kiss peter’s forehead. “go to sleep.”

“you’re bossy.”

“well, you’re injured.”

“barely.”

“bitten by a terrier.”

his eyes open. “you promised you were on my side.”

“i never promised.”

peter reaches up and catches the back of your neck. he pulls you close enough to kiss you. the angle is terrible, his lip is still sore, and you laugh against his mouth.

he smiles anyway.

later, in bed, you make him turn onto the side that hurts least.

peter looks suspicious when you settle behind him. “what are you doing?”

“sleeping.”

“back there?”

“yes.”

he starts to turn, but you stop him with a hand against his waist.

“stay,” you tell him. 

“but—”

“your ribs hurt.”

“barely.”

“peter.”

he settles. you curl around him from behind, careful of the bruises. your arm crosses his waist, and your face rests against the back of his neck.

peter goes completely still, then every muscle beneath you slowly releases. his hand finds yours over his stomach, fingers lacing through yours.

“oh,” he murmurs.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“are you okay?” you ask.

he hums as his thumb moves against your knuckles. “this is nice.”

you press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

silence stretches, and his breathing begins to deepen.

peter whispers your name.

“hm?” you answer.

“thanks for taking care of me.”

you tighten your arm around him. “you take care of me too.”

“not like this.”

“exactly like this.”

he turns your joined hands enough to kiss your fingers.

another minute passes.

“love you,” he murmurs.

“love you too.”

“a lot.”

you smile against his neck. “go to sleep.”

“just making sure you know.”

“i know.”

his breathing evens.

then, barely awake, he asks, “you love me a lot too?”

“an unreasonable amount.”

“good.”

he falls asleep almost immediately.

—

morning arrives with an alarm clock and peter’s elbow near your face.

you open your eyes to find him halfway on top of you, one leg tangled through yours and his cheek pressed into the pillow beside your head.

his bruising has faded considerably, and the cut on his lip is almost gone. you touch the skin beneath his eye.

peter makes a sleepy sound as he wakes.

“you’re healed.”

“no.”

“your bruise is gone.”

“i have internal injuries and am bedridden.”

“you don’t have internal injuries.”

“emotional injuries.”

“from what?”

one eye opens. “the terrier.”

you laugh, and peter buries his face against your neck.

“it’s very serious,” he insists.

“i’m sure.”

“i need another six hours.” he wraps his arms fully around you.

“peter, i have work.”

“call off.”

“because spider-man got bullied by a terrier?”

“you’re being cruel to the injured.”

you shove gently at his shoulder. “move.”

he sticks to you, literally.

you pull again, but your shirt stretches.

“peter.”

“what?”

“unstick yourself.”

“i’m not doing anything.”

you stare at him. his mouth twitches.

“peter.”

he releases the fabric. “fine.”

forty minutes later, the apartment looks entirely different.

the damaged suit is gone from the bathroom floor. peter wears a repaired spare, the dark fabric fitted over injuries that are now little more than faint marks. his mask hangs from one hand while he checks a web-shooter while sitting at the desk in your shared bedroom.

you stand in front of the bedroom mirror, pulling your hair back for work. you have your dark blue scrub pants, sneakers at the door, and your clinic badge clipped near your shoulder.

then you reach for the scrub top hanging from the chair.

peter notices immediately, the web-shooter stopping halfway around his wrist.

“you’re wearing it?”

you look down at the spiders. “this?”

his entire face brightens. “you’re wearing it,” he repeats.

“apparently.”

“you said you hated it.”

“i said it was obnoxious.”

“same thing.”

“not the same thing.”

you pull it on. tiny spiders scatter across the fabric, dangling from silver-grey webs between little cartoon paw prints.

peter gets up and walks closer. “this is my favorite one.”

“you’ve seen me wear it for twelve seconds.”

“still my favorite.”

“the dog-print one has corgis wearing bandanas.”

he considers that. “that’s a close second.”

you turn back toward the mirror. peter comes up behind you, his arms circling your waist. his chin settles against your shoulder.

you meet his eyes in the reflection. the suit makes him look like spider-man, but the expression on his face absolutely does not.

he is staring at your scrub top with embarrassing happiness.

“that one looks like me.”

you glance down. “that is an anatomically incorrect cartoon spider.”

“exactly.”

“you have too much confidence.”

“you’re wearing spiders to work.”

“they were a gift.”

“from me.”

“unfortunately.”

peter kisses your cheek, and you smile.

the two of you move around the bedroom without thinking after that.

you hand him the spare cartridges he leaves on the dresser, he passes you your deodorant. you check the healing scrape along his ribs once more while he complains theatrically. 

he notices your lunch sitting on the counter and puts it beside your bag.

“don’t forget this.”

“i wasn’t going to.”

“yesterday you had vending-machine crackers.”

“that’s confidential medical information.”

“you texted me a picture.”

“privileged communication.”

“that’s not how that works.”

“my veterinary degree disagrees.”

“you don’t have a veterinary degree.”

“keep talking and i’ll take your temperature the way we do at work.”

peter’s mouth closes.

you smile sweetly. “thought so.”

he puts a hoodie and sweatpants over the suit before the two of you leave.

at the front door, you reach for your keys. peter looks toward the window, but you catch him.

“don’t even think about it.”

“i wasn’t.”

“you looked.”

“habit,” he shrugs, his shoulder fully healed.

you open the door. “normal people use doors.”

peter pulls the hood over his hair. “normal people don’t wear spiders to work.”

you look down at your scrub top. “mine are cuter.”

“debatable.”

you step into the hallway together, and peter locks the door behind you.

six floors down, morning has already taken over the sidewalk. buses groan at the intersection. someone walks three dogs at once, each pulling in a different direction. a delivery truck blocks half the street while somebody shouts from the cab.

you walk together toward the corner. peter keeps close enough that the backs of your hands brush.

your clinic is three subway stops in one direction, and his day begins wherever new york decides it needs spider-man.

at the intersection, you stop.

peter catches your hand. “hey.”

you turn, his gaze moving over your scrub top again. that stupidly pleased smile returns.

“seriously,” he says. “i like it.”

you straighten the strings of his hoodie. “i noticed.”

“you should wear it more.”

“don’t push it.”

“once a week?”

“peter.”

“special occasions?”

you kiss him before he can negotiate further. his hand settles naturally at your waist.

traffic moves around you. somewhere behind peter, a dog begins barking. he pulls away when he hears.

you look past him and see a small terrier straining excitedly at the end of a leash.

peter looks at the dog, and the dog looks at peter.

you press your lips together.

“don’t.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“your face did.”

the terrier barks again. you lose the fight and laugh.

peter shakes his head, but he’s smiling when he kisses your forehead.

“have a good day.”

“you too. stay out of too much trouble.”

“love you.”

