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19*y/o

[iheartwhre]

i’ll be so good for you

summary: Peter Parker is the sweet, soft-spoken chemistry partner who saves you a seat and asks about your day. He gave you the kind of gentle attention your boyfriend never bothers to give. Playful texts turn heated, one message sent to the wrong person, and soon Peter is climbing through your window. You make him prove it, keeping him desperate and whimpering.

➺ tags: mcu!peter, needy!peter, whimpering!peter, pup nickname, mommy kink, mommy dom, cheater!reader, reader insert, teasing, orgasm denial, edging, choking, dirty talk, begging, hand job, ball play, riding, university au, power imbalance, dominant reader, submissive peter, slight smau

➺ authors note: i’m sorryyy this took forever but i hope u enjoy it. inspired by text messages from tiktok. feedback is appreciated <3

word count: 1.9k

The chem lab always smelled like solvent and burnt coffee, the kind of fluorescent-lit hell that made every elective feel like you were back in highschool. You’d only signed up because you needed the credit and the time slot didn’t clash with anything else. Peter Parker had been assigned as your partner in week two. He was quiet, brilliant, always showing up with faintly bruised knuckles, but nevertheless they look soft. He looked soft.

He started saving you a seat after the third lab.

Just a quiet little habit. He’d already have his notebook open, backpack on the neighboring stool, and when you walked in he’d glance up and give you that small, shy smile like he’d been waiting. Then he’d talk first. Always.

“Hey. How’s your day going?”
“Did you sleep okay? You look tired.”
“That online quiz in organic was brutal, right? How’d you do?”

He asked like he actually wanted the answer. He’d listen with those perfect brown eyes fixed on you, soft and warm, head tilted a little, nodding at the right parts. He was gentle in a way that felt rare. Soft-spoken. He was adorable when he got excited about a reaction working the way it was supposed to and his whole face lit up. He made you melt without even trying. The kind of sweetness you’d been hoping for from your boyfriend and never got.

Your boyfriend only texted when he wanted something. A ride. Attention. Validation. Never just to check in.

So when your phone buzzed during the post-lab write up, you almost didn’t look.

You rolled your eyes looking at your boyfriends texts and moved on to the next chat. Peter’s message was already waiting.

You alternated between Peter and your boyfriend’s messages. You were grinning at your phone—having actual fun for once—that you must’ve swiped and accidentally clicked too fast, sending a risky text to Peter and re-sent a homework link…to your boyfriend.

Your pulse kicked hard. You stared at the screen, thumbs hovering. You could’ve stopped Peter from coming over but you knew exactly what you were doing, because you knew exactly who you really wanted.

You bit your lip. This was wrong. You had a boyfriend. You knew that. The messages are right there. But Peter listened. He made sure you were okay and actually waited for you. He looked at you like you were the only person in the room. And right now he was offering himself up like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You didn’t correct the mix-up. You just texted Peter the address and said you’d wait for him.

Sooner enough, the soft scrape of sneakers on the fire escape ladder reached you. You opened the window. Peter climbed in quiet as a shadow, hoodie pulled up, cheeks slightly flushed.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Wow that was fast…”

He walked closer to you and pulled you in by the waist. You grabbed the front of his hoodie and dragged him into a kiss that was all teeth and need. He made a soft, broken sound against your mouth and melted into it, hands hovering like he was afraid to touch until you yanked them around your waist. The kiss turned filthy and fast, tongues sliding, breath shared, the weeks of tension snapping all at once. You walked him backward until his knees hit the edge of the bed. He went down easy. You followed, straddling his lap, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his jeans.

All Peter did was whimper.

You pushed him flat and climbed higher, knees bracketing his ribs, one hand sliding up to curl around his throat slightly hard, squeezing just enough pressure to make his eyes flutter and his hips jerk up into nothing.

“Please,” he breathed, voice already wrecked. “Please I’ve been waiting—”

“Not yet.” You squeezed a little tighter, watching the way his mouth fell open. “You’ve been so patient and good for me so far.”

His hands settled on your hips, fingers flexing like he needed the contact to stay grounded. You rolled your hips once, slow, letting him feel the heat of you through layers of fabric, then lifted off of him. He made a desperate little sound.

You sat back on his thighs and popped the button of his jeans. The zipper came down next. His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking, the head shiny. You wrapped your fist around him and gave one firm stroke from base to tip. Peter’s head tipped back, a high, needy moan spilling out.

“Look at this fucking cock,” you murmured, thumb smearing the thick bead of precum across his slit until it glistened. “So hard for me already. Did you get like this just from texting me? Sitting in lab next to me all semester, saving my seat like a good boy, asking about my day while I bet your dick was twitching under the table, leaking into your jeans?”

“Y-yes—fuck—”

You tightened your fist and started stroking him slow and filthy, twisting hard on the upstroke, rubbing the sensitive underside of the head until his hips jerked. Every time he tried to fuck up into your hand you pinned his hips down.

“Stay still. Don’t you dare move, pup.”

He whined at the nickname, high and broken, thighs shaking. You kept the strokes lazy and tight, stopping dead every time his breathing got too sharp. When you finally leaned down and dragged the flat of your tongue across his dripping tip, tasting him, he nearly sobbed.

His hand twitched toward your hair.

You slammed his wrist back above his head.

“Nuh-uh. Hands back.”

Peter’s eyes were glassy, pupils blown. “I-I’m sorry, Mommy…”

The word went straight to your body. You rewarded him with another slow, filthy lick, then sucked just the swollen head into your mouth and hollowed your cheeks. His whole body jerked. You pulled off with a wet, obscene pop and shifted lower, cupping his tight balls, rolling them in your palm while your other hand kept stroking him in long, teasing pulls that left him dripping all over your fingers.

“Been thinking about this, haven’t you?” you asked, voice low and mean. “The way you’re leaking for me and calling me ‘mommy’ already. This whole time you just wanted me to ruin this pretty cock. Wanted me to use you, is that right?”

“F-Fuck..mmph—yes—please—”

“Poor thing.” You squeezed his balls firmer, just shy of pain, and watched his stomach jump. “All that smart brain and all you can think about is getting your cock wrecked by me. Tsk tsk, Parker.”

You kept him there forever—stroking, pausing, licking the tip, mouthing and sucking on his balls, never giving him a steady rhythm. Every time his hips started to rock you stopped completely and waited until he was panting and begging like a whore.

“Mmh’Please, Mommy—please, I need you— I’ll be so fucking good, I swear—mm!”

You crawled back up his body and kissed him deep, slipping your tongue into his mouth so he could taste his own precum. Your fist never stopped working his cock, slow and merciless.

“You want me to ride this cock?” you asked against his mouth.

He nodded frantically, almost crying.

“Then ask like a good boy.”

“Please-Please ride me, Mommy. Please use my cock!—mm’fuck yourself on me—I need it—need you…”

You pulled back, stripping your clothes off while he did the same. He stared at you like he was starving. When you finally moved your hips again, you sank down onto him without a warning, inch by thick inch, his moan were even louder. You took every inch until your ass was flush to his hips, cunt pulsing hard around him just to watch his face fall apart.

“Fuck—you’re so fucking warm—so tight—”

You started moving. Slow at first. Rolling your hips, grinding your pussy down on him, lifting almost all the way off so just the head stayed inside before slamming back down. One hand locked around his throat. The other braced on his chest. “What did I say about your hands? Put them back behind your head.” He whimpered in response and did as you told.

Every time he tried to thrust up you squeezed his neck and stopped moving completely.

Peter moaned, high and desperate, hips twitching uselessly. “Mommy—please—your cunt feels so good, I can feel you pulsing around my cock, it’s—fuck—don’t stop—”

You stayed still, deliberately clenching and fluttering around him, feeling his dick throb and leak inside you. “I control this cock. You take what I give you, repeat it.”

“Yes, Mommy. I-I take what you give me. I-—sorry mmgh—please—God! you’re so warm and wet, I-can feel you squeezing my dick—Oh my—”

You rode him harder after that, but never enough for him. Kept him right on the edge, changing tempo the second his breathing got too desperate. Filthy praise and nasty commands poured out of you between wet kisses and how pretty he looked when he was about to cry, how good his cock felt stretching your cunt, how he was going to hold his load in until you said so.

When you finally let the pace build, Peter was shaking underneath you, eyes glossy, mouth open on constant broken little pleas. You could feel him getting close by the way his eyes would roll back and his lips parted without him saying a word. The way his cock twitched and swelled, the way his balls drew up tight, the way his voice cracked on every moan.

You slowed again. Almost stopped.

He sobbed. “No! Please—Mommy—please—I’m so close—I’m so close, I’m so close—your cunt feels too good!—I can’t—”

“Hold it,” you ordered, voice low and cruel, hand still wrapped tight around his throat. “You don’t fucking cum until I say so. Understand? Want to keep being a good boy for me, right?”

“Y-yes—please—” He nodded carefully while his whole body was trembling with the effort, hips stuttering in aborted little thrusts. “You’re p-pulsing—so wet— wet—I can feel every squeeze—fuck—I can feel you dripping—”

You leaned down, tongue lightly brushing his ear, and started moving again with deep rolls of your hips that kept him right on the edge; the mixture of your cunt and his balls slapping together creating a wet skin slap and milking him with every grind.

“Good boy. Stay right there for me. Don’t you dare cum for me yet.”

He whimpered, high and shattered, he couldn’t help but remove his hands from his head and tightly grip your hips, fingers digging bruises into them as he fought his load back. You dragged it out just a little longer, feeling his cock throb and twitch desperately inside you, listening to every broken cry of his with skin wet sounds.

“Cum for me, pup. Fill my pussy up. Show me how much you needed this.”

He broke with a wrecked cry, hips jerking hard as he flooded you with his cum, thick and hot. You kept riding him through it, grinding down to milk every last spurt out of him until he was oversensitive and sobbing, then finally slowed and collapsed forward against his chest.

Both of you were breathing hard. Peter’s hands came up, shaky and hesitant, and rested on your back like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Good job…”

He nodded, voice completely destroyed. “Always. Whatever you want. Just… don’t make me leave yet.”

You smiled against his skin and stayed right where you were, his cum already starting to leak out around his softening cock.

© iheartwhre

[harvey101]

How to pass calculus

Guide by a clueless girl navigating university

Peter Parker x fem! reader

What happens when caffeine and lack of sleep catches on to you and the desperation to pass the class will make you do anything

Takes place right after no way home

Warnings: mention of blood.

You can read this part without the before parts.

Part 4 Series Masterlist

It had been four months since university started and about three months since you'd become friends with Peter.

He still disappeared randomly, was always half-asleep in class, and somehow still managed to make terribly loud noises in the middle of the night. The only difference now was that they came with a very loud "Sorry!" afterward.

He was still the most awkward and coolest person you knew.

Everything was going well, you had made friends, you were finally understanding classes and Peter had put you on a ‘systematic spending’ so you didn’t over spend on things that didn’t matter. Everything was good really, except… this overwhelming crush you had seemed to develop on your neighbour. 

You couldn’t put a finger on when exactly it started, but somewhere between the study sessions, coffee runs, and sitting together in comfortable silence, his presence had etched itself into your mind. 

You smiled to yourself at the thought.

He was an absolute cutie.

“So now you've started daydreaming about him too?” Jenny's voice pulled you from your thoughts.

“Oh my God, no!” you yelped as she dropped down beside you on the stairs.

“Girl, I swear to God, does he even exist?”

You gave her the look.

“I mean, you keep saying he's a genius, he's cute, he helps you study, and he's your neighbor?” she said, counting each point off on her fingers.

You nodded.

“If he's perfect, that doesn't mean he doesn't exist.”

“Besides,” you shrugged, “maybe they still manufacture good men.”

“Right.” 

She pulled out her phone and shoved it in your face. 

“There’s a freshman party three blocks from your place.”

“Jenny—”

“You have to be there at nine sharp tonight.”

Before you could protest, she slapped a hand over your mouth.

“Don’t give me the 'I don't know if I can' bullshit. I want my bestie there with me.”

You sigh. There was no getting out of this one, but going out once in a while wasn’t so bad either. 

“Alright, you win. I’ll be there.” 

Instantly her sour expression blooms into a genuine smile. “Wear the best dress you have and do your makeup real nice!” you laugh along with her. “Okay, send me the address. I’ll be there.” you smile parting ways with her to go home. 

The walk back home is uneventful.Music flooded your mind through your earphones.  It was getting colder, the snow making a thin carpet on the sidewalks. The closer you get to your apartment, the quieter the neighborhood becomes. You take fast steps trying to get home sooner and rest for a while before you have to go out again. 

The elevator dinged, letting you off at your floor. As you walk to your door, you pass by Peter's apartment. Maybe you can get him to go with you? Just, maybe? You ring the bell and wait for a while. 

No response. You try again. 

He’s probably not home. You sighed. What were you even thinking? He was definitely not the kind of person who would willingly go to a party. 

You unlocked your door and slipped out of your sneakers, tossed your bag onto the couch, and headed straight for your bedroom to decide on tonight's look. You pulled out a black dress that fell just above your knees.

Maybe you shouldn't wear this in weather like this. But the other options didn't look nearly as good. Pairing it with stockings should be fine.

Yeah. You could make that work.

You laid the outfit on your bed, picked out a pair of earrings, and set everything neatly on your dressing table.

5;47 PM

You plopped onto your bed.

The exhaustion from the day was already beginning to settle into your bones. With a yawn, you grabbed your phone and set an alarm for 7 PM, fully convinced it would drag you back into the land of the living.

You should have known, the alarm never stood a chance against your sleep.

The next time you opened your eyes, the room was dark. For one second you're figuring out where you are and then the ringtone of your phone blasts in your ears. 

9:27 PM.

Twenty-three missed calls.

Fifteen messages from Jenny.

You shot upright so fast you nearly fell off the bed.

"Oh my God!” You scrambled to send her a text that you are getting ready as you rush into the bathroom to make yourself presentable. 

The next 15 minutes pass in a blur, from putting on the stocking without tearing them to almost stabbing your face with the earrings. You quickly put on a simple everyday makeup before Jenny’s spirit starts haunting you. 

You were hopping around the apartment trying to force your foot into a heel when— 

Bang.

You stop trying to force your heel into place. That was easily the loudest crash to come from your neighbor's apartment since you moved in.

“Peter?” you say instinctively.

A little concern settles in your chest when no apology follows. Usually there was always a sheepish "Sorry!" after the noise. Maybe you should check on him.

 Your phone rings, flashing Jenny’s contact. 

“GURL, IF YOU'RE GHOSTING ME, I'M EATING ALL YOUR SANDWICHES FROM NOW ON!”

You wince and pull the phone away from your ear. “Jenny, I'm sorry! I'm leaving right now! I'll be there in ten!” She yells something back, but the music blaring behind her completely drowns it out.

You shove your phone into your purse and try, once again, to force your foot into the heel. A knock at the door startles you. Frowning, you abandon the shoe and hurry over.

Through the peephole, you catch a glimpse of messy brown curls.

Peter.

Your hand is already on the handle before your brain catches up. The door swings open. He's standing there, his hair is a mess, a bruise darkens the side of his face.

Before you can ask what happened, he's moving.

The next second, he crashed into you, arms wrapping around your waist with enough force to knock the air from your lungs. 

“Peter?” you asked, instinctively wrapping your arms around him.

 This was strange. He had never hugged you before. In fact, he usually avoided any kind of physical contact whenever possible. You let him lean into you, quietly savoring the rare moment when his guard seemed to be completely down.

The silence made your smile falter.

Usually he'd be apologizing by now. Tripping over his own words. Explaining why he was at your door. Saying literally anything. Instead, he just held on. His grip trembled. A small crease formed between your brows.

"Peter? Are you okay?"

Still nothing. Then it hit you, a sharp metallic scent. At first you couldn't place it. It was mixed with the cold air from the hallway and the faint smell of laundry detergent from his hoodie.

But it was there.

Strong and so so wrong.

Slowly, you shifted one hand higher up his back, your palm meeting with the dampness of his hoodie. For a second your brain refused to process it. Maybe he'd gotten caught in the snow.

Maybe—

But it was warm, so very warm.

Your breath caught in your throat.  Slowly, you pulled your hand away. The dim lights of your apartment caught the dark red smeared across your palm.

Blood.

The world seemed to stop.

A lot of blood.

"Peter." The name left your lips as little more than a frightened whisper. 

“It’s okay, I’m okay. Just need a minute.” He mumbled into the crook of your neck. You take a few steps back, trying to guide him to the couch,his knees buckled.

A strangled gasp escaped your throat as his full weight suddenly dropped against you.

"Peter!"

You barely managed to keep the two of you upright. His arm slipped from around your shoulders.

"Hey, hey, hey, stay with me."

"I'm fine," he mumbled, flashing a tired smile.

“You are literally bleeding on my floor.” The panic and adrenaline flooding your system made your stomach twist. For a horrifying second, you thought you might actually throw up.

No.

Need to Focus.

You took a shaky breath and wrapped an arm around his waist.

“Come on.”

Somehow, you managed to guide him to the couch.

Every step made your heart lurch. 

Once he was seated, his head immediately fell back against the cushions.

“Don't move.”

You didn't even bother with his response. 