“love you too.”

you start toward the subway, and peter heads the opposite direction.

after several steps, you look back. so does he.

for a second, you stand on opposite sides of the moving sidewalk traffic—peter hidden beneath an ordinary hoodie with spider-man underneath, you in navy scrubs covered in tiny cartoon spiders.

then somebody walks between you, and the moment breaks.

you keep going, so does peter.

tonight, eventually, the same key will turn in the same lock, or the same stubborn window will scrape open. one of you will ask about dinner, and the other will complain about work. shoes will end up beneath the coffee table again. peter will leave something important on the kitchen counter, and you will remind him where it is while insisting you have no idea how he survives without you.

whatever the day gives either of you, there is still this. the apartment, the routines, the person waiting on the other side of the city.

somewhere to come back to.

somewhere safe enough to land.

[sheriff-bodecker]

please let me wonder

pairing: peter parker x reader summary: your body remembers him, maybe your brain just needs to catch up... and perhaps making new memories with you might not be as bad as peter once believed. warnings: fluff, angst, comfort, minor spoilers for BND, memories, handholding, slightly awkward encounter, awkward/flustered!peter, past relationships, hospitals, bad 'first' encounter, Ned and MJ mentions, Frank helps reader a lil, 'kid' as a nickname . . . word count: 3.4k a/n: if you saw this already, that's because i got shadowbanned a few hours after i initially posted this fic :/ tumblr hates me and i wanna move somewhere else but unfortunately i love making moodboards :")

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"You sure it's okay?"

"I'on know how many times i've gotta tell you, kid." Frank grumbles, boots thudding on the linoleum.

The incessant beeps and chatter wraps around you, lives on standby even as bodies move as if powered by machine — really just a culmination of adrenaline and SharkFire Energy.

Your thumbs wipe against the rough cardboard of the carrier, one cup sits warm in the divot, numbers sprawled messily on the side with a stubborn sharpie and spontaneity, meanwhile the other's clasped in Franks hand. He doesn't sip yet, holding it by his side by the lid, and you can't help your eyes from glancing down, nervous for a spillage that never comes. You feel out of place, as if taking up too much room, as if another person should be in your spot. But you cant stop the glaring ache in your chest as you walk the ling stretch of hallway, florescence glaring down, paling the already white walls.

"Sorry." You mumble back, already turning in on yourself as the noise dims into a hum and clicks of pens bleed into muffled chimes of monitors.

"Eh, don't be," he shrugs with a wave of his arm, holding an ease of nonchalance you cant help but be intimidated and impressed by. "All I know, and all you gotta know is that he'd be happy to see you."

Happy.

The last time you saw Peter he was anything but.

In the days after, no matter how hard you'd shut your eyes and repeat his name as if you were Dorothy wishing her way back home, no memory seemed to have conjured. No flicker of a face, a body part, even the still of familiar waves. But your body seemed to have something your brain didn't, and that was… good? Right?

"I don't know, Frank," You sigh. Pausing at the wall, you tip your head back and stare at the lights. It hurts, all of it. Your chest bares a memory that your mind cant seem to process, to will. "Last time, I couldn't remember anything — I still don't — and I just, I can see that look in his face, you know, the one where his jaw does that thing and… and his eyes…"

You trail off with hands gesturing to nowhere in particular. Frustration wracks up your spine and settles on your shoulders.

Frank watches, nodding slowly, because he gets it. And it pisses you off.

"I don't wanna make him sad again."

"I get it. I do. But one thing I'm sure about is that he'll be happy you showed up," a firm hand pats your shoulder, settling warm through your hoodie. He keeps it there with a soft squeeze to keep you in the present. "It shows you care, yeah?"

He shakes your shoulder, so you nod and hum. You care. Your body cares.

"Course you do, s'why you showed up."

The glint of a smile hovers over your lips and you huff. The tiniest glint if hope in the smallest bits of affection, the hints that you can gather the bits of the puzzle once smashed back into a thousand pieces, no matter how far they've strayed, and put it back together.

You shrug abashedly. "Just need my mind to catch up."

"You're, what, twenty-ish?"

"Twenty-two."

"Hell, you've got the rest if your life to catch up," he says. "Even then, you've got the rest of your life to," his free hand moves aimlessly. "Do whatever it is you wanna do. Make new memories with the kid."

"An' if not," he sucks his teeth, "he'd just want you happy."

Frank doesn't miss the flex of your chin and the wobble of your lip, no matter how hard you tried to bite the inside of your cheek.

"Man, don't cry on me, shit's above my pay grade and I already got my ass whooped by the Hulk."

It sets free a rickety and wet laugh, unstable yet minutely freeing as your chest starts to loosen and shoulders slack. Even when tiny pricks of tears threaten to fall, you wipe them away with the sleeve of your hoodie.

"Fine," you sniffle, voice croaky and soft. But you inhale and exhale, clear your throat into your elbow and straighten. "What's rooms he in?"

With a nod of his head, Frank beckons you forward with a quiet 'cmon'. The overheads feel less like spotlights, even as they glare down and hum, but its all background noise as you begin box breathing and keeping up with Frank's strides.

Heart monitors are so pretentious, you cant help but think it as you stand stiffly at the foot of the bed.

Hospital rooms are all the same, a copy of a copy, white and baby-blues culminated into a saturated grey, always does if you stay long enough for your eyes to only focus on one thing in particular. The taps from the linoleum, restless, robotic sounds of machines working overtime. You let your eyes flicker around once just to gather, and your heart twinges sweetly at the assortment of cards and balloons on his right. A weak breath expels from your nose, lighthearted and heavy.

The fact Peter was Spider-Man wasn't lost on you, but it felt infinitesimal through the forgotten memories and the way your bones creaked with the need to remember. It's as if the blue and red that streaks the homemade cards beside him and the fabric of his suit that laid on the base of the cot hadn't registered.

Because this was all Peter. With his mask off, beaten and bare in a hospital room that smells like sickly, sweet anti-septic and lemon cleaner.

A thin, white bed-sheets laid crumpled just over his chest, a hospital gown baggy around his arms, but you stayed locked to his balmy face. Soft with rest, yet you can see the twinge of muscle between his eyebrows and your fingers tingle with the need to calm it. His dark auburn hair was knotted with sweat, his skin pale yet ruddy with cuts and afflictions.

Frank moved around him with a quiet sturdiness and a flex in his jaw, moving a chair from the far corner to his bedside, next to his own with so much of a grunt. And with a pat to the backrest, he talks.

"Sit 'own." It's not a demand, but you can't fault him when it sounds like one, or when you immediately take his request and stiffly sit, setting the lone cup of coffee by the bedside, still in it's carrier.

"Listen, I — ah," he nods to himself, walking out back from behind, keeping a firm hand to the back of your chair. "I'm gonna give you guys some space. Jus' sit and be with him, talk to him,"

With one last sigh and a pat, he walks back to the door, catching the handle before leaving you both alone. "Call me when he wakes up."

As the heavy door clicks shut, you don't miss a beat, turning your head to the man beside you. He looks aggravatingly restful, calm and serene, even under an oxygen mask and dim white lights overhead.

It all gets lodged in your throat. The picture in front of you, how soft he looks, how his chest rises and falls, how his hands stay empty beside him.

And it feels automatic when you reach for one. The scrape of the scratchy fabric lost in the whirr of machinery and murmurs of the crowd in the parking lot outside. Your fingertips move first, a brush over the back of his hand where his skin feels extra silky. Tiny hairs stand from your touch, right where you caress and up his arm, before you fully envelop his palm to yours. Fingers intertwined.

A deep heaviness seeps into your bones where the embrace begins, latching onto your wrist like a tonne of bricks.

Recognition. The annoying kind where you know, you just know, but nothing will appear in your head. No matter the amount of references, how hard you search or try to repeat a quote like a mantra, nothing will change.

Your fingers tighten slightly in his hold as you breathe. Shakily, in and out, and again, and again. Until the weight envelops your body. Liquid through your limbs, and the stress of remembrance, of the day, of the hand in your own, pulls your eyelids down.

The first thing Peter notices when he wakes up, eyes achy, head still dully pounding, is the weight in his hand.

His eyes are still shut when he realises, as he groans softly and the noises slowly start to separate from the cacophony outside of the square room. Fingers twitch minutely, settling the warmth in his body and it feels like everything was a bad dream. It's all comfort, and good.

But the incessant beeps, the crowd and the chorus of shoes and heels clicking on plastic start to wrap around him, as well as the tightness around his mouth.

The mask comes off first, still averse to move his hand from the safe position it's found, like it was always meant to be there. The elastic tangles slightly, but it snaps off the back of his head and Peter begins to look.

Grey and white, yet the array of motley cards and balloons beside him catches his eye.

His thumb grazes the heat between his instinctively, and suddenly a grunt pulls him out of his reverie, head snapping to where the sleepy sound pulled from.

It's enough to make all the air in his lungs run. Your figure balled up on a chair, both legs up, face scrunched and tired, aggravated by the pain in your neck and back, and the sudden pull from unconsciousness.

Peter watches on. Memories of tired study nights with you, Ned and MJ, energy drinks clicked open, half-drunk or already crushed down and tossed to the side, arrays of textbooks open midway, citations highlighted, sticky notes scribbled — only to be stuck to foreheads in a jittery game of heads up. He remembers how you grumbled through the whole thing, feigning sleep even as your head found refuge on his shoulder and your eyes closed and breath evened out.

He remembers the exact crease between your brows and the pout of your lips when he softly nudged you up, how you whined and he laughed softly, only to guide you on top of his bed where you spent the rest of the night catching up on dreams while the others kept playing and tossing screwed up flashcards at each other.

Peter also remembers the widening of your eyes when you realised where you were and how long you were out. How he didn't keep you awake and how you were gonna fail (but you didn't).

It's the same as now. Hand still in his, albeit balmy, but God, does it feel nice. And your eyes wide like a deer in headlights, a kid caught in the pantry.

He gets lost in it for a moment. Memorising the colour as if he hadn't been thinking about it since the last time he saw you, held you and spoke to you like a companion. Not a lost memory or a stranger.

Willing his throat to move, to relieve himself of dryness, he speaks softly.

"Hi."

"Hi," you copy, equally as breathless. Your fingers flex, sweaty and warm, your thumb grazes the soft side of his knuckle, suddenly realising your hands have been entangled together. You pull back as fast as you figured out. "Oh, God. Sorry."

"Don't be," He cuts in with a breath. As much as Peter wants to chase, his lips stick together before moving to a stiff smile. "It was nice."

"Yeah," Gulping thickly, you nod.

It was nice. Heavy with one sided memories. With an annoyed body that understands and wants the brain to realise. It aches your gums and stings through your spine like restless needle pricks.

Your palm lays cold, bare in a way you didn't realise it could be until now, ripped away from his in a moment of weakness.

Slowly you ease your hand back up to the mattress, itching closer to his in a silent question he has no problem answering.

It's not a full clasp, not sleepy palms rested against another — it's more shy, like a timid whisper of pinkies while tip-toeing past inevitable. The tips of your fingers touch his and it feels more full and safe than any hold could bring; it's a breath of fresh air, falling from a height only to be caught by firm hands and gentle oaths

Silence slips between the two of you in an amalgamation of comfort and questions left unanswered, hope quietly withering and chests equally weighted.

Your fingertips tap on his own, fiddling with a crease in your brow and a knot in your stomach.

"I know you," you whisper to yourself, and Peter's heart lurches. "I know I do, I just don't remember."

It dissipates as quick as it came. Dissolving like starch, thickening in his chest. "It's okay."

"It's not," a short breath leaves you like a punch, "It's really not okay, Peter."

An ache crawls through his arms with a phantom touch, from his hands to his shoulders, he needs to hold you. To shush you into his chest and embrace you like he used to. Mumbling words into your hair with his chin sat atop your head, saying something stupid to make you laugh wetly into his shirt.

"Can I…" he falters for a moment, rethinking his words with a sharp inhale of breath. "Look this is gonna sound real weird but… do you want a hug?"

A chuckle leaves your lips, wet and suppressed like if you laugh too hard you'll disturb the nursery on the next floor.

He hates how full everything feels now. Loves it, too. Loves hearing your voice again, soft and tired, hates that it quietly lacks familiarity. The laughter from deep in your chest. Your eyes on his. Your hands. And now…

You pause before nodding. "That would be nice, thank you."

It isn't cinematic. No burst of colour once you stand up and lean in, because he's still tired and achy, even though he wants to lunge up and breathe you in. There's no orchestra, or 'aww's from a few passersby. It's just you and Peter, and the weight of the past, the crowd outside, the AC blasting and the heart monitor beeping.

But it's you. And you're warm. And you feel different, surer and stronger, older in a way, and you smell the same.

His hands fist at the back of your hoodie, one to your middle, the other rubbing light lines up and down, and its instinctive how he inhales so deeply. You don't wear the same perfume anymore, its less sweet, more natural and woodsy, but underneath its all you.

And when your hand finds the nape of his neck through the embrace, Peter realises he's a goner. You fiddle with the tufts the same, even though his hair's a little matted with sweat and blood, your fingers are light on the fuzz of tiny hairs on the back of his neck, and he can feel your inner dialogue.

Can you bury your hand in his hair? Should you?

But you pull back before you could decide on a possibility. Keeping your hand on his neck for a moment longer, his own hands on your biceps and forearms, just looking, before you step back into the chair with a sigh.

Your fingers find his again.

"Thank you." You whisper. Throat tight, unable to fully talk.

Peter just nods, a shy smile on his face. "Don't mention it."

It makes you laugh. You wonder how easy he used to do that before. How often he'd poke your sides, or tell you a joke or pun about chemistry that had your cheeks hurting and eyes rolling.

"You give good hugs, Peter."