Rushing into the bathroom, you practically tore the first aid kit from beneath the sink. By the time you returned, your hands were shaking. You dropped the kit onto the coffee table and began pulling out disinfectant, gauze, and bandages.

“Pete, I need you to take off the hoodie, okay?”

For a second he simply stared at you through half-lidded eyes,then he gave a small nod.

He weakly complies with you helping him take it off. Your entire body freezes as the hoodie comes off. A sharp long line cuts through his upper back, blood pouring. You try to keep it calm, try to hide the terror in your eyes but it's too much, too much that you cannot help him with this. 

Trying to keep your hands from shaking, you wiped the blood and pressed on the wound- hard enough to stop the bleeding but not as much that would hurt him more. He didn't flinch, he didn't complain, nor did he make a sound. For the first time since you've known him, he was just quiet. 

“Okay Peter” You take a deep breath “I’m just gonna call the ambulance, okay?”   

"No!" the word comes out sharper than he intended. “Cannot… let anyone know.” His voice comes out in a whisper. 

“I just need to be patched up and have a night's rest.” he looks into your eyes with that pleading look. 

“This- This is just too much, something terrible will happen if we-” you're cut off by his hands pulling you back. 

“Please, just let me be this once.” 

You sigh, sinking back into the couch beside him. You try your best to gently dab the disinfectant on the wound. Every few seconds he lets out a small hiss at the burn. You take the gauze and wrap it around the wound. It was still bleeding but it had considerably slowed down. You lightly graze your fingertips on the bandaged area. 

This isn’t right. 

He shouldn't be doing this. 

 “Peter look” You lift his chin forcing him to finally look at you. “I’m not trying to be in your business but whatever it is that you're doing; it’s not worth it.” He just stares at you for a while before looking back down again. 

“You don’t understand.” he whispers. 

“If this is about the money then I know you could get a better job anywhere with how smart you are.” 

He laughs bitterly “Is that what you think this is about?” The anger in his voice almost scares you. Somewhere in the back of your mind you can hear your phone ringing but you chose not to mind it. 

“Peter, I know I don't know much about you. Or what you do. But nothing is worth this.” You gesture to the bandages sitting on his body. 

“It’s not like there is anyone waiting for me to come back safely.” 

“I am!” you cover your mouth as soon as the words leave your lips. 

“No no no no no..” His voice breaks into a whisper. He grabs your shoulder tightly, the grip of his fingers almost leaving a bruise. “Look at me okay, I am not somebody you should care about or even think about for that matter.” 

“What do you mean Peter! First you come into my house with blood pouring from your body and then you say I shouldn't care about you?” You scoff “You can’t tell me who I should care about and who I should not. And I care about you” your voice softens. “I really do Peter, I really really care about you.” 

Your hands reach up to his face and this time, he doesn't pull back. 

You press your lips on his forehead, the contact finally breaking him. He just stares at you for a while trying to stop the emotions trying to take over him. His breathing quickens and a few stray tears roll down his cheeks. 

“It’s okay Peter, I’m here.”  and that finally breaks him. A strangled sob escapes him as he buries his face against your shoulder, clutching the fabric of your dress as though you're gonna disappear the second he lets go.

“I’m sorry…” he whimpered between sobs. “So, so sorry.”

His fingers tightened around the fabric of your dress.

“Everything’s…” He sucked in a shaky breath. “It’s all because of me.”

“Peter—”

“No.” He shook his head violently. “You don't understand.”

His voice cracked.

“Every time I try to fix something, it just gets worse. People get hurt. Things fall apart.” Another strangled sob escaped him. “And I keep telling myself it'll be different next time, but it never is.”

You felt your heart twist painfully in your chest.

“They are all gone because of me, all because I wasn’t better.” 

Your fingers run through his hair trying to calm him. “It’s okay, everything is fine now, you don’t have to fight alone anymore.” He doesn't say anything, just holds you tighter as he sobs. 

Somewhere between sobs and reassurance, you both fall asleep on the couch.

@kallsaysomething

Pls let me know if you wanna be in the taglist and hope you guys liked this chapter!

[hyeeeeelaps]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ

+18,,, smutty content,,, mdni

Summary: after THAT scene, peter starts to feel a strong urge to put a cute baby in your belly, maybe one just as cute as the little boy outside the hospital, although considering you, it probably would be

Warnings: p in v, porn links, unprotected sex, overstimulation, dirty talk, creampie, belly bulge, pregnancy kink, etcetera, etcetera

at this point, it had become a need for him, an imperative that he simply had to fulfill. you didn’t quite understand where peter’s sudden desire had come from, but if he was going to fuck you this good to make it happen, you weren’t planning on complaining about it, to be honest.

you were lying on the bed, your legs spread wide open, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as he thrust into you over and over again. his thick, hot cock opened you up mercilessly, sliding all the way in with every thrust he made, you could feel his pelvis and pubic hair grinding against your clit. you could see his face excited and truly focused on the task at hand, his eyebrows furrowed, his mouth slightly parted, sweat glistening on his forehead. he was pounding into you so hard that you could feel his dick almost reaching your throat, thrusting so deep that the air escaped you in broken moans.

“ah… p-peter… fuck… it’s so… so deep…” you moaned, your voice trembling and your nails digging into his broad shoulders. “…don’t… don’t stop… please…”

he let out an almost animalistic growl and picked up the pace. his hips slammed against yours, creating a wet, obscene sound that echoed through the room; the bed creaked loudly under the weight of both of you, making you think, in a rare moment of clarity, that it would be kind of funny if the bed broke right in the middle of you fucking. you couldn’t understand how peter looked so good when he’d only recently been discharged from the hospital. maybe it was because of his quick regeneration, since he was half-spider or something like that; but his body moved with renewed, tireless strength, as if all the pain and weakness had vanished just so he could fuck you like this.

peter, on the other hand, couldn’t help but recall the lovely feeling of appreciation he’d felt upon leaving the hospital, a feeling that had grown after briefly interacting with that child outside the hospital. now he wanted one for himself. to put a cute baby in your belly. a cute little child who looked like you, to play with, who would run around here and there. the idea drove him crazy. every thrust made him feel closer to that desire.

“look at me…” he commanded in a hoarse voice, gripping your chin so you wouldn’t look away. “i want to see your face when i fill you… when i get you pregnant…”

your eyes widened, a sharp moan slipped from your throat as he thrust especially deep and his cockhead began to pound against your most sensitive spot.

“ahhh…! peter… it feels… it feels too much…” you moaned between gasps as your legs instinctively tried to wrap around his waist to pull him even closer to you. “your cock… fuck… it’s filling me up completely…”

“that’s what i want…” he murmured against your mouth, biting your lower lip before licking it. “i want to feel you squeeze me… i want my cum to stay deep inside… i don’t want a single drop to escape…” his hands slid down to your hips, gripping them tightly to hold you in place as he thrust faster and harder. the sound of skin against skin filled the room, mingling with your increasingly uncontrolled moans.

you could feel the bulge in your belly. every time he thrust all the way in, his thick, long cock pressed upward, creating a small, visible bulge beneath your skin. your hands trembled as they moved down there, touching the spot where he was moving inside you.

“look at it…” he gasped, almost mesmerized, covering your hand with his and pressing down slightly. “i’m so deep inside… i’m almost piercing right through you… i’m going to fill you up so much that it’ll show…”

“peter… ahh… nngh… i can’t… it’s too much…” you moaned as your voice broke into a long, high-pitched moan when he changed the angle and started rubbing directly against that spot that made you see stars. “ahhh…! there… right there… fuck… i’m gonna… i’m gonna come…”

“do it…” he growled, without stopping for a second. “come on my cock… squeeze me tight… i want to feel it… i want your pussy to milk me dry, every last drop…”

the orgasm hit you like a wave. your back arched, a muffled scream escaping your throat as your pussy clenched violently around him, sucking him in, trying to hold him inside. moans escaped you one after another, formless, just broken and desperate sounds.

“ahhh…! ahh… peter… peter…!”

he didn’t stop. he kept thrusting through your orgasm, taking advantage of how tight and wet you were, fucking you through the orgasm until the overstimulation made you writhe beneath him.

“w-wait… it’s… it’s too much… ahh… i can’t…” you moaned between sobs of pleasure, your legs trembling uncontrollably. “peter… please… it feels… it feels too good…”

“hang in there a little longer…” he gasped against your neck, biting the skin there. “i’m almost… i’m almost there… i’m going to fill you up… i’m going to leave you so full of me that you won’t be able to walk tomorrow without feeling me dripping down your thighs…”

his thrusts grew more erratic, deeper, more desperate. you could feel his cock throbbing inside you, swelling even more. the bulge in your belly grew more pronounced with each final thrust.

“take it…” he growled, his voice breaking. “take it all… i’m going to… i’m going to get you pregnant… now…”

with a long, guttural moan, he buried himself deep inside you and came. you felt the first hot, thick spurt shoot against your cervix, followed by another and another, filling you without stopping. his seed was abundant, hot, and kept flowing as he thrust in small, gentle movements, making sure it all stayed as deep inside as possible.

“ahhh… fuck… yes… take me… take it all…” he gasped into your ear, still trembling. “stay like that… don’t let it come out… i want it to stay… i want this to work…”

you could only moan weakly, your body still trembling from the aftereffects of your orgasm and the sensation of being so full. his cock was still inside you, still hard, still throbbing, and every little movement caused a bit of cum to seep around it, sliding hotly down your entrance.

“peter…” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “it feels… so full… so warm…”

he lifted his head slightly, looking at you with that mix of tenderness and intense lust that only he knew how to convey at a moment like this. one of his hands slid down to your belly, caressing the small bulge that was still visible where his cock continued to fill you.

“you’re going to get pregnant…” he murmured, almost like a promise. “i know… i’m sorry… and if it doesn’t happen this time… i’m going to fuck you again… and again… until i make it happen…”

and then, without even pulling out of you, he started moving again. slowly at first, pushing his own seed deeper inside, causing the excess to spill out in a completely obscene scene.

“ahhh…! peter… again…? no… i can’t… i’m still… ahh…”

“yes, you can…” he replied, smiling against your mouth as he picked up the pace again. “you’ll be able to… because i’m not going to stop until you’re too dizzy to speak… just moans… just my name… and my cum dripping out of you…”

2026 ,,, @hyeeeeelaps ''' spiderman stuff

[thewhoreforhordes]

. 𖥔 ݁ ˖ there’s a light in your eyes

— 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙩? ; peter parker x gn!reader

— 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩’𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣’? ; mixed media fic! [ txt + written ]

mutual pining, you know he’s spiderman, happy spidey, friends to lovers, fluff, CEO (ned) and Hatty (mj) the goats as always

— 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙚? ; hey guys!

miss me? i know i’ve been kinda dipping in and out for a few weeks but i’m here! i have a few connor fics in the drafts for the people who found me through my "1-800" series, i've just been too lazy to post em.... 😢

anyway! m watched brand new day and was possessed by their past marvel (spiderman) obsession so here is some fluff after that heart-shattering movie! m loves you all, be good people.

[ also i had to forgo my typical layout to fit all the images 😔 ]

You pull back your curtains to find Peter stuck to the outer wall of your apartment building, donning his classic crimson Spider-Suit. You pull the window open with a huff of effort, leaning against the sill, “Well, hello there, Spider-Man. Come to save me?”

You can’t see your best friend’s face behind the mask, however you’d assume his expression is cast in mild exasperation. Against your theory, he sighs, extending a hand, “Yup. Come with me if you want to live.”

You snort a laugh, pressing your palm into his and firmly curling your fingers to form a grip, an anchor point to heave yourself onto the fire escape, “You wish you were as cool as Terminator.”— The arachnid-hero fastens a sturdy arm around your waist, ensuring your security before ejecting a durable rope of web from his wrist, “I am way cooler than Terminator.”

Enclosing his body with your limbs, you yelp once you feel his feet break contact with the ground, sending you two into the air with a swing. After a moment of gathering your bearings, you laugh, “Bullshit!”

“No, it’s true! I have webs!”

“He’s a robot, Peter! Robot beats spider any day.”

“No way,” he scoffs, adorning an expression mistakable for a pout—like he wants you to think he’s cooler (robot or not).

A benevolent furrow knits its way into your brow, mirthful annoyance seeding its way onto your face.

The two of you soar over the New York city skyline, the sounds and sights beguiling you completely. You understood why Peter liked to do this, it was so peaceful up here, it was like nothing could touch you.

You were unstoppable.

Okay, okay, maybe the method of transportation was something to get used to at first—it took a few blocks before you managed to dislodge your head from where it lay buried in Peter’s shoulder, too scared to look out at such a height, but with him behind the wheel–er–web, so determined to keep you safe, you couldn’t help but melt in his arms.

Following a bout of tranquil—— stillness, you’re jostled to attention by the impact of Peter executing a rough (but harmless) landing onto a rooftop.

Brushing yourself off, you ruminate about your surroundings, the usual barren landscape of a Queens roof now done up in fairy lights, the floor padded with soft blankets and cushiony pillows. Peter, as if sensing your confusion, pipes up, “It’s a picnic—hang-out—sunset-watch-party—thing,” his words are rushed, nervous, and certainly not the most illustrating, but you find yourself cheesing anyway.

You plop yourself down on the make-shift mountain of pillows, to which Peter follows suit, settling in comfortably.

As you overlook the city you’ve known your whole life, the setting sun over the horizon paints the scene in warm hues of amber and rose, “Wow,” is all you can manage at the sight.

Peter is, too, captivated by a view, his attention fixed to the shades of golden light casting your features, “Yeah,” he mutters in response, transfixed by your beauty.

“If I were Spider-Man, I’d do this every evening,” you mutter, words any louder threatening to break the moment’s peace.

Peter doesn’t reply, instead focused on the way your mouth moves around the words, the minute scrunch of your nose, and how your eyes just... shine.

When you drag your eyes away to see why Peter has suddenly gone mute, you didn’t expect-— him to staring at you first, especially not with that far-off lovelorn gaze he currently wears.

“What?” you ask softly.

“Just.. you look really good in this light,” he manages, eyes deliberately flittering over your form, internally cataloguing each contrast and proportion, committing your exact profile to memory.

He thought you were the most angelic person in the whole wide world, and outer-space.

You shy away from his scrutiny, the color of your face now mirroring the pink that chromas the sky, Peter’s stare never wavers.

“I... really like you,” he begins, causing you to perk up nominally.

“You make me feel all stupid inside and I don’t know how to deal with it,” he chuckles, neck craning to meet your gaze, “I love you.”

He halts, retreating a shade, “I know... what comes with being me, with being with me—what I have to do,” he sighs, gaze falling to his gloved hand which squeezes into a fist before falling open, “it worries me, the thought of not being able to protect you.”

You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen him look this somber.

“I wake up i-in a cold sweat just thinking about it,” he laughs, though the normally joyful sound holds no humor, “I’m so in love with you, I don’t know what to do.”

— “It’s so.. reckless for us to even be doing this, let alone me telling you this, but it eats at me,” his eyes finally make their way back to yours which hold a sympathy that makes him weak.

“Peter, you can’t let this—” you emphasize with a tug at the spandex of his suit, “Spider-Man, stop you from being Peter.”

His nose scrunches at the pinch, but he nods in understanding regardless. The moment dies down, an air of quiet filling the space before the unspoken words make Peter antsy, causing him to stutter out, “I’d really like to be your boyfriend. W-will you let me?” the delivery is just about what you’d expect from Peter, awkward and overthought with a crooked grin—regardless, you’d never felt more in love. You beam, your hand rising to cup his face. You don’t know when it happened, but at some point you had began leaning into him, the two of you so close, your breath fanning his face, almost close enough to—

Smooch.

Your lips meet in the most reverent kiss, Peter’s touch so gentle like you’ll shatter at the wrong move. It’s everything you ever craved, the amorous embrace filling you with such light. Just as quickly as you joined, the two of you part, foreheads pressed together as you breathe each other in.

“I would love for you to be my boyfriend, Peter.”

[andnevertheless]

I Love You And I Don’t Even Know You | Peter Parker | One-Shot

PLOT: After Spider-man saved your life, you become obsessed with him and create  spideytracker to follow his every move. Little do you know he’s following yours too. 

WARNINGS: not full yandere but yandere-esque moments, stalker x stalker, yall both have problematic issues tbh what is wrong with you, Brand New Day Spoilers, BND villain is not a part of this story. You get stalked (by Peter and by others).

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

Peter Parker is an incredibly lonely guy.

He stalks your Instagram profile and watches your stories, seeing you live your pretty life in libraries and parks. You’re so happy, and you’re completely out of danger. Away from him.

He misses you, so deeply, every day. He knows he’s staying away from you for a reason, but God does he hate himself for it. He keeps hoping that one day you’ll just figure it out like you did before. That you’ll just remember him and run into his arms. But it doesn’t work like that.

He goes through his days swinging through streets and curving through crowds of people cheering his name, but nobody knows who he is when the mask is off.

When he’s home, he doesn’t have a person to hug him and talk him through the day he’s had. He could have one if he wanted to, if he really wanted to. There are neighbours and people he sees on the street every day, but none of them are you, so why should he even bother?

Sometimes he catches himself opening your profile without even thinking about it. He knows your username by heart. Knows which stories you tend to post late at night, which books you've been reading, which café you seem to like most. 

He tells himself he's only checking because he wants to know you're safe, because if something happened to you and he didn't know, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself.

But you're safe.

That's the point.

You're living a life that doesn't need him in it.

And Peter hates how much that hurts.

He'll watch a story of you laughing with someone he doesn't recognize and pause the video before it disappears. He'll stare at the screen for a few seconds too long, wondering what you're talking about, whether you're happy, whether you ever think about him at all.

Then he'll lock his phone and throw it onto his bed.

Five minutes later, he'll pick it up again.

Maybe that's the worst part.

He isn't Spider-Man when he's looking at your profile. He's just Peter. A lonely boy sitting in a quiet apartment, desperately missing someone who doesn't even remember that he exists.

You’re lonely too.

You sit alone in libraries and parks, wondering how you ever made it through high school without making a single friend.

Seriously, it’s like there’s this part of you that’s been taken away, something supposed to be there that’s just missing, but you don’t know what it is.

Sure, people talk to you, but you’re never the first person to be invited to the party, you’re never hanging out in people’s houses or waking up to texts sent in the middle of the night.

You wander through the world feeling disconnected and unseen, waiting for story views to pop up, but it’s just some faceless bot account following you.

You run to your favourite cafe, hoping for someone to sweep you off your feet, hoping to meet someone who’ll finally find you. But you meet no one.

You sit by the window with your coffee, watching couples pass by outside, wondering what it must feel like to have someone who actually notices when you’re gone. Someone who would look at their phone and wonder why you haven't replied yet. Someone who would save a seat for you without having to ask.

Your phone stays stubbornly quiet.

Sometimes you post little pieces of your life just to see if anyone notices. A picture of your coffee. A book you're reading. The sunset outside your bedroom window. You tell yourself you don't care about the views, but you check anyway. And when you see that one unfamiliar account has watched every single story, you find yourself wondering who they are.

You start imagining ridiculous possibilities.

Maybe it's someone from school.

Maybe it's someone you've passed on the street.

Maybe it's someone who has noticed you without you noticing them.

Maybe it’s just a bot.

The thought makes your chest ache.

Because that's all you really want.

To be noticed.

To be found.

You don't know that somewhere across the city, someone is watching those same stories.

Someone who remembers you.

Someone who has been desperately trying to stay away.

And while you sit alone in your favourite cafe, quietly wishing that somebody would finally find you, Peter Parker is sitting alone in his apartment, looking at your face on his phone and wishing he could be that person.

But you do have one person. 

You have Spider-man.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You remember the first time you met—not counting passing glances on school field trips, where you were both just two people in a crowd who happened to look at each other for a second too long.

You had been walking home late at night.

Probably not the most appealing circumstance for a person like you to be in, but nonetheless, you walked.

The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that made every little sound seem louder than it actually was. Your shoes against the pavement. The occasional car passing by. The rustling of trees whenever the wind picked up.

Of course you knew there was a man behind you, but you prayed to the universe that you weren’t in danger.

You prayed it was just a normal passerby who was trying to overtake you.

He creeped closer and closer.

You didn't turn around.

You just kept walking, pretending you hadn't noticed him while calculating in your head if you had enough time to dial 911 without him noticing.

Your phone was already in your hand.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

You were trying to convince yourself that you were being paranoid.

Then you heard footsteps speed up behind you.

Your heart dropped.

You turned your head—

And suddenly, a figure swung down from the darkness.

Spider-Man grabbed the man behind you before he could get any closer. The man's pocket knife clattered onto the pavement, spinning underneath the yellow light of a streetlamp.

You barely had time to process what was happening before Spider-Man used the streetlight as leverage, swung the man around and webbed him against the nearest wall.

You stood completely frozen.

Your hands were shaking.

Your eyes were fixed on the knife lying several feet away.

You nearly cried when you realized what could've happened to you.

Spider-Man dusted himself off before turning toward you.

For a second, he just looked at you.

Then he approached.

“Hey…”

He said it like he had so much more on his mind.

“You okay?”

You speechlessly nodded, covering your mouth with your hand.

“Spider-Man.” Your voice came out embarrassingly small. “You saved my life.”

Spider-Man gave a soft laugh.

“Kind of my job.”

You looked over his shoulder at the man still struggling against the wall.

Then back at him.

“Why would you save me?” you asked, honestly amazed. “I’m just an anybody on the street at 10 PM. I’m like, one in a million other people out there.”

Spider-Man's expression changed.

Not dramatically.

Just enough for you to notice.

He seemed almost sad that you'd said it.

“Don't say that.”

He stepped a little closer.

“You're not anybody. You're somebody.”

Your throat tightened.

“And if I could find you and save you, then maybe one day you could find me.”

He held out his hand.

“Deal?”

For a moment, you just stared at it.

His red-and-blue glove was extended toward you, waiting.

Behind him, the man suddenly started shouting.

Spider-Man glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, come on.”

He shot a web over the man's mouth.

The screaming stopped.

“Much better.”

Then he looked back at you and kept his hand in the air like nothing had happened.

You couldn't help it.

You laughed.

It was shaky and breathless, but it was the first genuine laugh you'd managed all night.

You reached for his hand.

Your heart was beating fast, from the fear and from the strange high of being seen.

Actually seen.

Not as some random person walking home.

Not as another face in a crowd.

Somebody.

You shook his hand quickly.

“I promise.”

Spider-Man tilted his head.

“I'll find you.”

For a second, he didn't say anything.

Then you could've sworn you saw his lips behind the mask shift into an upward curve.

“Good.”

He released your hand.

Then, with a ridiculously cool little salute, he turned toward the street.

You watched as he shot a web into the distance.

He looked back at you one last time.

And then he swung away.

You stood there for several seconds after he'd disappeared.

The city suddenly felt different.

The same streets.

The same streetlights.

The same buildings you'd walked past a hundred times before.

But somehow, they didn't feel quite as lonely anymore.

You looked down at your hand.

The one he'd shaken.

You smiled.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like somebody might actually remember you.

You didn't know it yet, but you were going to remember him.

Every detail.

The sound of his voice.

The way he tilted his head when he listened.

The stupid little salute before he left.

The exact words he'd said to you.

You're somebody.

You would replay them in your head on lonely nights.

You would think about them whenever you felt invisible.

You would eventually search for him.

And eventually, you would make him a promise you didn't even realize you were making that night:

You were going to find him.

What you didn't know was that, somewhere above the city, Spider-Man had stopped on a rooftop.

He looked back at the street below.

At you.

He couldn't hear what you were saying from this distance.

But he could see the way you were still looking in the direction he'd disappeared.

And for reasons he couldn't quite explain, he stayed there a little longer.

Just to make sure you got home safely.

Would you find him?

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

The obsession started slowly.

It started as just checking social media to see if anyone had caught that moment between you and Spider-Man. Then following his hashtag to get more photos of him. Watching news reports to see just how much crime he could stop in a day, checking news articles to make sure everyone was being nice about him.

Maybe getting curious and stumbling across subreddits trying to discover his identity.

Soon enough, you were a Spider-Man fanatic.

You had a notification on your phone for every mention of Spider-Man in the media, and your entire feed was just pictures of him caught by civilians. But it wasn't enough. They were always far away and blurry.

You needed to get closer.

That's when you discovered peterpictures.

Peter figured he could probably start making some money if he got successful enough posting pictures of Spider-Man. So he started taking pictures during his fights and his free-time swings.

Spider-Man doing backflips.

Holding an ice cream.

Sitting by the sunset.

These photos all went viral, and Peter started earning a decent amount from journalists asking to use his pictures in their articles.

He gained followers pretty quickly, everyone amazed at how high-quality and personal his pictures were, how he seemed to capture moments nobody else even noticed.

Ggcrazy: he’s just like me fr

Danieldragon: this shot is INSANE HELLO???

Sticksandstones: tuff af

There was one account he noticed.

One account that seemed to be the first to all of his posts, constantly commenting and complimenting his work.

Spideytracker: how did you get this shot? 1 month ago

Spideytracker: He looks incredible here. 3 weeks ago

Spideytracker: THE LIGHTING! THE COMPOSITION! 2 weeks ago

Spideytracker: You are spideynation’s savior btw. 1 week ago

He thought it was just a normal Spider-Man fan account who liked his pictures. He didn't really think much of it.

Until they messaged him.

 spideytracker: Hi! I absolutely love your photos, do you think I could reupload this photo to my account? With credits of course!

It wasn't the first time he had received this type of request, but he usually said no since they never offered compensation. He was happy they were at least asking, since most people usually just took his photos without permission and removed the watermark.

 peterpictures: hey there! I’d be fine with that but I usually require a payment to use my photos?

 spideytracker: I expected that! How much do you need?

 peterpictures: Oh! Uh maybe like $10-15?

 spideytracker: [Sent $20]

Peter stared at his screen in shock.

 peterpictures: holy cow, thank you so much!

 spideytracker: no problem! I love your work!

Peter smiled.

There was something weirdly nice about the interaction.

Peter found himself clicking on their profile.

 spideytracker

The profile picture was a little cartoon Spider-Man.

Their bio read: catching the city's favorite neighborhood menace 🕷️

He laughed.

Then he started scrolling.

And scrolling.

And scrolling.

The account wasn't just reposting Spider-Man photographs.

There were maps.

Screenshots of news reports.

Timelines of sightings.

Locations marked with little red dots.

Posts comparing different Spider-Man sightings and trying to determine whether he had a predictable patrol route.

Peter's smile slowly disappeared.

Oh.

This wasn't a casual fan account.

This person was serious.

He clicked on one of their posts.

 spideytracker: okay so we KNOW he was spotted in Queens at 8:42, but someone caught him in Midtown at 8:57. Either he can travel way faster than we thought or there's something we're missing.

Peter stared at the screen.

They're actually pretty good.

He clicked another.

Then another.

There were hundreds.

They'd even started documenting the types of crimes Spider-Man responded to most frequently.

Peter couldn't help himself.

He sent a message.

 peterpictures: okay this is actually kind of insane lol

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

 spideytracker: WHAT IS

 peterpictures: your account

 spideytracker: OH 😭

 peterpictures: how long have you been doing this?

There was a pause.

 spideytracker: since i saw him for the first time

Peter's fingers stopped over the keyboard.

 peterpictures: like... how long?

 spideytracker: a few months…

Peter leaned back against his pillow.

A few months.

He looked at the account again.

There was something almost familiar about the way they talked.

Something he couldn't quite place.

 peterpictures: you ever actually met him?

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

 spideytracker: once

 peterpictures: no way

 spideytracker: he saved me

Peter stared at that message.

His stomach dropped.

Peter looked back at the account.

Then at the little cartoon Spider-Man profile picture.

Then back at the message.

 peterpictures: what did he say to you?

The response came quickly.

 spideytracker: that's personal 😭

Peter laughed quietly.

Fair enough.

 peterpictures: okay okay. sorry lol

 spideytracker: he told me i was somebody

Peter stopped laughing.

His eyes stayed fixed on the screen.

There was no way.

It had to be a coincidence.

There were thousands of people Spider-Man had saved.

Millions, probably.

But still...

He clicked back onto the profile.

He looked at the photographs.

Then the maps.

Oh god, you even have a website dedicated to tracking his movements through social media posts.

He found himself wondering what you looked like.

Not because he was trying to uncover your identity.

Just curiosity.

That's what he told himself.

He clicked onto the account's tagged posts.

Nothing.

He checked the followers.

Nothing.

He checked the profile picture again.

Nothing.

Peter eventually put his phone down.

Across the city, you were doing exactly the same thing.

You had discovered  peterpictures several weeks ago and had become increasingly fascinated by the mysterious photographer behind it.

Nobody seemed to know who he was.

He never posted pictures of himself.

Never showed his face.

But somehow he was always there.

Always close enough to Spider-Man to capture photographs nobody else could.

You started wondering how.

You opened his profile again.

Then his tagged posts.

Then his comments.

You started noticing patterns.

He seemed to know exactly where Spider-Man would be.

Almost like he wasn't following Spider-Man at all.

Almost like he knew where Spider-Man was going to be before Spider-Man even arrived.

You smiled at the thought.

Then opened your messages.

 spideytracker: okay i have a question

Peter's phone buzzed.

He picked it up immediately.

 peterpictures: shoot

You typed:

 spideytracker: how do you always get these pictures before everyone else?

Peter stared at the message.

For the first time, he wondered if maybe he'd made a mistake.

Then he smiled.

 peterpictures: maybe i'm just really good at my job ;)

You rolled your eyes at your screen.

 spideytracker: suspicious.

Peter laughed.

 peterpictures: paranoid.

 peterpictures: I hang upside down from street lights and climb walls to get some of my shots.

 spideytracker: taking inspiration from the man himself I see? I should learn from you.

Peter smiled at his phone, he had just found the person he'd been looking for.

He just didn't know it yet.ִ

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

[Tumblr has a block limit so read the rest here on AO3!]

[windbl0ws]

Hopelessly Devoted

peter parker x reader

3.5k words!

After 5 months in a relationship with flash, you start to get bored. Everyday feels the same with him , and everyday for those 5 months you close your eyes and wish it was peter. And everyday for those same 5 months peter has been biting his tongue, waiting for you to wake up and realize you deserve better, waiting for you to realize he can give you what you crave so deeply.

Fluff! some angst? I hope you enjoy!!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ive been dating flash for 5 months, its ok? I mean it feels normal, but basic normal not fun normal. Sure, he's rich, he throws good parties, he buys me nice things, but he's so boring. I don't feel the spark that you're supposed to feel, the same thing goes on every single day. He picks me up, we make out, we go to school, we leave, we make out, where is the joy? Where is the fun? Where is the  walking in the park at 10 o'clock and talking about our deepest secrets, where's the sneaking in and trying to stop our giggling, The fights where he comes running in the rain crying and telling me how sorry he is. 

I know its high expectations, but when you grow up with super lovey dovey parents that's all you see. You see the joy and the spark that they've kept for 30 years, and that's what I want.  I want that every consuming love for another person, where no matter what they did you'd look at them like they hung the moon. That's what I want. Why don't I break up with him, you're wondering? Because it's the fear of  what if this is it. What if this is all I deserve. I worry that no one will ever like me again and I'll die forever alone, so I wait. I wait to feel just a tiny spark between us. I wait to feel loved. 

“You need to break up with him, Y/n” Mj complains.

“Its not that easy,” I open my locker putting away all my books away.  A photo of me, Ned, mj, and peter hangs on the side. 

“It actually is that easy,” She adds. “Just say, “hey jerk i hate you bye,” I roll my eyes fixing my hair in the mirror that hangs on my locker door. 

“I don't know, maybe he’ll change” I shrug, closing my locker. 

“You’ve said this for months, and he hasn't," She says standing up straight. “You deserve better, Y/n, I'm serious.” 

“Thank you,” I smile, pulling her in for a hug, she stiffens and pats my back awkwardly. 

“Ok-lets go to lunch,” She says, pulling away. I let her go and nod as we walk to the lunch room. 

We get there and dash walks over sliding an arm around my shoulder. I try to hide my disappointed face as Mj walks over to Ned and Peter, and I'm just stuck over here. 

“Hey babe, i think im gonna go sit with MJ, ok? I ask pulling his arm off of my shoulder. 

“Why would you want to sit with those losers?” He asks with a snicker.

I frown and say, “because they're my friends..?” 

“Yea whatever do what you want i dont care,” he rolls his eyes and pulls his attention away from me and to the group at his table. 

I shake my head in annoyance and walk over to my group. Me and Peter have been friends the longest, since 4th grade to be precise.

It was the first day of school and he looked so nervous like he could puke right then and there. I smiled and skipped my way over to him in my purple skirt and light up skechers and told him I'd be his friend and that I wanted him to sit with me. After that we just stayed close to each other no matter what it was. Middle school was the same, he was my rock and I was his, then Ned entered the picture and our duo became a trio. Then Mj in high school and everything just felt completed. We didn't need anyone else, just this. 

“Look who cares to join us!” Ned exclaims, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. 

I smile and sit down next to Peter. He glances over with a smile. Recently he's been distant since i've started dating Flash, he doesn't reach out, and he doesn't talk to me as much. I've tried to talk to him about it and he says “It's nothing, I'm fine” every single time. 

“I know I'm sorry, but I'm here now!” I say.

“About time you got away from that dick bag,” Mj says with her head in her hands. 

“Why are you even dating him?” Ned asks 

I try to give a reason, but nothing comes out.

“I don't know,” I mutter looking down at the table, I felt Peter's demeanor shift slightly, like he wanted to say something but kept it in. 

“Whatever, let's talk about something different,” Mj says. 

I smile at her gratefully and she nods in return. 

“You guys wanna come over to mine tonight?” I ask hopefully, “can we have movie night again!” 

“Yes! I'd love that!” Ned exclaims

“Sure, but I pick the movie,” Mj rebuttals

“What? No, I pick! You always pick!” Ned frowns

“I pick because you're gonna choose some nerd movie, like star wars,” She smirks 

As their banter went on, I glanced over at Peter. His curly hair framing his face just right, his dark brown eyes are like an endless void that could suck you in if you stare for too long, but it wasn't just his looks, it was him as a whole. His silly and dorky personality, his dumb puns, and his amazing freakish smarts is what makes him so special. 

“Hey-” I reach out and touch his shoulder as a spark sends a shock into my finger tip. 