His chest caves at that. Chin dimpling in restraint, swallowing, unblinking as if the stale air could dry the wetness threatening his waterline.

"Yeah, well," he hums, tilting his head back, staring at the tiles on the ceiling, but he can't stop looking at you. "You ain't seen nothing. Just wait until I get out of this bed,"

He cringes with a crease of his face. "That sounded so weird, it was better in my head—"

"No, no, please," You giggle again, and your face hurts. "I wanna see what the fuss is about now."

Soft laughter dissipates into a thick, deep silence.

"Can I say something," he swallows. "About before."

You nod, shuffling in the chair. "Of course."

Peter inhales. The ceiling his sanctuary, it's incredibly interesting. He stares and breathes, picking and choosing what to say, what to bring up.

"I remember you told me I give good hugs the first time we," he gestures, hands up, holding around the air in an embrace. You hum in acknowledgement. "Sorry, it just reminded me."

"Don't be sorry, Peter."

"It's my fault you don't remember," his throat works. "I'm stuck with my own memories and you, Ned and MJ, don't remember anything."

You sigh. Unable to say anything, comforting words cant fix the pain, like bringing a bandage to open heart surgery.

You have your whole life ahead of you.

Memories to be made. A life to live. Starting now, restarting. Would it be so bad?

"I wouldn't mind possibly, hopefully, making new memories with you," You say. Gulping away at the thickness in your throat, the weight of which your hand goes back to his with more confidence this time, balmy skin to balmy skin. "If, I mean, if that's okay… with you?"

"That's, I…" Peter gulps through a dry mouth, eyes hesitant to blink or tear away from your own. he shakes his head almost disbelieving, smile already aching his cheeks.

"That's all I ever wanted," his eyes begin to water and his voice catches. "Thank you."

You nod. Twin smiles on each of your faces, eyes twinkling under the florescent lights, and it almost feels like colour flushes through the room, between the two of you.

"Thank you,"

"I should, uh," you swallow and look back at the door. "I should get Frank. Bring him in"

Peter nods. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

There's an easiness to him now. Tension shed to reveal a lighter coating of the Peter Parker beneath the suit, now hospital gown.

The both of you stare down at your hands, not unable to move, more reluctance. To you its a familiar kind of feeling, sweet nostalgia that makes the sun shine a little brighter. To Peter its a soft kind of finality. It's you, again. After years of working up the courage, and figuring out times and dates and the tiniest details, only for the universe to push him to the deep end — it's a chance to be by your side again.

"Your coffee's probably cold." He cuts through, quietly through the comfort.

Your eyebrows tug in question, but you quickly turn to your side to find the lone cardboard cup.

"Shit," you curse under your breath, snorting under your breath. You smile in mild embarrassment, shrugging. "I, uh, got that for you, actually."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but," you brush it off with a wave. "It's cold now. S'what I get trying to make a small gesture."

Peter shrugs to, pulling his lips in indifference. "I mean, I don't mind iced coffee, so."

A small, shy laugh tugs from your lungs, but Peter just watches. Enamoured by the modesty.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," you nod. Giving his hand one last squeeze you stand, making your way to the door. "My numbers on the side of the cup, by the way."

Peter smiles as he turns to look, only getting the first couple digits before your writing curves on the other side.

"Are you leaving now?"

"I'm just getting Frank," you reiterate, pointing outside from over your shoulder. "But, I mean, I can stay."

"That would be nice," with a stutter he adds. "Maybe we could get more coffee, later, I mean—"

"That would be nice." You nod, cutting into his ramblings like a knife through butter.

The door clicks open, a wave of noise and light flash through the crack before your presence is swallowed up behind it. Peter's giddy. Light in his chest, bulky and fresh, he doesn't know what to do with it other than sit in the cot and gulp, fingers fiddling with the thin bed-sheet while one palm tingles with your ghost.

New memories start now.

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© 2026 sheriff-bodecker

[im-sleepdeprived]

can you do one where peter gets hurt a little bit and gets all whiny and crap and the reader is trying so hard to stay focused. LOVE YOUR STORIES BRO!!!!!

I LOVE THIS IDEA !!! it’s definitely such a peter thing to do. here’s a short, cutesy little thing, i hope you like it and im sorry it took me so long to get back to you💞✨ !! warnings are just peter being a big whiny baby whose desperate for affection, small mentions of injuries, 1,3k wc <333

“Ow!”

“Peter, be quiet! Stop whining, I’m almost done.”

“I’m in pain, baby,” he whined. 

It hadn’t been a surprise to be disturbed by a knock on your window, Peter usually stopped by after patrol which was why you’d started leaving it open for him. But when he hadn’t slid the window open after those few soft taps, you’d gotten a little worried. 

So you’d gotten out of bed to open for him, only to find your boyfriend perched before you, mask off, pouting heavily at you. 

Of course, you’d helped him in and gotten him laying across your bed so you could start to clean him up. You’d started keeping a first-aid-kit at hand since you’d found out he was Spider-Man. It had been of great use. 

But it hadn’t taken you long to realize that his wounds, as far as his usual patrol wounds went, weren’t bad. Not at all. In fact, you were positive that he could’ve gone home, slept the rest of the night, and woken up good as new as if nothing had happened in the first place. Maybe your boyfriend had forgotten that he had super-healing abilities. 

Or maybe he just liked the way you babied him.

“Oh, are you now?” You asked, glancing up at him with a raised brow. There was really nothing for you to do other than wipe the few cuts and scratches with antiseptic and place small bandaids over them. He just enjoyed pestering you.

“Yes,” he said so seriously, you almost laughed. This Peter was a stark contrast to actually-injured-Peter, who would do everything he could to assure you he was fine when he was literally bleeding out before your eyes. You didn’t like that. At least this was funny. 

“Petey, baby,” you laughed softly, adjusting a small bandaid on the high of his cheekbone where he’d had a small scrape. “You’re actually pretty put together tonight. Must’ve been a pretty quiet night, hm?”

“No,” he sighed dramatically, grabbing the wrist by his face gently, keeping you close to him. “No, it was horrible sweetheart, I’m gonna need extra care tonight. You know, to help the trauma.”

Shaking with laughter, you leaned in and pecked his cheek, right beside the cut you’d just bandaged. “The ‘trauma’, Petey? Really?”

A large, dopey grin broke over his face as you pecked his cheek and he squeezed you wrist a little. “There. That’s perfect, such a big help sweetheart, you have no idea what you do for me. You make the pain bearable, pretty girl.” 

You rolled your eyes affectionately, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “There, all better?” You asked him as you pulled away where you were met with a scowl.

“Y/N, honey, I’m suffering! I’m knocking on death’s door, angel! Give me something!”

You absolutely lost it at that, falling back onto the bed in a fit of giggles. “I can’t help you when all you do is whine!” When you opened your eyes, Peter was hovering over you, trying to keep his little facade of being upset and in pain, which was fruitless with the large smile blooming on his lips.

“You’re so mean, you know that?”

“Oh really? I’m the mean one?”

“Yes! You just found out your boyfriend, the love of your life, your future husband, the father of your future children—”

“What?!”

“—is dying, and what do you do? You laugh!!”

Another laugh escaped you, this time the sound infecting Peter as well. “I-if you’re dying, doesn’t that mean you won’t be my husband or the ‘father of my future children?” You manage out between laughs.

Peter gasped offendedly. “I…I…” he tried to defend himself to no avail. You’d caught him. 

You laughed even harder. “It’s okay, Petey. I’ll tell my future children all about you.”

He didn’t seem to like that very much. In one swift motion, his hands were on your hips, picking you up as he laid back on the bed again, his back pressed against the headboard before he plopped you down onto his lap.

“Oh hi,” you grinned at him, loosely looping your arms over his shoulders, his own hands coming to rest on your waist.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmured, his eyes soft and loving as he looked up at you.

Leaning down, you pressed your forehead against his. Peter’s hands tightened on your waist, tugging you closer till your chest was pressed against his. 

“I have another wound you haven’t patched up for me yet.” He spoke softly. 

“Yeah?” You asked, fully expecting him to be playing a bit, the smile already starting to tug at the corners of your lips. “Where, sweetie?”

He smiled right back at you, sticking his hand between where your chests were pressed together and pressing on the spider emblem on the center of his suit, making the fabric deflate with a soft breath and flood around him.

Pushing the suit away for him, you noticed a scratch on his chest you hadn’t realized was there before, making you frown. It wasn’t deep and it wasn’t bleeding, but it was long and a harsh shade of red, the skin around it tinged pink with irritation, and it definitely could’ve used a cleaning. 

“Petey, baby, why didn’t you show me this before?” You asked softly, shifting in his lap as you leaned over to grab the kit again. 

Peter sighed, biting back a smile. This was exactly what he’d needed, that soft, gentle voice of yours you used on him whenever he stopped by bruised and banged up. “Why, you think it’s bad sweetheart?”

“No, no, thank god…” you muttered as you got to work on the scratch. “But I bet it burns. Does it hurt, honey?”

“Yeah,” he answered, letting out a soft groan for show as he leaned further back against your headboard. One of his hands left your waist and found it’s way to your hair, playing with the strands and giving one a gentle tug every now and them. 

“Peter,” you grumble, refusing to look up at him.

“Your hair is so soft.” He murmured in awe, as if he’d never seen anything like it before. 

“Genetics.” You deadpanned. “Now stop distracting me, I’m trying to help you!”

“You are helping me, pretty girl. Just watching that gorgeous face while you bandage me up is doing half the healing already.” Another tug to your hair. 

You swatted his hand away before poking his side with a soft smile. “No bandages for this one, sorry Pete. I’m just gonna have to heal you with kisses.”

“That sounds great,” he beamed widely. “Your kisses make me heal way faster than bandages, trust me, I speak from experience.”

Ignoring him, you leaned down and peppered a few soft kisses along his chest, staying beside the cut but never kissing the wound itself. You could feel his breathing stutter, the rhythmic movements of his chest turning irregular beneath your lips. 

Peter hands on your waist tightened, his grip pushing you down on his lap. “Baby…” his voice was a soft, desperate thing, a deepness in his tone that made your stomach flip. Well that wasn’t right. 

You sat back up, picking up a leg to swing over and slide off his lap but his hands on your waist slid down to your thighs quickly, stopping you.

“What’re you doing, pretty girl?” The utter betrayal on his face almost had you second-guessing what you’d done for something way worse. “Why’d you stop?”

“You’re hurt, Petey,” you answered simply, “we’re not doing anything tonight.”

“W-what? I’m not hurt, no, I’m fine! I’m perfect!”

“Really? I thought you were at death’s door.”

“Oh that…Yeah, no, he sent me away. Said it wasn’t my time.”

“Right, of course,” you murmured, nodding your head with all seriousness.

“Your kisses were working,” he stated sincerely, “you have to keep going!”

“Whatever you say, handsome.” You smiled, leaning in to press your lips to his. 

[warmlymei]

UNUSUAL ⋆˚꩜｡ PETER PARKER x READER

injured, peter parker accidentally swings into the wrong apartment

wc. 3.1k

tags. reader x peter parker. college au. fluffff! minor angst. banter. shirtless peter parker. mentions of blood. NOT canon compliant. like this is not mcu spiderman at any point in the timeline it's just a spiderman whose face is tom holland u feel me hahhahah

mei's notes. bnd got to me what can i say. if anyone has any fic recs for peter parker x reader that isn't just smut but has a long plot pls lmk ASAP i need it bad...

cross-posted on @matchastwb as a spidey!kook fic

When Peter Parker swings across rooftops in his red and blue superhero suit, he’s usually not bleeding from a gashing wound on his chest. 

Usually, he doesn’t have to worry about how much blood he’s losing with every leap. Usually, he doesn’t feel like his vision has gone hazy and his mouth has gone dry. And usually, he doesn’t swing through the wrong window and into the wrong apartment. 

Key word: usually.

See, he doesn’t even realize that he’s in the wrong fucking apartment until he hears someone screech, sharp and high-pitched, accompanied with the clatter of dishes crashing onto the floor. Only then does he stop clutching onto his chest wound and look up to examine his surroundings.

And yes, indeed, this is not his apartment. Instead of video game posters and superhero comics pinned to the wall, there are a bunch of vinyls and abstract paintings instead. The room is also way cleaner than this, but that’s not an observation he’d like to admit out loud. There’s also a cute little rug on the floor, along with some pieces of… broken ceramic? Odd.

His eyes follow the shards and eventually find their way to...

Oh.

He blinks a few times, fighting blurred vision and the possibility that he has lost so much blood that he’s hallucinating.

But it’s really you.

His classmate. The one who also happens to be the only other scholarship student at his university’s specialty science program aside from him. Who would’ve known that you lived only a floor above him? 

You’re in a pink loungewear set, hair in a kind of sock-curl wrap thingy, and your face is covered with some white, thin sheet. Maybe it’s a face mask or something. Whatever it is, he has clearly intruded into your private time.

You stumble backwards, making blubbering noises with your mouth and pointing at him shakily.

“Y—you—you’re that Spider-boy!”

He can’t stand up. Great.

“Uh, yeah,” he starts very professionally and heroically, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to crash in here. The window was open, so…”

You furrow your brows. “You’re bleeding.” 

He wants to say something snarky like, ‘Oh really? I didn’t notice,’ but he bites his tongue. No need to take out his frustrations on you. Sure, he wasn’t planning on getting slashed in the chest by some gnarly bank robber today, but at least he’s here.

Alive. And he has a superhero reputation to maintain, okay? People expect Spider-Man to be cool. Mysterious. Competent. Not some idiot who accidentally breaks into a classmate’s bedroom while actively bleeding out.