The spark caught his attention as for the first time, he's finally made full eye contact with me. 

“Are you ok?” he asks, touching his shoulder. 

I nod and shake off this weird feeling in my stomach. “I want to talk to you, just you. You've been acting weird and I want to know why,” I pause looking down at my hand. The spark feeling still strong in my body, “At mine tonight, you're going to tell me what's wrong,” 

He sighs with a small smile, "There's nothing wrong, y/n,” 

I shake my head unconvinced, "I've known you for god knows how long, i can tell when something's bothering you.” 

“If you want to talk, we can talk,” He says looking back at the group. 

The lunch bell rings and we all file to our designated classes. Time drags on and the clock ticks slower than usual as I wait for the end of the day to finally arrive. At last the final bell of the day rings as everyone pours out of their classes, wanting to leave just as much as I do. 

“Hey there baby, let's go,” Flash says, wrapping an arm around my waist. As he does somewhere out of view from me is Peter watching with hawk-like eyes and a tense jaw

“Actully im walking home today, im hanging out with my friends,” I smile, sneaking myself away from his grasp. 

He drops his arm and rolls his eyes, “Whatever,” he goes up to his group of friends and grabs one of the girls by her waist and whispers something in her ear while looking straight in my eyes. The girl giggles and follows him to his car, her blonde hair flowing behind her. I just stand there, watching like it's a sick joke and maybe he’ll turn around and say “Ha! I really got you, huh?” but instead he doesn't, he looks at me as he drives away with another girl in his car. A girl that wasn't me. 

Before I can even think about being sad there, just in time. I turn towards him with tears filling my eyes. He doesn't say anything, he just pulls me into a hug, rubbing the back of my head so delicate like I could break into a million pieces. 

“He doesn't deserve you, y/n” he mutters softly “You deserve so much better, someone who loves you for you,” He adds as he pulls away slowly. He looks at me, his eyes filled with sorrow like he's the one that's hurt. He wipes my tears away so softly and I feel my face getting hot. I quickly look away and whip away my remaining tears, trying to hide the blush forming on my face.

“Im sorry you had to see that, it's so embarrassing,” I chuckle softly 

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about, you were hurt, it's ok to be upset.” He says looking at me, searching my face for any signs of breaking down. I nod and we walk over to Ned and Mj. 

“God what a dick!” Ned says, 

So I guess they saw. 

“Its whatever, I don't wanna talk about it,” I say harsher than I attended.

The walk to my house was nice, we talked about nothing but everything at the same time. Ned and Peter talking about star wars while me and Mj walked behind them talking about how nerdy they were. And for a moment my mind forgets about what happened and just focuses on the people in front of me, and all the joy they bring me.  

We reach my house and before the door even opens the faint sound of old 60s music plays throughout the house. I chuckle to myself before unlocking the door and letting everyone in. 

‘My girl ‘ by The Temptations blasts out from the kitchen, at least I know my parents are home. 

All of us follow the sound to the kitchen to see my parents with flour and icing all over their faces slowly dancing in the middle of the room, oblivious to the four teenagers standing right there. They look at each other like they're the only people in the world, I've never seen anyone so in love. 

“Hey, im home” I shout over the loud music, 

They break away from their lovesick spell and finally notice the four of us standing in the kitchen. 

“Oh! Hello honey! And hello to you guys too!” My mother says pulling away from my father and pulling us all in for a hug. 

“What were you guys making?” I ask as she pulls away 

“We wanted to make cupcakes for you guys, but your mother threw flour at me,” My dad chuckles, washing off his icing covered hands in the sink. 

“How are you kids doing? I feel like we haven't seen you three in a while,” He says. I look down to the floor, knowing all too well that's my fault. 

“Life creates funny paths, dear,” My mother butts in. “Im just so glad to see you three again!” She exclaims with a large smile. 

“We're gonna go to my room,” I say and my mom pulls me into a bear-like hug and leaves an icing filled kiss on my head. 

We reach my room and I drop down on my bed. Mj moves over to my record player picking an album to start. 

“Youre parents are so-” Ned stops trying to find the word,

“Love crazy?” I interrupt with a smile. 

“Yeah,” he says sitting on the floor. 

“I don't know, I think it's cute,” I look up at the ceiling longingly. “They just love each other so much after all these years, they were highschool sweethearts too.” I let out an airy laugh as i sit up facing everyone, “I guess they were lucky” 

“So what are we watching?” Mj asks, sitting in the bean bag chair I have in the corner of my room. 

“The proposal!" I exclaim 

Ned groans and throws his head back into his pillow. I pick up a pillow and chuck it at his head with a giggle

“Stop complaining, it's a good movie!” i add 

“So? Its a nasty romance film, we always watch rom coms” He complains, i roll my eyes playfully as he throws the pillow back 

“Suck it up ned,” Mj shrugs as she turns it on. 

“Im gonna go get some popcorn, does anyone want anything else?” I ask standing up from my bed. 

“Ill take a coke,” Mj says

“Same!” Ned adds.

I nod and turn to peter waiting to hear what he wants,

“Ill come with you,” He says standing up and walking with me to the kitchen. It was cleaner then it was when we came home, I guess they cleaned it up and went to bed. I smile to myself at the thought of my parents bickering like kids to the point where they need to throw floors at each other. 

“We need to talk,” Peter stops in front of me and my smile fades slowly. “You need to break up with flash.” he states like it's the easiest thing in the world. 

“I can't peter-” i begin to say before he cuts me off

“Why? Give me a reason why,” He steps closer to me and my heart beat quickens slightly 

“I-, it's just hard, ok?” I add

“How? He is awful to you and you just let him,” I see his face change from slight anger to sadness and concern. “I hate seeing you so upset, I hate seeing you change for someone who won't give you a second thought.” 

His awkwardness that he once carried gets replaced by a new found confidence to finally say what's been bubbling in him for so long. “Why won't you realize? Why don't you see that you deserve so much better,” he takes another step closer, “You deserve someone who will listen to you about whatever, will take you on cheesy dates, and will watch all the rom com movies you want,” he pauses, “you deserve someone who will buy you flowers and someone who looks at you like you hung the moon,” He takes my chin in his hands making me look at him, “you deserve someone like me,” He mutters his cheeks turning a deep shade of pink. 

My mouth drops open slightly as I feel my heart beat in my ears. “I- i cant Peter..” I say, not making eye contact with him. 

“Why?” His eyes sadden into more of a begging look.

“Because what if-” I pause, feeling my eyes start to burn and my throat close up, “What if that's the best I'll ever get, what if he's the only one that'll ever like me like that again.” Hot tears flow down my face slowly making their way down to my kitchen floor. 

Peter looks at me like he's the one who made me feel this way and wipes away my falling tears.

“Thats just not true,” He says, "Because i-” he pauses looking down at his shoes, “Because i love you, ive loved you since that one day in fourth grade where you promised to be my friend forever,” he chuckles slightly with red cheeks, “And it's been eating me alive seeing you with that dick everyday, when that should be me beside you,” he shakes his head with a small smile,  “I love you y/n, ive always have.” 

My hands begin to shake and my heart beat picks up its pace. I feel my whole body rise in heat and my tears start to slow. “I-” I try to speak but nothing comes out, so i do the best thing i can think of at that moment, I grab Peter by his collar and pull him into a deep kiss.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt the sparks. The prickly, scary, but comforting feeling. It takes over my whole body and it feels like me and him are the only people on earth at this very moment. He places his hands on my waist shyly, like he's making sure I'm comfortable before trying anything. He pushes me on the kitchen island, deepening the kiss. 

“I knew it!”  a voice calls out from the hallway, we quickly pull away from each other and act like nothing happened. 

“I didn't think he'd actually do it,” Another voice says. 

“H-how long were you guys there for..?” Peter asks, embarrassed. 

“Oh we heard everything,” Ned says with a toothy grin, “I didn't think you'd actually go through with it” he adds

Peter buries his face in his hands with a groan.

“What do you mean go through with it?” I ask, still trying to gather myself from what happened

“When you started dating flash, peter would go on and on about how much better you deserved,” Mj says with a smirk “im glad he stopped being a little pussy and finally did something about it,” 

“How am i gonna tell Flash.?” I ask with a grimace. 

“Just tell him it's over and you want nothing to do with him, boom easy,” Mj says opening her coke 

“Thanks MJ,” I say sarcastically as she chuckles to her self

An hour later everything calmed down, we all made it back to my room and finished the movie. Except this time I wasn't alone. Peter sat right next to me as I laid my head on his shoulder, a comfortable silence fell over all of us. One by one everyone went home, Mj, then Ned, and lastly Peter. 

“I meant every word I said,” he mutters playing with his hands

I smile, feeling butterflies build up in my stomach, “I know, I'm sorry it took me so long to realize,” I sigh, “if I'm being honest, I've always felt that way about you too. I guess I just didn't know what it was…I was also worried that if it was what I thought it was, it would ruin our friendship. And I would rather die than lose you because of some dumb feelings, so I pushed them away.” I chuckle softly “Stupid right?” 

“Yea pretty stupid,” Peter says playfully. The yellow street lamp being the only source of light, highlights his features so perfectly I could've guessed he was a painting. His brown curls slightly frizzy and messed up from laying down on my bed, his features relaxed making him so at peace, he's just so perfect. 

I roll my eyes and playfully punch him on the shoulder. “Shut up,” 

He takes a step closer to me and pushes a piece of hair behind my ear. “Ill see you tomorrow, ok?”  

I smile and nod, “Ok, goodnight peter,” 

“Goodnight y/n,” He says before pressing a kiss on my forehead and closing the front door behind him. 

I stare at the door in a mixture of shock and happiness. I smile to myself as I look back on tonight, what he said, what he did. He truly is perfect, and I'm so stupid it took me so long to realize what was right in front of me. 

The next morning I text flash im walking myself to school and he leaves me on read, classic. The air feels different, lighter almost, easier to breathe and easier to accept. The early dew sticks to the grass and the birds sing their morning songs as the rest of New York wakes up too. 

School goes by as normal, the teacher talks, we listen, then the bell rings and repeat.  That was until 4th period class change.  

“Sup slut,” Flash says walking up to me. I turn around from my locker confused.

“What-” He cuts me off.

“Dont look so confused,” he snickers to himself, “I know how much of a whore you already are,” A crowd starts to form around us. 

“I seriously don't know what you're talking about flash?” I say confused. 

He scoffs and walks closer to me, “Ok, you want me to break it down for you, bitch?” The crowd of students got riled up, wanting to know what was happening. And in that crowd stands a familiar face, Peter Parker. He pushes his way to the front and knocks flash backwards 

“What's your issue flash?” Peter asks with a tight jaw and fist clenched. 

“My issue is that gold digging slut-” he was cut off by peters fist colliding straight to his jaw. The crowd, including me, gasped in shock. I mean Peter Parker, the cute nerdy boy who loves science and star wars punching flash in the face? You'd be shocked too. 

“Dont talk about her like that again,” Peter states, his words hitting like venom out of his mouth. 

Flash doesn't do anything, he just sits and holds his jaw like the little bitch he is. 

“Got nothing to say now flash?” I say stepping in front of him, “Were over,” I say before kicking him in the nuts and grabbing Peter's hand, pulling him through the crowd out of the school. 

“What are you doing?” Peter asks, trying to catch up with me, “Y/N Wait-” I cut him off and pull him into a kiss. It feels like fireworks are going off inside my body, like at this moment in time nothing matters, just me and him right now. 

“O-oh uhm,” he blushes as he rubs the back of his neck, 

“I love you peter parker,” I say with a large smile and blushy cheeks

“I love you too, y/n” he says with a smile as he pulls me in for another kiss.

[omiiverse]

thin walls | peter parker x neighbor! reader

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5 : part 1 | part 2

[poisionedkissez]

gentleman✶ 𝙋𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙧 (MDNI 18+)

MASTERLIST

───── your sweet, sweet peter is suuuuch a gentleman with you, but in bed, he’s the biggest freak !

───── freak bf!peter parker x fem!reader — MDNI !!! , spicy, praise kink, cockwarmimg, not proofread, dom!peter, petey fucking reader dumb 🥴, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it), language!

(smutty smut smut! if ur a minor pls dont interact ! but to the rest of u freaks, enjoyyy !! )

at first, you couldn’t choose what your favorite perk of being peter parker’s girlfriend was. i mean, how could you when he was suuuuuch a gentleman? he would tie your shoes for you, would brush your hair, would cuddle you to sleep, and all that.

but as of now, you decided your favorite perk of being his girlfriend was how he was such a gentleman in public but the biggest freak in bed ! you just adoreeeed how he fucked you like tomorrow would never come.

“a-ah oh fuuuuuuck, that’s it baby ! “ he groaned into your ear, and you felt your heartbeat jump to your throat as his tip kissed his cervix.

“fuck, s’to much pete..” you whimper, as his hands come up and tangle into your hair, pulling your head back just enough so he can bury his face in the crook of your neck. his teeth graze the sensitive skin there, not quite biting, not quite kissing, just that teasing, maddening friction that makes your toes curl and your thighs clamp around his hips instinctively.

“shh, it’s okay baby, you can take it for me right? take it for me like the good- ahh fuck ! like the good girl you are,”

you didn’t understand a word he was saying, too lost in the way he was fucking you like there was no tomorrow. in your dazed state, you could only focus on his lips, his dick, your throbbing clit, and the banging of the headboard against the wall (your neighbors have been desensitized due to…this…. being you and peter’s favorite daily pastime!)

“baby.”

“hmmm?” you manage to make your lips form a word.

“awww is my baby too cockdrunk to speak? it’s ok, my love. i asked if you can take it or do you want me to stop,”

you shook your head. “i can take it- a-ah- petey,” you manage to whimper, that phrase taking 90% of your brain.

“good girl.”

his hand comes up to play with your clit, rubbing the bud in smooth motions, and it multiplies your feelings by ten fold.

he moves with a rhythm that is both frantic and precise, every thrust hitting that sweet spot deep inside you. every nerve in your body feels like it’s been set on fire.

you arch your back, meeting his thrusts, gasping his name like a prayer. he answers with a low, guttural sound, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. the sound of skin on skin, the wet slickness, the ragged breathing—it’s all music to your ears. he’s whispering things in your ear, dirty, sweet, desperate things that make your heart race even faster.

“you feel so good,” he pants, his voice rough. “i love you baby. taking me so well.”

he’s close, you can tell by the change in his breathing, by the way his thrusts become shallower, faster, more erratic. he whimpers into your air, trying to hold on, trying to make it last, but it’s hard when you’re reacting to every inch of him with such enthusiasm. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on. “just like that baby,” you groan as he ruts into you, impossibly deep.

you let out a moan as you finally teetered over the edge of bliss, seeing stars. you can feel your gummy walls squeezing around the head of his cock.

apparently, that’s all it takes. with a final, powerful thrust, peter buries himself to the hilt and stills. His body goes rigid, every muscle tensed, as he empties himself into you. you both groan at the feeling of his warm, sticky seed filling you up. he sighs, a long, drawn-out sound of pure ecstasy, and you feel the warm pulses of his release deep inside you. he stays there, buried to the root, his breath hitching in his throat as he continues thrusting into you, making sure none of his seed goes to waste. for a moment, there is only the sound of your combined breathing, the silence of the room, and the warmth of his body pressing against yours.

he doesn’t pull out immediately. he stays there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving.

he lifts his head, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and looks at you with a mix of adoration and lingering lust. “you okay, baby?” he asks, his voice a husky whisper. you nod, smiling up at him, your hand reaching up to stroke his cheek. he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before opening again, brighter now, more focused.

he presses his hand to your stomach, feeling the bulge of his cock deep in you, and he adjusts his hips, slowly pulling out.

but just when his tip is the only part left in, your legs come up around his waist snd tighten, restricting his movements.

“don’t pull out, wanna feel you pete,” you whimper, angling your hips to pull his cock back, feeling the delightful burn of his wide dick again.

“why, baby?” peter asks, though he’s not so opposed to the idea of fucking his sweet girl for the fourth time that night.

“because i’m not done with you,” you simply, rolling your hips slightly, which makes him gasp.

just like that, you can feel him hardening again.

well, you’re in for a longggg night.

[amorieile]

TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE! ⸝⸝ oneshot

SUMMARY. . . Peter has always been good at noticing things. Unfortunately, that now includes your habits, your routines, your secrets, and far too much of your life. The more he learns about you, the harder it becomes to convince himself he's still one of the good guys.

pairing: peter parker/spiderman x reader

content warnings: obsessive idiot peter parker, morally gray peter parker, stalking, surveillance, hacking, digital privacy invasion, peter parker knows way too much, unhealthy attachment, questionable coping mechanisms, trust issues, relationship tension, codependency if we're being honest, emotional angst, psychological thriller undertones, loneliness, pining, secret identity drama, poor life choices, love as a horror genre but not rlly, relationship paranoia, possessiveness, post brand new day, guys bear with me it's going somewhere good i promise </3. not betaread. lmk if i missed anything!!

comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !

w/c: 8.8k

a/n: peter parker support group starts here!! unfortunately, I'm not offering support.

I made him worse :p

Peter first noticed you because you dropped a pen.