“Nothing new,” he says, pitching his voice lower to sound more stable and manly or something like that. “It seems like I’ve uh—” he struggles for a bit, “—I’ve made a miscalculation.”

“A miscalculation,” you repeat slowly.

“Yes.” Thank goodness secretly being a superhero has made him a particularly effective liar. “This is totally normal. Just overexerted myself a little bit.”

“Uh-huh.”

Okay, maybe he isn’t as good of a liar as he thought. Still, do you need to have such an all-knowing look on your face? 

“You’re hurt, Spider-boy,” you say, voice soft.

“Man.” He coughs twice, very obviously struggling. “Spider-man.”

“Sure, Spider-man.” You cross your arms. “So… do I just let you bleed to death in my bedroom, or…”

“It’s fine,” he chokes out, stumbling towards the window. He just needs to climb one floor down. He can manage. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Wait!” Your sass is replaced with panic as you jolt towards him, tugging down on his arm before he can escape through the fire exit. “You’re obviously way too injured to leave on your own.”

“It’s fine, pretty lady,” Peter says, attempting to sound suave, “Nothing I can’t handle on my own.”

You sigh, a tight grip still on his arm. “Sure you can handle it on your own. Doesn’t mean you have to.”

With that, you drag him into your room and make him sit on your criminally fluffy, pink bed. He worries that he’ll stain it with blood. 

“You really don’t have to—”

“Hush,” you say sharply. “I’m going to be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

The air of finality in your voice keeps him glued to his spot, watching as you leave the room and slam the door shut. When you return a few moments later, you’re armed with a first-aid kit and a comically large bottle of rubbing alcohol. 

You look at him, eyes firm.

“Take off your clothes.”

Realistically, he knows what you mean. He knows that you’re trying to stitch up his wounds or something and that you have no inappropriate intentions. But still, you’ve always been so… composed. Like you know exactly who you want to be in life, and what you have to do to get there.

You’re the girl who comes to class thirty minutes before everyone else to get the best seats. The student who actually goes to office hours. The friend that has bandaids and ibuprofen in their purse. The one that doesn’t drink at parties but still has a hell of a good time and makes sure everyone gets home safe. 

That’s the kind of person he knows you as, and he wants to see if you’ll remain that way if he teases you a bit.

“Damn, why don’t you take me out on a date first?”

You slap his face with a towel.

“Not the time for jokes.” Okay, so you really aren’t the kind of person to play around. Noted. “Off with the clothes, mister.”

He finds that your assertiveness kind of turns him on. Cool. Totally normal. Great timing hormones!

Yeah, he hates himself. He’s honestly just trying to distract himself from the fact that he’s really fucked up—getting hurt, swinging into the wrong window, and now jeopardizing his secret identity by spending time with someone he kind of knows in his personal life. But again, going to the hospital isn’t really a viable choice either, so…

The clothes come off. 

He unzips his suit from the hidden side collar and starts tugging downward, trying not to openly wince as he peels the skin-tight nylon from his wound, careful to wipe any rebellious drops of blood before they can stain your pink bed sheets. When the gaping cut is revealed, the dry air bites into it; the motherfucker got him good. Who would’ve known that bank robbers  nowadays arm themselves with pocket knives?

You hiss sharply at the sight. He looks down and has to regretfully agree that it’s not pretty. The gash isn’t deep, but it’s wide, spanning across the length of his upper chest to the end of his ribcage. Dark blotches and bruises are already starting to form from the multiple collisions he made swinging here, making his torso look even more colorful in addition to the blood.

As he watches your gaze linger on his body, self-consciousness creeps upon him. He wonders for a brief moment if he should flex his abs now that you’re looking at him so deeply, but decides against it. That would probably make him look even stupider.

“I’ll clean it first,” you say quietly, flopping your first-aid kit onto your bed and unzipping it with a few urgent tugs. “You might need stitches after this, though.”

Peter shakes his head. “No can do. This arachnid has to keep his identity a secret.”

You furrow your brows as you dab some saline onto a cloth. “I really suggest you go to the hospital,” you say, firm but kind. “You could get a life-threatening infection from this.”

“I’ll manage, I promise.” 

You decide to drop it, for now at least. “This is going to sting.”

Without further warning, you start cleaning his wound, dragging the saline-drenched cloth across his skin. True to your word, it stings like a bitch and Peter regretfully flinches away with a less-than-manly yelp.

“Stay still,” you order, glaring. 

He lets out a strained breath. “Okay, sorry.”

He grits his teeth and tries to pretend like every touch doesn’t nearly set him on fire. To distract himself, he tries to think about other things by scanning your room.

His eyes first land on a picture of you and (presumably) your parents at the bedside table. You’re at Disneyworld, wearing Mickey Mouse ears with chocolate smeared all over your mouth. You’re sitting on your dad’s shoulders and your mom smiles up at you, wearing a matching set of Mickey ears. You can’t have been older than five years old. He can’t help but find it quite cute. 

Across the room, there’s a huge bookshelf, and he notices that your books are organized by genre and color, with each shelf looking like its own version of a rainbow. The vinyls on the walls tell him that you love 90’s RnB. Your favorite color is definitely pink. You like to draw. You collect pop-mart figures. It’s funny how much he can learn about you just by looking at your bedroom.

Then, something catches his eye.

An old firefighter’s helmet sits at the top of your shelf.

It looks strangely out of place among the pink bedding and carefully arranged books. The orange is faded, the surface scuffed and scratched, and there’s a thin layer of dust settled into the ridges. It looks old. Really old.

He stares at it for a while before forcing his attention back to you.

You press onto the wound with firm, but gentle pressure, letting the last few drops of blood soak into the cloth. Then, you take out a container of ointment—probably some kind of gauze—and start smearing it across the wound. Peter can’t help but let out a shaky sigh as relief floods him.

You giggle a little at his reaction. 

“All done.”

That was quicker than he thought it’d be. He hesitantly assesses his body again, and to his pleasant surprise, with all the blood gone and his wound covered with gauze, things don’t look as bad as they did before. And after sitting for a while, he feels much better too. 

“Woah,” he breathes out, tracing his wound with his finger. “You cleaned it up really well.”

A triumphant smirk graces your face. “I did, didn’t I?”  You start packing up the first aid kit. “I’d still recommend you to get stitches at the hospital anyways. Can’t have the friendly neighborhood Spider-boy die of an infection, can we?”

“I suppose we can’t,” he says, laughing, but he has no intention of actually going. “It’s Spider-man, by the way. Not boy.”

You stare at him like you can’t believe he just said that. 

“How about a ‘thank you?’”

“Oh. Sorry.” He flushes. Where have his manners gone? “Thank you, uh…”

“Y/N,” you supply.

“Thank you, Y/N. It’s really nice to meet you.”

“Sure, sure, whatever.”  You shrug him off as if it’s just another normal day for you, saving a superhero, that is. “Do you need anything else? Water, pain medicine, money for a cab, or—”

“I’m good,” Peter quickly cuts you off, grateful for your hospitality but not wanting to risk his identity being uncovered any longer. He wonders if you’d recognize his voice if he talked to you at university. “I’ll head out now, duty calls and all.”

“Right.” You look like you don’t believe him much.  

He tilts his head in mild confusion as you throw away bloody tissues and cloths. Not to be egotistical, but Spiderman is pretty well known around here, and usually, people want to take selfies with him or ask about his identity. Hell, there’s even an app that tracks his sightings.

There’s none of that with you, like you’re simply… indifferent. Treating him like any other plain old citizen.

Peter lifts himself off your regrettably soft mattress and trudges to the window where he came from. He tugs up his suit in the process, zipping the collar shut once more. Steels himself for one more swing across the building, up the roof, and down to the correct bedroom window.

“Well, stay safe, Spider-boy,” you say softly. “Don’t do any more saving for the day. You could get hurt again.”

He whips his head around to you, then chuckles softly as he opens the window and feels the cold air nip his skin. Maybe you do care a little bit.

“Worried about me?” He ignores your nickname for him, convinces himself that he finds it endearing.

“Right, how could I forget?” You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Superheroes don’t get hurt and don’t need saving.”

He raises a brow. “Well, I never said that.”

You avoid his gaze. “Sorry,” you mumble, picking absently at the first aid kit. “It’s just that…”

“It’s just that what?”

 “I don’t like the way people are treating you,” you reveal, not meeting his eyes.

“The way people are treating me?” he echoes, confused. He stands up to face you properly.

People treat Spider-Man pretty damn well, as far as he knows. New York loves him. There’s an official fan page for him on every social media platform, and he’s pretty sure he saw Spider-Man Halloween costumes being sold at the airport last week.

“What’s wrong with the way people treat me?”

You let out a dry laugh. “You really don’t see it?”

He shakes his head.

“Everyone sees you as the guy who will swing in and save the day no matter what happens. As an invincible, masked entity they feel comfortable putting all their hopes and dreams on when something goes wrong.”

“That sounds like my job, alright,” he jokes, but he feels that you’re digging deeper. Somewhere even he doesn’t dare to look. 

“But what if you can’t?”

Peter furrows his brows.

“I can. I always can.”

“Are you sure about that?” 

There’s no accusation in your expression. If anything, you look almost sad.

“You were bleeding all over my bedroom ten minutes ago,” you say quietly. “And you were still trying to convince me you were fine.”

“I was fine.”

“You nearly collapsed.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Okay,” Peter relents, “maybe a little.”

You smile despite yourself at the tiny triumph.

“That’s what I mean.” You chuckle, stepping towards him again. There may be a mask covering his face, but Peter feels like you’re looking right at him.  “I know you’re just a kid—probably not much older than me—and no single person should ever have the weight of a whole city’s safety on their shoulders.” 

It comes to him in flashes. The nightmares of failing to save people. Of accidentally injuring someone. Of property damage,  broken hearts, and children declaring that Spider-man is no longer their favorite hero. 

He thinks about the comments online when he slips up. The ones that ask: ‘Where was Spiderman?’, ‘Why wasn’t he there sooner?’.

It’s the  part of the job he has chosen to ignore in favor of, well, everything else—the glory.

You shrug, concluding with, “Or at least, that’s just my opinion.”

“You think people are using me,” he says eventually.

You shrug again. “I think people are asking a lot from you.”

“That sounds pretty similar.” 

“Well,” you gesture to the firefighter’s hat sitting at your bedside table, “My dad died trying to save someone, so... I’m not really a fan of the whole, uh, superhero thing.”

Peter freezes.

For a second, he genuinely forgets what he was going to say.

There’s a breeze coming through the open window, stirring your hair around your face. Somewhere below, a car honks. Someone laughs on the sidewalk. The city keeps moving like you didn’t just drop a bombshell into the middle of his evening.

“Oh,” he finally manages.

Brilliant.

You seem to realize what you’ve just said, too, because your expression twists awkwardly.

“But, uh…” You clear your throat. “I’m still proud of him, I guess.”

Peter nods slowly.

“Yeah.”

Another silence. He desperately searches for something better to say.

Yeah?

That's it?

Peter's gaze flicks toward the firefighter's hat. Then back to you. Suddenly, he understands why you sounded so worried. Why you seem so unimpressed by his heroic persona.

He clears his throat. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You fiddle with the zipper of the first aid kit once more. “Thanks.” You clear your throat. “And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

“You didn’t, don’t worry.”

You mumble into yourself. “I definitely did.”

He thinks for a moment. “Okay, “ he admits, “maybe a little bit.”

You turn to him, offended. Peter forgets that the mask only hides his facial expressions, and not his scoffing as well.

“Wow.”

He allows himself to laugh, finding that your pout  is actually really quite adorable. “But hey, I don’t mind,” he replies, voice softening.

You roll your eyes, packing up the first aid kit once and for all and shoving it inside your bedside table’s drawer. There’s a small smile on your face, though. He sees it. 

“Uh, well,” you choke out, standing up hastily, “Shouldn’t you get going now, Spider-boy?”

“That name’s really sticking, isn’t it?” He jokes, teasingly but tentatively. 

“I mean, if I ever see you again, then yes,” you answer, a warm smile returning to your face. “Is it a part of your job to stop by civilian apartments?”

Peter chuckles, heading towards the window once more to brace himself to swing away despite his gashing chest wound.

“Not at all. It’s not everyday that I accidentally crash into a pretty girl’s apartment.”

“Hm.” You hum. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Um—”  He stops dead. Fuck. He doesn’t think enough before speaking out loud, does he? “That wasn't—”

You burst out laughing, the sound filling the room as Peter’s face reddens so much it could blend in with his mask. 

“I’m kidding.” 

He clears his throat, suddenly very interested in the window. “Obviously.”

You smile, watching as Peter drapes a leg over the window’s edge, dangling above the bustling night of the city. “If I see you again, though, I hope you’re not half bleeding to death.”

“Noted.” Peter chuckles and gives you a two-fingered salute. “Thanks again for fixing me up.”

There’s honking and chatter and the buzz of a metropolis underneath you. He turns to you once more, and although he knows you can’t see his face, he hopes that you sense his grateful smile.

“No problem,” you salute back to him, playful lilt in your voice. “See ya, Spider-Boy.”

Peter shoots a web outwards, sticking it onto a nearby rooftop fixture, trying to fight away the warmth in his cheeks.

“Goodnight, pretty girl.”

And he swings into the night, a stupid, stupid grin on his face.

mei's notes. thank you so much for reading i hope you enjoyed!