Not in any interesting way. Not in slow motion, not with a dramatic little gasp, not the kind of thing anyone wrote poems about unless they were trying too hard. It slipped out from between your fingers halfway through Professor Menken’s lecture on genetic ethics, hit the edge of your desk, bounced once against the leg of the chair in front of you, and rolled beneath Peter’s sneaker.

He looked down at it because he heard it before anyone else did.

That was the thing about the new edges of him. The mutation hadn't settled cleanly after everything. It had sharpened in odd places, overcorrected in others. Sound arrived layered now: the scrape of chalk, someone’s gum clicking against a molar three rows back, the pulse in the throat of the guy beside him who had definitely not done the reading. The city beyond the lecture hall kept pressing itself into his skull in a dozen distant frequencies, sirens and pipes and pigeons beating frantic wings beneath the eaves.

And then there was your pen.

Cheap black ballpoint. Cap chewed, not recently. A faint crescent of teeth marks near the clip.

Peter picked it up before he thought better of it.

You turned in your seat, a little embarrassed but not enough to make a performance of it, your brows rising when you realized someone had retrieved it. “Oh. Thank you.”

Your voice did not do anything impossible. It didn't rearrange him. It just sat warmly in the air between you, lower than he expected, slightly hoarse like you had been up too late or had laughed too much the night before.

Peter gave you the pen. “No problem.”

You smiled, quick and polite, and turned back around.

That should have been the end of it.

Peter knew that. He knew it with the same blunt clarity he knew not to crawl across ceilings in public or listen through apartment walls just because he could. Some lines were simple because crossing them made everything else complicated. You were a person in one of his classes. He had handed you a pen. That was all.

For nearly four minutes, he managed to leave it there.

Then you tapped the pen twice against your notebook, paused, and wrote something in the margin instead of on the lecture line where everyone else had written CRISPR and informed consent and somatic inheritance. Peter saw the movement from the corner of his eye. His vision caught too much when he let it. A tilt, a shadow, a word half-formed before your hand covered it.

He should not have looked.

He still looked.

You had written: who decides what counts as damage?

Peter stared at the back of your head for one second too long.

The question stayed with him after class, needling under his skin while students packed laptops and shoved water bottles into canvas bags. You stood slowly, stretching your fingers once before sliding your notebook away. Someone called your name from the aisle. You glanced over your shoulder and gave a tired little laugh when a girl with chipped blue nail polish asked if you were coming to the library later.

“Maybe,” you said after you gave a few experimental blinks.  “I have work first.”

Peter bent over his backpack, pretending he had not heard.

He had heard too much.

Your keys clinked inside the front pocket of your bag. Your phone buzzed twice. You smelled faintly of vanilla shampoo and rain-damp wool, though it had not rained since morning. Your heartbeat was steady, quicker when your friend mentioned a party, slower when you said, “I’ll see how dead I am after closing.”

Normal details. Human details. None of them belonged to him.

He walked out ten paces behind you anyway.

Only because the door was in that direction, he told himself. Only because everyone was leaving through the same narrow hall, shoulder to shoulder, voices bouncing off institutional beige walls. ESU’s biology building had bad ventilation and worse fluorescent lighting. It made everyone look slightly ill. You squinted against it, one eye narrowing more than the other.

Peter noticed that too.

He hated that he noticed that.

Outside, late autumn had made the campus restless. Leaves skittered over the pavement in dry little bursts, trapped briefly against bike racks before the wind worried them loose. The sky hung low and silver behind the brick buildings. You tucked your chin into your scarf and walked toward the Square with your friend still talking beside you, one hand moving as she described something, the other hooked around the strap of your bag.

Peter stopped at the stairs.

He could have gone the other way.

He had laundry. He had a chemistry problem set. He had a rent reminder folded under a magnet on his fridge and a suit stuffed behind a loose panel in his closet that still smelled faintly of smoke from a warehouse fire in Queens.

You crossed the quad and his senses followed before his body did.

Your laugh carried back once, loose and surprised, and Peter felt something in him lean toward it. Not physically. Worse than physically. Some quiet, starved part of him that had been living on memory and obligation and the bruised discipline of not needing anything.

He watched until the crowd took you.

Then he went home and searched your name.

He didn't call it that at first.

Peter called it checking. Curiosity. Normal curiosity. The kind people had when they met someone in class and wanted to know whether they had mutual friends or if they posted notes online or if maybe they were in a study group. He sat at his small desk with the radiator clanking beside him, his laptop open beneath the yellow cone of his lamp, and typed in the name he had heard your friend say.

The first result was an ESU page with your department listing: Undeclared concentration, biology track. A campus volunteer archive from last spring. A photo from a charity 5K where you stood at the edge of a group shot, squinting into the sun and holding a paper cup too tightly. Your social media accounts were not private enough.

Peter exhaled through his nose and sat back.

“No,” he spoke aloud to his empty apartment and the only response to his words was the radiator hissing. 

He closed the browser.

For about eighteen seconds.

Then he opened it again.

By midnight, Peter knew you worked three evenings a week at a bookstore café two neighborhoods over. He knew you liked old horror films but hated jump scares. He knew you reposted stray cat videos when you were stressed. He knew you had once written, in a post from two years ago that made his stomach pull tight with secondhand tenderness, that you hated how easy it was to become background noise in other people’s lives.

Peter shut the laptop so hard the sound cracked through the room.

He stood, paced three steps, turned, paced back. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling with leftover strength he had nowhere to put. The window showed him his own reflection layered over the city: too thin, too tired, hair still damp from a shower he barely remembered taking.

“You’re not doing this,” he told himself with restriction, and even his reflection looked unconvincing.

You did not think about Peter Parker after class.

Not really.

You remembered the pen only because you found it later at work and noticed the cap had a little dent from where you always chewed it during exams. You remembered his face in the vague way you remembered classmates you saw twice a week: brown hair that looked like he had dragged a hand through it one too many times, gentle eyes, shoulders folded slightly inward like he was trying not to take up space.

Cute, maybe.

But cute in the background way. The kind of cute you acknowledged and then forgot because a customer had spilled oat milk on the pickup counter and your manager was muttering about inventory under her breath.

By eight-thirty, your feet hurt. The bookstore smelled of damp coats, burnt espresso, dust, and cinnamon syrup. Someone had abandoned a paperback facedown on the windowsill. Outside, people hurried past with collars lifted against the wind, their reflections smeared across the dark glass.

You were restocking the staff picks table when the bell above the door chimed.

You glanced up because it was habit and Peter stood just inside, shaking cold from his hair.

For a second, he looked as surprised to see you as you were to see him. Then his face softened into recognition, bashful and easy enough that you almost smiled before you realized you were already doing it.

“Hey,” he greeted and his voice hit your ears with a peaceful calm. “You’re in Menken’s class, right?”

You straightened, a book still in your hand. “Yeah. Peter, right?”

His smile widened a little, and it did something irritatingly pleasant to his whole face. “Yeah. And you’re…?”

You gave him your name and he repeated it, not too quickly, not too slowly. Like he cared about getting it right.

That was your first mistake, though you wouldn't know that for weeks. You noticed the care and mistook it for kindness. Maybe it was kindness, in part. That was the inconvenient thing about Peter. He wasn't lying every time he was gentle.

He bought a coffee he barely drank and a used copy of a short story collection you had placed on the staff picks table that morning. When you rang him up, he looked at the handwritten card tucked beneath the stack.

“Your pick?” he asked with his eyes moving over the loop of the script. 

A small puff of air left you as your mouth twitched. “Yeah. It’s weird.”

“I like weird.”

“You say that now.”

He glanced up through his lashes, and there was an awkwardness to it that made him seem younger, more human than he had been in your mind. “Is that a warning or a recommendation?”

You huffed a laugh more visibly this time. “Both.”

Peter nodded as if that settled something important. “Then I’ll take it seriously.”

You liked that he didn't try too hard to stretch the conversation. He thanked you, dropped his change into the tip jar, and moved to a table near the window with the book and untouched coffee. He read for almost an hour.

At least, you thought he read.

Peter had read the same paragraph six times.

The book sat open beneath his hands, but you kept shifting around the café in the warm spill of overhead lights, and his attention kept betraying him. You wiped down the counter with economical movements, pushed loose hair back from your face with your wrist, nodded when customers spoke but went distant the second they turned away. You had a habit of pressing your tongue to the inside of your cheek when you were trying not to react to something. You disliked the register drawer because it stuck and made you use more force than you wanted. You hummed under your breath when the espresso grinder drowned out the room.

None of this was information anyone needed.

Peter collected it anyway.

He had promised himself he would only look. In person, that sounded even worse. He knew how it sounded. He could hear a familiar voice in his head, dry and unimpressed, though any real familiarity was gone from his life in all the ways that mattered now. He could hear May too, not in words, just in the old shape of disappointment.

But it had been a bad week.

That wasn’t an excuse, he hated that his mind reached for one so quickly.

It had been a bad year, or rather, years.

Worse.

The world had forgotten him in pieces so cleanly it felt surgical. He still had photographs where people stood beside him with no memory of the moment. Peter still knew birthdays no one invited him to, inside jokes that died the second he tried to speak them aloud. He still woke up some mornings with his hand reaching across the bed toward nothing because loneliness had become muscle memory.

And then there was you, chewing on a pen in class and writing questions that made the room seem less airless.

Peter watched you laugh with your coworker behind the counter, your head tilting back for half a second before you caught yourself. Not loud or careless, but real.

Something in him ached with it.

Peter should have left.

Instead, when you came by with a rag and asked, “Everything okay over here?” he looked up too fast.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m probably overstaying.”

You waved him off without much thought. “No, you’re fine. We don’t close for another hour.”

“I can go if you need the table.”

You glanced around the mostly empty café with a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Peter, there are seven tables.”

He laughed, a little embarrassed, but not nearly as much as he should've felt. “Right. Good point.”

You smiled at him fully now. This time it lingered. His pulse kicked hard enough that he felt ashamed of it.

The second time he came in, you were not surprised.

The third time, you teased him about the coffee.

“You know you don’t have to keep ordering it if you hate it.”

Peter looked down at the cup like it had betrayed him. “I don’t hate it.”

You looked up at him through the table unsure. “You’ve taken two sips in forty minutes.”

“I’m pacing myself.”

“You ordered an iced coffee in November.”

“I can contain multitudes.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself, and he looked so pleased by it that you looked away first.

It was not instant. That mattered, later. You didn't fall into it without thought. You were busy, and careful in the way people became careful when they had learned affection could come with hidden invoices. You had classes, work, rent, a roommate who left wet towels on the bathroom floor, and a mother who texted at odd hours asking if you were eating enough.

Peter became familiar gradually.

A chair near the window. A brown jacket with a frayed cuff. Fingers stained faintly with ink because he wrote equations on his hand when he ran out of paper. A voice that went soft when he asked questions and quicker when he forgot to be nervous. He seemed to know when not to interrupt you. He remembered that you disliked caramel syrup but liked cinnamon. He started bringing you the extra banana from the convenience store near campus because you once said your blood sugar crashed during evening shifts and you always forgot to pack food.

“That’s weirdly thoughtful,” you made a face and said the first time.

Peter shrugged with his eyes lowering when he spoke. “It was two for one.”

You knew that was not the whole truth, but it was close enough to something charming that you let it pass.

From Peter’s side, every small success made him feel worse.

He really hadn't meant to learn your schedule exactly. Not at first. But once he knew the bookstore shifts, his brain filled in the blanks with humiliating efficiency: Menken’s class Monday and Wednesday. Lab on Thursday. Café Tuesday, Friday, Sunday. Library most Wednesdays after six, second floor if you were alone, basement if your friend came with you because she liked the vending machine down there.

Peter didn't need to know that.

He especially did not need to know that you always took the longer route home when the weather was mild because you liked passing the laundromat with the orange cat in the window.

The first time Peter followed you all the way back to your building, he almost turned around six times.

Almost was becoming a dangerous word.

He stayed across the street, hood up, hands in his pockets, moving with the practiced absence Spider-Man had perfected. He told himself it was only because the neighborhood had been rough lately. Two muggings near the park. A stolen car three blocks away. He had reasons. Responsible reasons. Hero reasons.

Then you stopped beneath the awning of your building and turned suddenly, looking back down the sidewalk.

Peter froze behind the corner of a closed bodega.

For one wild second, he thought you had felt him there. Not heard, not seen. Felt. The way people sometimes sensed weather changing in their bones.

But you only searched your bag, found your keys, and went inside.

Peter waited until the lobby light swallowed you.

His hands were shaking when he got home.

He stripped off the mask he had not needed and sat on the floor beside his bed, suit half-unzipped, chest rising too fast. The room smelled of dust, old laundry, cold takeout. Somewhere upstairs, a couple argued about dishes and somewhere outside, a siren split the night and faded.

Peter pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, the pressure doing little to relieve him. 

“You’re scaring yourself,” he whispered and that should have helped.

It did not.

Because the next morning you came into class with tired eyes and a bandage wrapped around one finger, and Peter noticed before you even sat down.

Paper cut, he guessed.

No. Too clean. Knife slip. Cooking? No, the angle was wrong. Box cutter at work.

He started hating the part of him that solved you like a problem.

During lecture, Professor Menken asked a question no one wanted to answer. You lifted your hand after three seconds of silence.

Peter watched you speak with intent.

You were not perfectly confident. Your voice caught often and you glanced at your notes too often. But you had a way of thinking aloud that made uncertainty seem active instead of weak, like you were willing to stand inside the unfinished part of an idea and invite everyone else to look at it with you.

Peter stared at his notebook and wrote nothing. After class, he found you outside the building, wrestling with the zipper of your bag.

“Hey,” he said when you came into view casually enough for him to do the same. 

You looked up with no real hurry. “Hey, coffee multitudes.”

Peter laughed, surprised by the nickname. “That’s going to stick, huh?”

“It might.”

“Then I should probably earn it.”

You raised an eyebrow and looked him over. “By drinking coffee?”

“By asking if you want to get some. Somewhere I actually finish it.”

There it was. The moment Peter had arranged too carefully to pretend it was spontaneous. He had known your next class had been canceled because he had seen the department email reflected faintly on your laptop screen the day before. He had chosen this window. He had planned the route. He had checked the café he suggested to make sure it had the tea you liked, the kind you mentioned once in a post from eight months ago and again at work when you complained your roommate stole the last bag.

He was disgusting.

Peter smiled anyway, small and nervous because he was also still himself.

You hesitated, it wasn't long enough to be cruel, but it was long enough to be honest.

“Now?” you asked and your hand twitched to a still around your bag

“Only if you’re free.”

“I am.” You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. A small twitch of your brows came and went when the familiar phantom of a smile touched your face. “Actually, yeah. That sounds nice.”

Nice.

The word landed in him with such undeserved warmth he nearly forgot to breathe.

The café was crowded, too narrow and overbright near the counter, with little tables pressed close enough that everyone became part of everyone else’s conversation. You ordered tea. Peter ordered coffee and drank half of it out of sheer determination.

You talked about class first because that was safe. Menken’s refusal to upload slides. The guy in the front row who treated lectures like a personal podcast interview. Your mutual dread of the upcoming exam.

Then, the conversation loosened.

You told him about the bookstore café and the regular who came in every Sunday to rearrange the mystery section “by vibes.” Peter told you about taking photos for the Bugle, then stumbled when you asked if he liked it.

“Sometimes,” he settled for after fumbling for his words. 

“Only sometimes?”

He turned the paper sleeve around his cup. “It’s hard to like something that mostly pays you to be hated.”

You frowned and it was so genuine it made Peter feel disgusting all over again. “That sounds miserable.”

“It builds character. Probably. Or joint pain.”

You laughed, but softer this time and he looked up for it.

You were watching him with a kind of attention he hadn't expected. Not the polite attention people gave when waiting for their turn to speak. You were actually looking, as if you had noticed some seam in him and were deciding whether to touch it.

Peter felt the old panic start. The instinct to deflect. To become funny, harmless, and too quick to pin down.

Instead, he took a breath and decided for, “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

You didn’t ask what else he was used to.

He liked you more for that.

Your first date was not officially a date until halfway through, when your knees bumped beneath the table and neither of you moved immediately.

After that, things gathered speed without feeling rushed.

A walk through campus after class. His jacket over your shoulders when the wind turned sharp, even though you protested you were fine. A late-night diner where he stole fries from your plate only after asking and still looked guilty each time. A movie at your apartment with your roommate passing through twice and giving you looks so obvious you threatened to throw a pillow at her.

Peter was almost unbearable in his thoughtfulness.

Not grand, that would have made you suspicious sooner. He didn't flood you with flowers or declarations. He learned the small things and acted on them with quiet precision. He sent you a picture of the familiar street cat when you were stuck at work. He remembered which movie sequel you thought ruined the original. He ordered your food without onions after you mentioned once that you hated the texture, then looked genuinely confused when you stared at him.

“What?” Peter asked when you stared at him so openly in surprise. 

“You remembered.”

His fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No. It’s just…” You looked down, smiling despite yourself. The words came out quieter than, like they weren't for him. “Most people don’t.”

Peter smiled too, but something flickered beneath it. Not guilt, exactly. Not anything you knew how to name.

You reached for your drink and let the moment pass.

From his side, the flicker had been a wound reopening.

Most people don’t.

He should have been most people.