[uhhhj13iguess]

it was an accident!

mcu!peter parker x fem!reader

summary: during one of your weekly movie nights with the gang, peter has a nightmare and accidentally hits you while you try to wake him up, knocking you out cold.

wc: ~1.4k

cw: peter hits reader and it bruises, though this is more of a crack fic than anything! hope you think it's funny, i cracked myself up while writing it (hah)

masterlist and taglist!

long after the credits had rolled on the empire strikes back, you woke to the soft snoring of peter next to you on ned's bedroom floor. the clock on the dresser announced a tired 2:32am, and the only light that crept into the room flooded from the heat lamp of ned's aquarium tucked in the corner.

sitting up and rubbing your eyes to get a better sense of your surroundings, you look down towards the bedheaded brunette lying beside you, soft murmurs escaping his tired lips. you leaned down to try and hear him better, but the effort was fruitless. the mumbling seemed harmless — something you'd heard plenty of times before during your weekly movie nights, so you began to settle back into the warm blankets on your makeshift bed.

that was until you felt peter twitch against you, barely audible gasps accompanying each unconscious movement. you turned to look at him, noticing his trembling body. clearly, he was having a nightmare, you thought as you leaned closer and put a hand on his shoulder.

you shook him gently, his name forming into a whisper: "pete?"

he flinched as he heard his name, though he was definitely still dreaming. you watched as his face contorted into something of fear, and you shook him harder, raising your voice to a regular volume, despite the other two still sound asleep in the room.

"peter, wake up. hey, pete-" SMACK! peter responded to your touch with brutal force, eyes still innocently closed as he lunged forward and swung, a grunt falling from his lips as his unconscious self grew breathless. the contact against your skin stung his knuckles, the pain response immediately waking him up in time to watch your limp body fall back against the floor. though he hadn't even fully woken up, he felt a tingle through his body as he darted forward to catch your head before you hit the ground.

"(y/n)!" peter yelled as his system finally woke him up, panic flooding his senses.

he clung to the sides of your face, instinctively checking for a pulse as you lay completely motionless on the ground. he stared at you for a moment, then down at his throbbing hand and put the pieces together with wide eyes. "no, nonono, no, come on,"

peter shot a web towards the light switch, immediately flooding the once-sleepy ombionce with stark white adrenaline.

"i need you to wake up, (y/n). please." he tried to shake you again, getting a better look at the forming bruise on your jaw.

fuck.

the sound of his heavy breathing became drowned out with annoyed groans as ned and mj began to stir, waking up from the harshness of the overhead light.

"yo, could you not?" mj spat in peter's direction through squinted eyes.

ned slowly sat up from his bed, rubbing his eyes as he drifted between mj on his couch and peter hovering over you on the floor. "what's going on?"

"yeah, parker. you better have a good excuse for-"

"guys, she won't wake up,"

the pair stared back at peter with the same roused expression he had moments ago.

"i-i-i, i dont know. i think i... hit her...?" peter trailed off almost in a question, like he was hoping it wasn't the case.

"what?!" ned reacted immediately, jumping down to join peter on the floor and take his turn trying to shake you awake. mj sat up on the couch to get a better view of the situation, though, that was all the more concern she expressed.

ned's breathing grew even more erratic than peter's. "what the hell happened?!"

"i-i dont know! i was having a bad dream, and i was fighting sandman, a-and, she must have been awake, because she was sitting up, and then..." peter looked down to your unmoving grame and visibly cringed. "and then she wasn't."

mj gave a sharp snort at the admission, and both boys whipped around to give her horrified looks.

"what? it's kinda funny."

ned gave her a glare while peter began to panic again, reaching down to hold your limp hand. "ned, i don't know what to do."

"okay, okay. people pass out all the time; there's like, jobs centered around it. let me google it," he ran to unplug his phone, frantically typing as peter stayed by your side.

"is she breathing? shit, she's breathing, right? holy shit, peter, did you kill (y/n)?"

"what? no!"

ned shook his head slowly, pacing in front of his bed. "listen, dude. you know i'm your guy in the chair, but i am not going down for a non-spider-man related murder-"

"ned, she's not dead! how do i fix this?!" peter ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

"okay, okay!" he made his way back next to peter, a wikihow article pulled up on his phone. "it says to perform a sternum rub."

peter gave him a bewildered look. "you want me... to rub..."

"her chest!" ned exclaimed, proud he even knew where the sternum was.

"WHAT?!" peter nearly yelled back, only to be shushed by ned and earn another snort from mj. "ned, i just physically assaulted her, i am not adding sexual to the list too."

"no, dumbass," mj perked up. "you rub her with your fist on her sternum, on the center of her chest — above anything. you're trying to elicit a pain response, to wake her up."

peter looked like he was going to throw up. "i don't want to hurt her either! that's what caused this mess!"

mj rolled her eyes and shuffled back under the covers. "you guys are freaks, i'm going back to bed."

"no!" the boys shouted in unison.

"you have to help us! you come do it!" ned nearly pleaded, his eyes flickering between you and mj.

"i'm not the one who knocked her out! this entirely seems like a peter problem."

peter's face dropped to his hands, a frustrated groan rumbling deep from his chest. "it was an accident."

"your accident."

"mj!" ned yelled, a hand on peter's shoulder to help calm him down. "it's okay, pete. she'll be okay. you're spider-man, you save people all the time!"

"yeah, when they're still conscious!"

"guys?"

"i can see the headline now, spider-man hurts an innocent civilian: was this his motive all along?" mj gave in her best jj jameson voice.

"mj!" the boys shout at her again.

"um, guys?"

"one sec, (y/n)." ned responds, disappointed eyes still trained on mj.

everyone immediately whipped their heads around to see you slowly sitting up and touching your jaw, a wince falling from your lips as you grazed the bruised skin. peter was at your side the second he saw you awake, his hands covering your own and his eyes examining every inch of your face.

"oh my god, are you okay?!"

you rubbed your eyes harshly, the light only adding to your growing headache. "what's going on?"

"peter decked you." mj answered, the smirk evident in her voice.

"mj!" the boys scowled for who knows how many times that evening.

you looked towards the curly-haired boy with shock written on your features. "you... excuse me?"

the look of guilt peter gave you was enough of an answer. "okay. maybeihityouinthefacewhilesleepingandknockedyouout."

"oh?" you let out, more confused than anything.

"(y/n), i'm so sorry. i'm so so sorry, i was having a nightmare, and i-i don't know what came over me, i'm so sorry, you have to believe me." he rambled on.

mj cut him short, though. "i think this means you get to hit peter now."

"what?!" peter whipped towards her in shock, and it was ned's turn to offer a snort in response.

"i mean, it's only fair." mj shrugged.

"(y/n) is far more classy than that," ned said, almost in reassurance to peter.

"y-yeah, she doesn't stoop to your- OOF" peter was cut off as you swung as hard as you could at his right cheek. it was nothing in comparison to the villains he fought on a daily basis, and it definitely hurt your hand more than his face, but you smiled while craddling your now bruised knuckles as peter held his cheek in his palm with utter stupor radiating from the look he gave you.

"okay, maybe she does."

taglist:

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