He should have learned you at the pace you gave yourself. Through conversations, through mistakes, through the natural awkwardness of two lives coming carefully closer. He should not have known about the onion thing because you had complained in a forgotten comment thread under a photo of takeout from last winter. He should not have known your favorite seat in the library because he had followed your location once after convincing himself it was only to make sure you got home. Peter should not have known your ex’s name, your rent split, the brand of melatonin in your bathroom cabinet because your roommate posted a mirror selfie with the bottle blurred but readable.

He was not always hacking.

That was another excuse, and he hated it because it was technically true. Most of the time, people gave themselves away without needing to be broken into. Public accounts, careless apps, tagged photos, reused usernames, browser autofill flashing in reflections, notifications blooming on lock screens. The city was full of open windows, and Peter had become very good at looking through them.

But sometimes, he did more.

The first time he accessed one of your accounts, he threw up afterward.

It was not dramatic. There was no thunder outside, no cinematic collapse. Just Peter hunched over the tiny sink in his bathroom, one hand braced against cracked porcelain, breathing through nausea while the laptop sat open in the other room.

He told himself he had only wanted to know why you had gone quiet.

That was how Peter framed it at first. You had canceled plans with a too-bright apology and then stopped answering texts for five hours. Five hours was nothing. People had lives. You had work. You had friends. You had the right to be unreachable.

His body did not understand that.

His senses had made emergencies out of smaller things. A skipped heartbeat, a distant scream, glass breaking four blocks away. Absence became data. Silence became threat. He tried cleaning. He tried going on patrol. He stopped a bike theft, webbed up a drunk man trying to punch a parking meter, helped a kid find her mother outside a pharmacy, and still your unread text sat in his head like a lit match.

So, he checked.

Not with tools he would ever have explained to you. Not in steps he let himself think about for long. A shortcut here, an old breach there, one soft digital door after another until the screen opened on enough of your life to make him feel both relieved and monstrous.

You were not ignoring him because of him.

You were in a group chat with your friend, talking about a fight with your mother. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing he needed to know. Your last message had been: I just don’t want to be a person today.

Peter read it three times.

Then he closed the laptop and hated himself with a clarity that should have changed him.

The next morning, he brought you soup from a place you liked but rarely ordered from because it was overpriced. He stood outside your building in a gray hoodie, hair damp from the rain, holding the paper bag awkwardly when you came downstairs.

“You said you didn’t feel great,” he greeted with that comfortable thread of familiar concern and composure. 

You hadn't said that to him.

Not exactly.

But you were tired, and the soup was warm against your hands, and Peter looked so quietly worried that the difference dissolved before your could examine any holes in his story accurately.

“You’re kind of insane,” you scoffed, but gently when your eyes softened at him. 

Peter cleared at his throat. “Bad insane?”

You looked at him for a moment. Rain gathered in the ends of his hair. A drop slipped down his temple, and he did not seem to notice.

“No,” you said after a moment,  and his mind latched into that with great energy. “Good insane.”

His smile hurt to look at.

Peter stayed in your life.

That was how it felt from your side. Not that he entered suddenly, but that he remained. Peter was there in the margins of your days until the margins felt less empty. You started expecting his texts. You started saving little stories for him because you liked the way his face changed when he listened. He had a habit of going very still when you spoke, like he was afraid to miss a word.

You had dated people who made you feel edited. Too loud here, too sensitive there, too difficult when you asked for basic decency. Peter made you feel observed, and at first you mistook that for being understood.

Maybe part of it was understanding.

He didn’t push when you were quiet. He made jokes when you needed room to laugh and went serious when the joke would have landed wrong. He was late sometimes, often with flimsy excuses and a bruise hidden badly beneath his collar, but he apologized like he meant it. He washed dishes at your apartment without making a performance of helping. He made friends with your roommate by fixing the kitchen cabinet hinge and pretending it had been easy.

Still, there were moments.

A book you never remembered mentioning appearing in his backpack.

A song you had listened to alone showing up in a playlist he sent you “randomly.”

His face changing before you told him bad news, as if he had sensed it through the phone.

Once, while walking back from dinner, you stopped outside a bodega because the smell of oranges by the door reminded you of your grandmother’s house. You hadn’t said that to him yet. You had barely said it to anyone.

Peter bought two oranges without asking and handed one to you.

“You looked like you wanted one,” he had told you. 

You held it in your palm, thumb brushing the textured peel. “You notice too much.”

He went quiet.

Only for a breath, but you felt it.

Then he smiled, crooked and a little sad. “Occupational hazard.”

You laughed because you thought he meant photography.

Peter loved that about you and hated himself for loving it. The way you filled in the blanks with something better than the truth.

By December, the city had gone hard with cold.

Snow came early in thin, dirty gusts that melted along curbs and froze again overnight. ESU students moved in bundled clusters across campus, hunched over coffee cups and exam notes. The bookstore café hung paper snowflakes in the window that curled at the edges from the heater. Your apartment radiator screamed every morning at six.

Peter spent more nights at your place, never officially staying over at first. He would fall asleep on the couch after a movie, wake at two, apologize, and kiss your forehead before leaving. You began telling him he could stay. He began pretending to refuse before giving in.

The first time he slept in your bed, you woke to him sitting upright in the dark.

You blinked at the shape of him, bare shoulders tense, head turned toward the window.

“Peter?”

He didn't answer immediately.

Outside, a truck rolled over a pothole and hit Peter's ear drum loudly. Somewhere down the block, glass clinked in a recycling bag. Your room was cold beyond the blanket, the air smelling faintly of your body wash and the laundry detergent your roommate bought in bulk.

“Sorry,” he rasped out finally. His voice was rough. “I heard something.”

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, still half asleep. You gave a few hard blinks to try and even out your blurry vision, your fingers moved without instruction to thee side of his bare arm. “In here?”

Peter's voice was still rough with sleep, and something else you couldn't grasp. “No. Outside.”

You listened in a pause, your fingers stilling on his forearm. 

Nothing.

Peter looked embarrassed, almost boyish in the dim light. “I’m a light sleeper.”

You believed him because there was no reason not to.

You tugged gently at his wrist, your skin meeting his. An exhale escaped you as the disruption did little to drain you off your drowsiness. “Come back.”

For a second, he didn't move. Then,  he let you pull him down beside you. His skin was cool where the air had touched it. You pressed your face against his shoulder and felt him go very still before he carefully settled his arm around you.

“You’re safe,” you murmured after a moments still, barely awake, because you decided it was needed. 

His hand tightened once at your back and you pressed into his side deeper at the action. 

The words should have comforted him.

Instead, they ruined him.

Because he knew exactly what kind of safety he had made. A curated one. A watched one. A version of closeness built from stolen context and real affection tangled so tightly he no longer knew where one ended and the other began. Peter knew the quickest route from your apartment to the hospital. He knew which neighbor left his door unlocked. He knew your roommate’s schedule, the building’s fire escape pattern, the loose latch on the roof door, and even the dead zone in the security camera by the mailboxes.

He knew too much.

You fell asleep against him after a few more breaths and smooths of his hand at your back and Peter stared into the dark until dawn diluted the room.

Later that week, you fought.

It was small at first, which immediately made it worse. He canceled on you again, this time fifteen minutes before you were supposed to meet. Something about work. Something about a last-minute assignment. The lie was poorly built because Peter was tired and bleeding under his shirt from a fight with a guy in a mechanized suit who had tried to rob an armored truck in Midtown.

You heard the strain in his voice and assumed the wrong thing.

“Do you actually want to see me tonight?” you asked into your phone and frowned so visibly you saw it in the mirror that reflected you all ready for your now cancelled evening. 

Silence.

Then, “Of course I do.”

Your voice felt smaller than it was. “Because it’s fine if you don’t.”

“It’s not that—”

“You keep saying that.”

Peter closed his eyes on the rooftop where he crouched behind a water tower, one hand pressed against his ribs. His spider-sense still fizzed faintly from leftover adrenaline. Snow blew sideways across the tar paper and some of it landed cooly on his shoulders

“I’m sorry,” he only apologized after a tired noise escaped him. 

You hated how sincere he sounded. It made anger harder to hold cleanly. “I’m not asking you to be available all the time. I just need you to stop disappearing and then acting like I’m supposed to understand without you telling me anything.”

Peter breathed in sharply, and for a moment you thought he might finally say something real. Instead, he said, “You’re right.”

The answer was too neat. Too controlled.

You laughed once, humorless. “That’s not a conversation, Peter.”

“I know.”

Your voice came more pointed now. “Then have one.”

He looked out over the city. A siren wailed far below. Three blocks away, someone screamed, but it was laughter. Six blocks away, not laughter. His body turned toward it before his mind caught up.

“I can’t right now,” he immediately winced at how it sounded coming out 

Your voice went immediately quiet. “Okay.”

That one word did more damage than shouting would have.

Peter heard you hang up.

He should have let you be angry. He should have shown up the next day with honesty or at least enough humility to deserve your attention.

Instead, fear did what fear had been doing to him for months. It found a door and opened it.

He checked your messages again.

You were texting your friend. Not cruelly or even dramatically, but so visibly tired. 

I like him, you had written. I really do. But sometimes it feels like he’s already decided what I need before I say it. I don't know how to feel about that. 

Peter sat on the edge of a rooftop while snow collected in his hair and read the sentence until the screen dimmed.

It was the closest you had come to seeing him.

Not the suit. Not the powers. Him. The shape of the thing he was doing.

He wanted, suddenly and violently, to confess. To climb through your window, kneel on your worn rug, and hand you every ugly piece. To say he had been lonely in a way that made him dangerous. To say he had turned care into surveillance and called it love when he was too ashamed to name it properly. To say you could hate him if you needed to, but please, please do it with your own voice.

Then, another message appeared.

He’s also really good to me though. Like scary good. He knows me better than anyone has in a long time.

Peter’s breath caught.

The city kept moving beneath him. Traffic lights changed. Steam rose from a manhole cover. A woman tugged a child across the street by one mittened hand. Somewhere, somebody needed him.

Peter put the phone away amd he went to help.

He came to your apartment the next night with a split lip and flowers from a deli bucket, the cheap kind wrapped in crinkly plastic with one stem already bent.

You opened the door and stared at him with the expectation of clear cut annoyance but it stuttered when you saw him. 

He looked awful. Pale beneath the bruising, hair flattened by weather, and eyes rimmed red from no sleep. The flowers trembled slightly in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Peter only said what you needed to hear. 

You crossed your arms, the indentation of where you bit at the inside of your cheek had his eyes fluttering across your face. “For which part?”

He flinched, and you hated that it softened you.

“For making you feel like you were asking for too much.” He swallowed then went on. “You weren’t—you aren’t. I’m bad at explaining where I go. That’s on me. Not you.”

It was not enough, everything in you knew it was not enough.

But he didn't make excuses. He did not tell you that you were overreacting. He didn't punish you for being upset. He stood there in the hallway looking like someone who expected the door to close and thought he deserved it.

You sighed, and it sounded tired all the way through. “Come in before my neighbor starts listening.”

“She already is,” Peter said before he could stop himself.

Your eyes narrowed and he blinked at his abruptness. “I mean—the door across the hall. It opened earlier.”

You glanced past him. Mrs. Alvarez’s door was indeed cracked half an inch. Despite yourself, you laughed.

Peter smiled faintly, relieved and ashamed.

The flowers went into a chipped vase on your desk. You ordered takeout and ate sitting on the floor because your small table was buried under textbooks. The apology became a conversation, halting but real enough around the edges. He told you he had trouble letting people worry about him. You told him that was not noble, just annoying. He laughed into his noodles, then winced because of his lip.

You touched his chin lightly, your face softened by several degrees and you made sure to be careful with your pressure. “Who did that?”

The reply came instantaneous. “Work thing.”

“Peter.”

He looked at you and your frown made is way back to your face, doing that horrible thing to his heart. 

For one second, the room thinned around the truth. Then he exhaled, “I promise I’ll tell you someday.”

You should have pushed.

Instead, you let your thumb skim once beneath the bruise, gentler than either of you deserved.

“Someday better not be a scam,” you said and the frustration in your words were poorly hidden. 

“It isn’t.” Peter meant it, which was almost worse.

By Christmas break, you were not officially in love with him.

You avoided the word because it felt too large and too easy to misuse. But you missed him when he left. You saved the corner of your blanket for him without thinking. You caught yourself looking at his hands when he talked, the long nervous fingers, the faint scars, the way he touched things carefully despite being strong enough to break them.

Peter was strange. Sweet. Frighteningly perceptive. Too private. Too self-sacrificing in ways that made you want to shake him. He apologized too much and withheld too much and kissed you like he was grateful and guilty in the same breath.

On New Year’s Eve, you took him to a party he clearly did not want to attend.

It was in someone’s too-small apartment near campus, crowded with students wearing glitter and cheap cologne, the kitchen floor sticky with spilled drinks. Music pulsed through the walls. Someone had taped tinsel around a bookshelf. Someone else had brought a dog wearing a bow tie, and the dog looked more composed than anyone else there.

Peter stood close to you without crowding, his hand resting at your lower back only when you leaned into it first. He watched the room the way he watched everything: lightly, and constantly. You saw his eyes track exits, open windows, and even drunk strangers moving too quickly.

“You okay?” you asked with a small tilt of your head. 

He looked down at you, refocusing. “Yeah.”

You weren't easily convinced. “You look like you’re planning seventeen escape routes.”

“Only twelve.”

You smiled. “Progress.”

Peter leaned closer so you could hear him over the music. His voice didn't reach you louder, it came as soft as it always tried to land. “I’m not great at parties.”

“I noticed.”

“But you wanted to come.”

“I wanted you to come with me.”

That landed somewhere visible in his face. A small astonishment, gone quickly but not before you caught it.

“Well,” he paused, cleared his throat, and his voice softened, “then I’m good.”

You believed him.

At midnight, everyone shouted too early, then corrected themselves, then shouted again. The countdown dissolved into laughter. A stranger bumped your shoulder. Confetti popped weakly from a tube and scattered over the floor.

Peter kissed you at twelve.

Not like a movie. Someone’s elbow knocked his arm and you laughed into his mouth because the dog started barking. His nose was cold from where you had stood near the window. The kiss started awkward and turned warm, one of his hands lifting to your cheek, and his thumb careful near your jaw.

When he pulled back, you exhaled, “You know me so well it’s kind of unfair.”

You meant it lightly.

A little intoxicated by the room, by the year turning over, by his mouth and his attention and the fact that he had come even though crowds made him tense.

Peter went still.

Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to feel the pause beneath your palm where your hand rested against his chest.

Then he smiled, but it took work. “Is that a complaint?”

You shook your head. “No.”

“Good.” He kissed you again before you could see his face too clearly.

Later, walking you home through streets rinsed blue-black with cold, Peter listened to your steps beside his and tried not to come apart.

You know me so well.

The words looped, soft and damning.

Snow had begun to fall again, thin flakes catching in your eyelashes. You tucked your hands into your sleeves and complained about your toes going numb. Peter offered you his gloves. You refused. He only offered again. You took one glove and made him wear the other, which was impractical and ridiculous and somehow made his chest hurt more than anything else.

At your building, you lingered beneath the awning.

You looked tired, happy, and a little wind-burned. Real in a way his stolen images of you had never been. The glow from the lobby light turned one side of your face gold.

“Do you want to come up?” you asked and you smiled up at him with an expression that did little to help his constantly spiking pulse. 

He did.

God, he wanted to badly.

But Peter also knew what waited inside him if he did. The lie beneath every comfortable silence. The stolen knowledge under every thoughtful gesture. The way wanting had taught itself to wear the face of care.

“I should head home,” he forced the words out and they felt beyind wrong exiting him.  Your expression shifted, just a little.

Peter felt it like a physical blow.

“Okay,” you whispered in the night air, and even you seemed surprised at how small it seemed. 

He needed the clarification to stick desperately. “I had a good time.”

“Me too.”

Peter touched your hand, his own reddening fingertips grabbing your own cold ones. “Text me when you’re inside?”

You gave him a look that made him feel stupid and wanted all at once. “I’m literally going upstairs.”

“Humor me?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

The chuckle that escaped him camd freely at just how accurate you were. “Historically, yes.”

You smiled, leaned up, and kissed him once. You lingered there for a moment, suddenly turning to nervous to face him, then repeated the action once more and pulled away. “Goodnight, Peter.”

“Goodnight.”

He waited on the sidewalk until your apartment light came on.

Then he waited another minute.

Then, another.

His phone buzzed.

inside. still alive. tragically glove-deficient.

Peter laughed under his breath, alone in the snow. He typed: I’ll survive with one cold hand.

Your reply came quickly.

brave little toaster.

He stared at it until his fingers hurt from the cold. Then, the little typing bubble disappeared.

He should have gone home.

He didn't, that had become an unsavory pattern for him.

Peter climbed.

Not to your window, not this time. He told himself that mattered somehow. He went up the side of the building with practiced silence, fingers finding brick, and his shoes sticking lightly where they touched. The city dropped away beneath him in a wash of headlights and wet pavement. He reached the roof and crouched near the ledge, close enough for his senses to map your apartment in fragments.

Water running..Your shower. A cabinet opening. Your roommate not home. A towel drawer sticking. You humming the chorus of a song from the party, off-key and sleepy.

Peter closed his eyes and exhaled a cloud of air into the cold night. 

The right thing was to leave.

He stayed until the shower shut off.

He stayed while you moved through your room, while fabric whispered over skin, while your phone clicked against your nightstand. He didn't look through the window, he kept his eyes on the roof gravel beneath his hands. That restraint felt obscene because he wanted credit for not doing the worst thing while doing something terrible.

His breath fogged faintly in the cold.

“I’m done,” Peter whispered out loud and the city did not answer.

“I mean it.”

He didn't really know who he was promising. You. Himself. The ghost of every person who had loved him before the world forgot how.

Below, you laughed softly at something on your phone and Peter’s head lifted before he could stop it.

That sound.

It moved through him with humiliating force. Warm, private, and entirely unguarded. He thought of you in the café, in class, in his jacket, on your floor eating noodles, under party lights with confetti caught in your hair. He thought of all the ways he had already ruined the clean thing he wanted.

Peter stood abruptly.

He crossed the roof, dropped into the alley, and landed soundlessly beside a stack of abandoned boxes dusted with snow. His ribs ached. His hand throbbed from where he had split the knuckles earlier that week. He pulled his hood up and walked away without looking back.

For almost three blocks, Peter believed he could really stop.

Upstairs, you finished drying your hair with an old towel that had gone rough from too many washes.

Your apartment was quiet except for the radiator knocking beneath the window and the muffled bass of someone’s music two floors down. The party had left glitter along your collarbone, one stubborn fleck near your wrist, and a faint headache tucked behind your eyes. Your skin still held the clean heat of the shower. You wore an oversized shirt and sleep shorts, your damp hair brushed the back of your neck as you climbed onto your bed and tucked one leg beneath you.

You checked Peter’s text again.

I’ll survive with one cold hand.

You smiled to yourself, biting lazily at the edge of your thumbnail.

Sweet, impossible Peter.

He was always saying things like that. Small things. Harmless things. Little jokes that sounded clumsy enough to be real. You liked that about him, the way he made awkwardness feel almost deliberate, the way he carried tenderness like something he had stolen and still wasn’t sure he was allowed to keep.

You set your phone down, and then after a few paused moments, you picked it back up.

For a moment, you sat still, listening.

Not to anything specific. The building settling. Pipes clicking in the walls. A car passing below, tires hissing through dirty snow. The soft ordinary life of the city stacking itself around you. You could still feel the ghost of his glove on your hand, the warmth he had given up without making it a whole noble thing.

You opened your phone again.

The screen lit your face in the dark. Peter’s last message sat at the top of your conversation, sweet and plain, but you swiped away from it and opened the app folder buried between weather, notes, and a language app you hadn't used since September.

His location refreshed after half a second.

A small blue dot moved underground, following the subway line away from your neighborhood.

You watched it for longer than you needed to.

There you go, you thought, something soft and fond turning over in your chest. Going home like he'd promised.

Your thumb hovered near the map. The little dot stuttered once, then continued. Queens-bound. Alone. Probably standing instead of sitting because he always did that, always gave up seats without looking around to see if anyone noticed.

You smiled again.

Then you opened the second page.

Recent searches loaded beneath a synced browser tab.

Your name. Your bookstore café. Your old campus volunteer archive.

Your social media username with two letters transposed from the first time he had guessed wrong.

A search about whether ESU library study rooms had exterior cameras.

Another about the laundromat near your apartment.

Another about the orange cat in the window, which made you press your lips together to keep from laughing because that one was so painfully, pathetically cute you almost wanted to forgive him on the spot.

Almost.

You scrolled slowly, thumbnail caught between your teeth.

Peter had tried to be careful. That was the adorable part. He deleted things late, never immediately. He cleared histories in batches. He used different browsers for different kinds of guilt. But he was tired too often, distracted too easily by whatever terrible, secret life kept putting bruises beneath his clothes, and sometimes he left little openings behind him.

You'd only needed one.

After a minute, you reached for your laptop in your bedside table. 

The screen woke too bright in the dim room. You lowered the brightness, entered your password, and opened a folder hidden two layers beneath a boring label from last semester’s statistics course.

No full name sat at the top.

That had been one of the first strange things you had found out. 

There should have been more. A student record with a clean history. Tagged photos. Old classmates. Family posts. Some trail of a boy becoming himself in public, even if it was messy, even if it was private, even if most of it had been half-abandoned and badly archived.

Instead, there were gaps.

Not empty, exactly. Emptiness had a shape. This was far stranger, a life with the identifying edges rubbed raw. Campus systems recognized him enough to place him in classrooms, but old references thinned out when you pulled too hard. Public databases returned fragments. Security logs showed a face without a stable story attached. Search results curved away from certainty.

So you had named the folder yourself.

coffee boy.

You clicked it with familiarity and the profile unfolded across the screen with neat, patient organization: screenshots, timestamps, saved browser activity, transit pings, campus camera stills, bookstore security clips, location trails, and blurry street footage collected from public-facing feeds he probably assumed no one would bother checking. There were no tidy records calling him anything with a true name. No clean archive of a life before you. No easy explanation for why the boy in your biology class seemed to appear out of nowhere with old grief in his eyes and no one behind him looking for him.

But, there were patterns.

A brown jacket crossing ESU’s north quad at 8:12 a.m.

The same jacket outside your café at 6:47 p.m., eight minutes after your shift started.

A hooded figure lingering across the street from your apartment on the night you had closed alone.

A campus camera catching him turning his head before anyone else reacted to a car backfiring near the curb.

A security feed from three weeks ago, grainy with snow and bad lighting, showing someone dropping from a brick wall into an alley with impossible ease before pulling on that same brown jacket and walking into the street with his head down.

You dragged the timeline forward a few seconds.

There.

His face turned toward the camera.

Half-shadowed. Bruised. Undeniably him.

Your room reflected faintly in the laptop screen. You didn't look frightened in the reflection.

You looked tired. Curious, almost fond.

Because really, what were you supposed to do with him? 

Poor Peter, watching you from corners and rooftops and café tables, thinking his wanting made him monstrous because he had not yet understood that wanting was only ugly when it lacked imagination. He had searched your name like a confession. He had tracked your schedule like a prayer. He had learned your tea order, your walk home, even the little pauses in your texts.

He knew you so well.

It was sweet.

Not good, not harmless.

But sweet, in that sad, crooked way he was sweet when he brought soup and pretended it had been a normal thing to do.

Your phone buzzed.

Peter: Sleep well.

You glanced at it, and your smile came slowly, private enough that no one else would have known what to call it.

For a few seconds, you only sat there in the blue-white wash of the screen, hair damp against your shirt, thumbnail resting between your teeth.

Then, you looked back at the laptop.

His location dot kept moving. His searches waited beneath your cursor. And the paused footage held his face in the alley, caught between who he pretended to be and whatever he became when no one was meant to see remained awaiting you.

You kept scrolling.

other links: ▪︎ my masterlist.

[glossiercheek]

peter loves it when you wear spidey merch! 𝄞 warnings: 18+ (mdni), spiderman-related intimacy wear, fingering, unprotected sex, pet names (bug, baby)

you always joke about being spiderman’s biggest fan: little necklaces with spider charms hanging around it, making clattering sounds when you move. red socks with spider webs expanded all the way to your toes, or cheap, tiny hairclips in the form of little spiders bedazzled in red and blue gems.

at first, peter thinks it’s just cute. how he’s privy to your liking towards him, how he has his own personal fangirl at home. how you basically dress up all cute for him, how domestic and cosy you look. it’s a subtle way to show off, pride radiating off of you whenever someone compliments your spidey merch when you’re out in public: “thank you— spiderman’s like, my hero. isn’t he amazing?”

but the idea of you rocking his symbol being cute vanishes like snow before the sun when peter catches you in your dorm one night, munching on popcorn with your big eyes fixated on the television – the empire strikes back is playing, by the way — knees to your chest, rollers in your hair, and most importantly: the red and blue laced camisole draped over your torso like a silky smooth wave of fabric with the spider symbol on your chest, shining in the yellow, comfy light of your dorm room. and those matching panties: they make your thighs look like sin.

you don’t even notice peter entering your dorm through the window. you’ve stopped noticing that a long time ago. the boisterous sounds of explosions swish around your ears, until you feel two spandex-clad arms snake around your shoulders from behind.

“who’re you dressed up all cute for, bug?” peter’s exhausted, raspy voice fills your ears. even through the tight material, you’re able to feel his body heat. the smell of asphalt and burning ashes, but also peter’s usual sweetness at the bottom of the pie. something that’s always just there, carrying the essence of his humanity.

peter’s fingers cup your chin, tilting your head all the way back so that you’re looking up at him. “for you, spiderman,” you grin, your own fingers tugging his mask up, revealing a split lip, a bruised up cheekbone. peter’s hair is all mussed up and sweaty, and his eyes— they’re deep, completely transfixed on that spider symbol on your chest. “you think i look pretty?”

“oh, i do,” the brunet responds, swiftly climbing over the back of the sofa with that spider-agility of his, pulling you into his lap. your back leans against his warm chest, his fingers mindlessly pulling down the zipper of his suit. the feeling of the cold air of your dorm hitting his warm skin has a deep groan tumbling out of peter’s mouth. but maybe it’s also because of the feeling of your ass planted right on top of him, his length rubbing right against the plush of you.

“you’re always pretty to me, y’know that?” he moves your hair to rest over one shoulder, dotting kisses in a scattered line on the side of your neck as his other free hand rubs soothing circles to the inside of your thigh. meanwhile, you use his strong thighs underneath you to rock yourself into him. “especially with my symbol on you.”

“i’m just a big fan.” you admit in the dark, suddenly going all shy as you clumsily try to turn around in peter’s lap. when your lips lower right on top of peter’s throbbing length again, another guttural grumble flies out of his mouth, his head thudding falling over the back of the sofa, adam’s apple bobbing. 

your hands start to roam all over peter’s creamy, balmy skin, you feel the erratic beat of his heart underneath your palms, his muscles shifting and tightening when you press your lips to peter’s in a heated, searing kiss. you tug on his messy brown locks, as you continue with your ministrations— sliding your mound back and forth over his hardened cock.

at the same time, peter’s nimble fingers haul up the thin fabric of your camisole, all the way over your head, throwing it onto the floor somewhere. and the sight of what you’re wearing underneath your top renders peter completely speechless.

“i don’t think just big fans wear this, bug.” his thumb and forefinger rub the spider-jewel between the cups of your bra.

his eyes flick up to yours. there’s heat in them, a burning desire, when they roam over your perky tits covered in the dark red silk, adorned with blue lace. you can tell peter’s taken aback, as if he still can’t believe you’re his. and you’re wearing this— for him.

to check, peter’s eyes meander all the way down to where your cunt is pressed against him, the tension pulled taut like a piece of string between two fingers. you’re silently leaking on him, and you’re fighting back the urge to let out a helpless whine when one hand around your hipbone stills the slow back and forth movement of your hips. “don’t think just big fans wear this.” he repeats, his fingers brushing under the airy fabric of your panties, finding your already wet entrance.

a squelch echoes through the room when your boyfriend’s fingers start pumping into your pussy, shallowly digging two of his fingertips into you, rotating them, gently scissoring you open as your juices leak down his fingers.

peter’s breath turns into condensation on your puffy lips when he talks. “you wearing this for me?” his eyes remain locked on your face whilst the torturous drag of his digits continues, the treacly grind of his thumb on your clit. and you can’t do anything but take it. accept it. embrace it.

the heat of his stare, the flames lick at you when you can’t find the energy within you to respond, too focused on that pleasure pooling in your abdomen. your fingers clasp around peter’s shoulders for leverage to rut yourself onto his fingers. “peter— please—”

“i got you, bug,” he immediately assures, pressing a chaste kiss to your collarbone, fingers still not letting up. “i got you. doing real good f’me.” he mumbles, a little breathy, as he watches you bask in pleasure, the little crease between your eyebrows and your soft moans serving as telltale signs that you’re close.

his thumb rubs over your clit one more time, and it feels like the dam finally breaks. you shatter with a jumbled whine, pussy convulsing and twitching from the stimulation. your thighs quiver, even though you’re sitting down, your face all damp from the sweat, your lips all reddened and plush from biting them too much.

peter rewards you with a warm kiss to your lips, mumbling a soft “lift your hips, baby” between remnants of choked whimpers and soft mewls. and somewhere in the heat of it, you’re reminded how big he is when he flexes your thighs wider to slip his corded length along your wet folds, into your gummy entrance.

the vibration of peter’s groan thrums through the thick air when he bottoms out and your snug walls wrap around his dick. “oh, fuck—”

and you feel so full, a part of you is rendered immobile because of how cock-drunk you already are, the stretch of peter in you, you swear you feel him all the way in your throat. the other part wants to see peter completely undone. “show me how much you like your spiderman then, bug. show— show me.”

his big hands slide around your waist to slowly, experimentally, lift you up his length. then he lets you sink down. with a newfound motivation, your thoughts turned into goo, and with your legs feeling like overcooked noodles, your hands slide around peter’s neck, to find your strength.

“i will— i will,” you nod your head excitedly, almost benevolently. you return back the your slow, syrupy lift and grind of your hips, helpless whines escaping your lips every time you feel the wet slide of peter’s dick kissing your cervix.

the obscene, drooly sounds fill your dorm as you pick up your pace. pieces of hair fall out of your rollers, but you don’t care— you’re too focused on peter’s climax right now. “have my own little sidekick here, huh?” peter teases, voice a little strained, his lips sucking purple marks between the valley of your breasts as his hand teasingly snaps the elastic hem of your panties against your hip. 

his hands caress the soft of your waist, they smooth over your burning thighs. his little sidekick. you feel a new wave of want, of lust, course through your veins at the thought of you and him being a real duo. a pair. “mhm, gonna be s’good to you, peter,” you moan, clenching down on him as you sink down. 

“you are, bug. you’re already so good to me—” peter continues to croon, eyes squeezed shut as his fingers cramp around your hips. “so good, such a pretty baby for me, wearing my symbol and shit—” the rise and fall of his chest becomes more pronounced as you feel his cock throbbing relentlessly within you.

the both of you are lost in it, but peter is always so in tune with you. it’s the way he stills momentarily, the sloppiness of his own lift of his lips, meeting you halfway. his eyes are low, sleepy, when you finally feel the first spurts of his thick, gooey cum shoot in you. and you swear his spidey-senses make it stickier too, your entrance and walls thinly webbed in white like spiderwebs when he’s done with you.

when the two of you finally come down from it, peter quickly plants another kiss to your lips before getting up to find a warm towel to clean you up. “you should wear this more often, bug.”

[peteytheparker]

texts with peter parker/spiderman pt.3!

[imani4reading]

Into You | Peter Parker x Fem!Castle!Reader

SUMMARY: You’ve had a crush on Peter ever since freshman year at Empire State University, but it never seemed to click for him. When you transfer out to a college on the west coast and finally return three years later, something in his more matured mind finally catches on.

A/N: Based off of this request!

WARNINGS: Peter can’t take a hint, alcohol consumption, kiss scene at the end :)

WC: 2.4K

Main Masterlist!

Wherever you were Peter was, and wherever Peter was, you were.

You met Peter back in your freshman year at Empire State, having been paired up to work on a project together.

Immediately, you thought he was cute and his personality only made you fall harder. He was a little shy, very nerdy, and the type of guy to apologize a million times over for something that didn’t require it.

Exactly your type.

And unfortunately, exactly the type of guy your dad would make fun of you for liking.

“You really like that little dork?” he’d say over dinner, making fun of you for blushing at the mention of five letters.

Peter.

Over that same dinner your dad was rambling on and on about how Spider-Man was totally in his way on Staten Island. It went in one ear and out the other because he seemed to absolutely despise any living or breathing thing aside from you.

But then late one night in the library when you were half asleep trying to study with Peter, he mentioned something about helping out a cruel old man with the most erratic temper he’d ever met on Staten Island.

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together and that was oddly enough when you found out the boy you’d been crushing on was Spider-Man.

So, not only did your dad think Peter was a dork, but he also hated Spider-Man’s guts.

How the hell could you possibly bring him home?

Luckily for you, you never directly shot your shot because he didn’t seem interested.

But truth be told he couldn’t take a damn hint to save his life.

You’d smile when he spoke, say something slightly flirty to make him blush, and poke fun at him.

Undeniably, he was attracted to you.

He thought you were cute, sharp, flirty, and way out of his league.

So naturally, whenever you flirted, it never clicked.

Because why would a girl like you want to be with a guy like him?

Your first year and Empire State flew by and before you knew it, you were onto new things on the west coast at a university with better opportunities for your major.

Life got busy for the two of you and those promises of phone calls, texts, and visits completely fell through.

Now Peter was truly alone.

That was until you showed up three years later.

Music bumped through the apartment, as Peter pushed his way through.

He crossed paths with Ned at the bodega and since then had followed him from said bodega to the subway, all the way through the city to his apartment where he was having a housewarming party.

It was a little weird stalking a guy who he had once known, but Peter was desperate to see his friends again.

And thank goodness he was because the stars aligned that night and an old flame would be ignited again.

Someone offered Peter a red solo cup, and every fiber in his body told him not to drink from it. The smell alone was enough to make him gag.

He drank from it anyway and coughed, spitting the drink back into the cup with a scrunched nose.

Peter pushed further past the crowd, eyes moving around rapidly in an attempt to find Ned. He wasn’t sure what he’d do when he crossed paths with him. Maybe he’d introduce himself, throw out some nerdy reference, and perhaps become friends with him again.

The sea of bodies was practically drowning him alive and Ned was nowhere in sight.

He managed to make his way through the crowd and ended up in a corner with wide eyes, desperately searching for the reason he came. Little did he know, the reason why he came would be thrown completely over his head as someone else would catch his attention.

“Peter?”

Immediately, he recognized that voice.

You.

He whipped his head around, finding you leaning against the wall at the corner of the room, a red solo cup pressed to your lips.

Relief, excitement, and shock washed over him. Your name fell from his lips. “What are you doing here?” he asked with a boyish grin, walking over to you. The smoothness of your voice filled him with that warm feeling it had three years ago and very quickly, his feelings of attraction towards you returned.

You returned the smile. “MJ’s my coworker, she invited me,” you said.

“MJ?” he repeated. “Wait…you work? Like, here? Not back in California?”

You smirked. “I work here. Like, in New York,” you said with a familiar smile.

Peter’s eyes widened. “Wait! That means- that would mean you’re back?! For good?!”

You nodded. “Just graduated and I’m back.”

“Holy shit!” Peter laughed, pulling you in for a hug.

You wrapped your arms around him, careful not to spill your drink all over his clothes.

You were quickly overwhelmed with his scent, touch, and the feelings that you had long forgotten about in the past three years returned as if they had never gone away.

Your heart palpitated, face warming up.

Peter pulled away, eyes glancing over your features.

You looked good.

You had always looked good. But now…?

He was so stupid not to make a move three years ago or let alone catch onto the fact that you were undeniably into him.

“How have you been?” you asked casually.

Peter blinked, snapping out of his daze. “Oh, yeah, pretty good. You know, school, work, saving the city,” he said, the last part in a low tone.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah, my dad kinda hates you. Spider-Man, that is,” you whispered, leaning in a little closer to Peter, which made his breath hitch.

While he could dwell on how close you were to him, what you had just said registered. Peter rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it,” he groaned. “I saved his freaking life and all he does is berate me. He ran me over the other day!”

Peter expected you to be shocked, but you simply sipped on your drink and nodded. “Hmm, yeah, he told me about that too. He was pretty upset you just got right back up.”

Peter shook his head. “He’s lost his mind.”

“You say that as if this is a new revelation.”

Peter laughed, watching you finish the last of your drink. His nose scrunched. “What the hell are you drinking?”

You shrugged. “No idea. That guy gave it to me at the door,” you said, pointing at the same exact guy who gave Peter his drink.

Peter followed where your finger pointed. “Me too. This is disgusting,” he said, holding the drink out to you. “Want it?” Before you could respond, he yanked the cup away. “Wait! I spit it back out in here, don’t drink that. I’ll just finish it…I guess…” he trailed off. He lifted the drink to his lips, not wanting to be rude and waste what he presumed to be Ned’s alcohol.

Now you scrunched your nose. “Gross. Glad you remembered that because then we would’ve practically kissed,” you joked.

Peter coughed, spitting his drink back out into the cup yet again.

Your eyes widened as you watched him go into a coughing fit.

The thought of him kissing you, your soft lips on his, his hands on your waist, your hands on his shoulders…oh, that was enough to drive him mad.

He finally collected himself, laughing awkwardly. “Y-yeah…we would’ve uhm- we would’ve kissed…basically…”

“That was a joke,” you said slowly. “No need to get all nervous.”

Peter raised a brow. “Are you flirting with me?” he blurted out.

You tilted your head slightly. “Do you want me to?”

“No!” Peter shouted. “I- I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Like- I mean- if you want to then yeah, but like, I don’t- I mean…I wouldn’t say that I don’t want you to, but…”

You stared at Peter blankly for what felt like eternity.

“You’re really weird,” you finally said.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “Sorry,” he apologized, glancing down at his shoes.

You laughed softly. “It’s kinda cute. You know, you all flustered and what not.”

“Oh,” Peter laughed nervously, swallowing hard.

Why was he so flustered?

Did he always get this flustered around you?

Short answer, no.

“Wanna get out of here?” you asked, a mischievous smirk on your lips.

Peter’s lips pulled upward. “Yeah.”

And that’s how you ended up outside about forty stories in the air swinging from building to building. You held onto Peter tightly as he swung you across the city to the top of the building you two sat at for hours when you went to MIT.

Knees pulled to your chest, eyes staring at the skyline, you went on and on about the past three years of your life as Peter listened intently, a small smile on his lips.

“What about you?” you asked suddenly, turning towards him.

He raised a brow. “What about me?”

You smiled. “What have you been up to in the past three years?”

Peter shrugged, looking away. “Saving the city, school, work,” he said dryly, his past three years far less entertaining than yours.

Your expression softened. “That’s it?”

“Yeah,” Peter snorted. “It’s been kinda…lonely without you.”

“It hasn’t been that lonely,” you said, nudging his shoulder. “My dad is basically your coworker.”

“Like I said,” Peter said, giving you a deadpanned look. “Very lonely. No offense, but your dad is crazy. He needs to be put into a psych ward.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but stopped, shutting your mouth. “Maybe you’re right, but he’s still my dad.”

Frank was all you had, even as a kid. You were forever grateful that he took you under his wings. Everyone saw him as some scary monster, but to you, he was your dad. Your protector. The man who read you stories at night and made you laugh when you cried.

Peter huffed. “He’s still scary.”

You giggled, leaning back onto the palms of your hands. “I hear that more often than not.”

It was quiet for beat, the hum of the city below you filling your ears.

“So…” you trailed off. “Do you have a…Mrs. Spider-Man?” you asked.

Peter slowly turned towards you. “Mrs. Spider-Man?” he repeated.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Peter’s lips pulled upward. “You mean do I have a girlfriend?”

“Or had,” you clarified. “You seem incredibly single to me.”

Peter nudged your shoulder lightly, making you laugh. “No, there wasn’t a Mrs. Spider-Man,” he said with a playful eye roll. “Do…you have a boyfriend?”

You raised your brows as you stared at him. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

“Hell no,” you laughed.

“Why not?” Peter asked, genuinely curious. “You’re really smart, and pretty and-”

He cut himself off, eyes wide. “I mean, you’re not pretty!”

“What…?”

“No! No you are! You’re really really really pretty! I just mean not like that.”

You raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like, objectively speaking you’re attractive but I’m not saying that I’m attracted to you.” Peter’s face was now red. “But like, you are really pretty and I can see that, anyone can!”

You laughed. “You really are weird.”

Peter sighed, dropping his head in embarrassment. His heart couldn’t take it anymore. After living three painful years without you in his life, he realized that he hated what life looked like without you in it. And he hated even more the idea of being forced to just be your friend. “Can I tell you something?”

You nodded, turning to face him. “Sure.”

Peter hesitated, playing with his fingers as he stared at the skyline, trying to gather his thoughts. “These past couple of years without you have been…terrible,” he admitted. “I’ve missed you, like, a lot.”

His gaze lifted to look at you and the almost pleading look in his eye was enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

“And, I’ve realized something,” he said, voice wavering slightly, nerves coursing through his veins. “Our freshman year together was the longest I had been happy in a very long time. You reminded me what it was like to live again.”

Your expression softened.

“When you told me you were transferring, I thought that I could handle it, but I couldn’t,” he said. “Especially not when I’ve liked you for the longest time.”

Your heart dropped. “Peter…”

“I know you probably don’t like me back,” he said, looking away. “But I can’t keep it inside anymore. I’ve liked you ever since we were paired up for the project together and I was just too scared to say anything or do anything about it.”

“Peter-”

“And I know it’s been three years-”

“Peter-”

“This is honestly kind of embarrassing-”

“Peter-”

“I probably should’ve just told you three years ago because now I look like an idiot and-”

Peter stopped talking when you reached for his hand, squeezing it lightly.

“Peter,” you said softly. “Did you seriously think I was never into you?”

Peter blinked. “Were you?”

“Yes,” you laughed. “I still am. Why do you think I was always flirting with you?”

“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged. “I thought you had to be joking because there was no way in hell you would like me. And besides, you stopped after a while.”

“I stopped because I thought you weren’t interested,” you said.

“Oh…” Peter trailed off, his hand still tingling from where you were holding it.

It was quiet for a beat.

Peter slowly smiled and turned towards you. “Wait, you said you were still into me?” he asked like a complete dork.

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress your smirk. “Don’t let that get to your head now.”

Peter hummed. “It already has.”

Peter’s fingers brushed a loose strand of hair out of your face, staring into your eyes as if they were the brightest constellation.

Your breath hitched as your eyes flickered down to his lips, his eyes glancing down to yours.

You both leaned in slowly, eyes fluttering shut as your lips met. Peter hummed in content, kissing you reverently.

You both pulled away, resting your foreheads on one another.

“My dad is gonna kill me,” you laughed.

“You or me?” Peter asked.

“Me. He thinks you’re a dork. Just don’t let him find out you’re Spider-Man because then he might actually kill you.”

Peter raised his brows. “How reassuring.”

You smiled and leaned in, kissing him again.

In the moment, your father’s reaction to finding out that you were dating the dork who he also subconsciously hated didn't matter.

All that mattered was that you had finally gotten with the boy you had long been attracted to.

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added!)

@sarilarisstuff @qardasngan @taylrsdaughter @lisbondollxo @emmaturtle48 @johnnyfuckingsexystorm @zenxvii @girlmeetsolivia @purplepoise13 @majjiii @vanillaadots @d0tt3ds1lk @avocadofam @kylorensbaby @tehe-gig @zoyasgirl @3ello @majjiii @hellokitty-girl666 @my-sanity-left-to-get-milk

[snowiko]

dating peter parker and flirting with spider-man on the side

[ifsoniacouldfly]

i was listening to role model’s “slut era interlude” and i got a peter parker fic idea. but i can’t write for shit, so if someone wants to make it come true, i’ll thank you forever 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻. the line that inspired me was “and let me call you by somebody that i used to know”, so i was thinking like angsty smut where peter and reader are like fwb but of course he’s still in love with mj, and during one night where him and reader are together, he accidentally calls her mj. and obviously reader is in love with peter and heartbroken from this episode

[shanelsh]

ꕤ ｡˚ WITHOUT YOU: a spiderman fic - shanelsh

description: ever since spider-man has started to come to you for late night patch-ups and hang outs, you’ve caught feelings and feel you deserve to know more beyond his masked identity.

wc: 1.1k

angst.. for now ;)

You’ve always been fascinated by Spider-Man. Seeing him on the news saving civilians, wondering if one day you’d be the one under rescue. You would’ve never thought it'd be the other way around.

It was midnight and you were tossing and turning, trying to get sleep before your 6 a.m. start at work the next day- when you heard a loud shattering sound come from what sounded like your living room. You knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep if you didn’t check it out. So naturally, you quietly got out of bed, your bare feet softly hitting the floor to be sure you don’t make the floorboards creek. You tiptoe down your hallway, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror- hair messy, in a brandy pyjama set you’ve had since you were 16. You peek around the corner to get a better look and there he is. Spider-Man, in the flesh. 

You let out an awkward scream- not sure what to do. I mean, you knew he wouldn’t hurt you or anything. He looked quite capable of doing so, his body rather brawny.  You could tell he was in pain. He was lying on your floor on top of shattered glass which once belonged to your window. He was holding his bloody abdomen and groaning loudly, the whole scene was quite gory. After contemplating helping him for long enough, you decide to make yourself known. You slowly walk into the room with your hands up, as if you’re the one out of place. 

“Spider-Man?” You call out nervously, a knot in your stomach. His hands were on his head, covering his wired eyes. He was clearly in agonising pain. “S-sorry I broke your window,” he mutters out of breath, not looking away from the ceiling. You smile- how sweet of him. “Do you want help?” You ask, tilting your head. His nod of approval sends you to get your first-aid kit, and the rest is history.

He finds himself swinging into your permanently open window multiple times a week. Initially, it wasn’t purposeful, but now he isn’t sure. It’s convenient; you’re kind enough to help him with his injuries every now and then. And when he’s not injured, it’s nice to just sit and talk with someone- regardless of if that someone is a stranger and doesn’t know his name, let alone his face. For now, you just call him Spidey and that's it. 

Well, your “Spidey” has been going through something recently. Whenever he gets overwhelmed, stressed, angry, his spider DNA levels rise and he goes crazy. You’ve now seen this firsthand too many times to count. His veins burst through his suit, his muscles flex, he becomes extremely alert, his persona becomes much more daring, and apparently his eyes go black- which you can’t see since he doesn’t want you to know who he is. According to him, it’s excruciating, but for you, it’s great. It’s made him spend much more time with you. Almost every single day, he swings into your apartment looking all buff and stressed. The downside? It’s made you catch feelings for him. You’re in love with a guy in a spandex suit who can’t even tell you his age. The only thing you know about him is that he likes Chinese food- because he brings it over every day as a so-called ‘peace offering’. You keep him company and monitor his arachnid flare-ups, and he keeps you fed with chicken chow mein.

It’s now been four weeks of seeing each other, and you’re getting a little bored. Spider-Man is sitting across from you, eating his fried rice, and you’re talking about your day at work and your dull life like always, fawning over the man across from you who doesn’t want to tell you what colour hair he has- if he even has any. The room goes silent for no longer than two seconds, and you bring it up.

“I know you can’t tell me who you are, but can you at least tell me something about your life? For once?” You ask, with an upset yet underwhelming tone.

He notices, as he always does. “Look- I know it sucks, but I can’t tell you anything. It’s dangerous.” You look down at your hands, fidgeting under the table. “Isn’t this dangerous?” You ask. He looks at you, confused. All you can see are his eyes wiring in and out. “Hm?” You ask, waiting for a response. “I don’t understand. where is this coming from?” He replies, furrowing his eyebrows under his mask. “Eating dinner with me every night. Is that not dangerous? What if I tell someone?” He scoffs, “You aren’t the type of girl to do that.” You shake your head, confused. “So you can trust me enough to eat dinner with me in my apartment every night but not to tell me anything about you? Or take off that mask?” You question, pointing to his mask that’s lifted around his mouth. “You don’t get it. It’s deeper than that. I-it’s hard for me to let people in- “ you interrupt. “If I don’t get it, then why aren’t you explaining it to me?” You say, head in your hands. “I can’t.” He slams his bowl down. 

The thump echoes in the silence. “Why didn’t you just carry on taking care of yourself? I have a life too- I’m not just here to keep you company, and I’m going to ask questions, and I feel like I’ve done enough to get the answers to those questions. Why couldn’t have you just carried on without me?” He pulls his mask back down over his mouth. “Carry on without you?” He scoffs, as if you were being ridiculous. He stands up and walks towards the window and leaves. 

@uzmacchiato for the dividers ꕤ ｡˚

note: i know this is really short buut its my first fic + it's a part 1! so another one will come soon

[unfortunatefan]

“I’m just like Peter Parker fr.” I say to myself as I fuck up over and over again and sulk in my Juicy sweat pants

[ignominiousgirl]

🕸️🕷 We've got chemistry! 🕸️🕷

plot: you accidentally send Peter a pic and he sends one back

pairing: peter parker x reader

tags: cheating, smut, i haven’t written in a minute so this probably suckkksssss

inspired by @llalaundercover on tiktok

Organic Chemistry 101 was difficult. And that was saying something considering you were an A* student in high school. College was hard. It was filled with a bunch of pretentious know-it-alls, all insufferable and snotty with the exception of Peter Parker.

He was quiet, stuck to himself, and also crazy smart. He'd been part of the Robotics club in high school, and you remember admiring him work, always in a world of his own. It felt like that was eons ago.

You had become more familiar with each other in college, considering you were both taking the same major. You’d help each other out with notes and answers here and there, even studying together during peak exam season.

Now here you were, trying not to let all the electives and classes and events drown you, but finding it difficult to find a balance. From an outsider's perspective, it looked like you had everything; the grades, the looks, the guy.

Brad. Your boyfriend from high school who had followed you to college. Classic high school sweethearts. You'd won prom king and queen, applied to colleges together, planned all your senior pranks together.

But truthfully, it was an empty relationship. Brad was here on a sports scholarship, and the two of you couldn't be more distant. Sure he brought you flowers and chocolates on Valentine's day and kissed you when you met him on the field, but he didn't know much about you.

Or about how much you'd changed. And you never felt comfortable enough to tell him. Truth was, it was boring. He was boring.

Sex with him was even more boring. The same position, the same words, the same time, every time. It had become a boring mundane routine, like another chore to check off your list.

So when he texts you, asking you to 'send something?' Your eyes light up. Finally some excitement. You strip your top off, turn on your lamp, and snap a few pics at different angles, scrolling between them until you land on the perfect one.

Getting another notification, you click to open it, assuming it was Brad again. You attach the photo of you holding your boobs, with your necklace resting in your cleavage and your hair framing the sides.

Resting your phone down, you wait for his response. When a few minutes pass without him responding, you decide to send a sly message asking what he was doing with the photo, only to see that his message had remained unopened.

Confused, you open your chat, then swipe back out to see that Peter Parker was at the top of your message list.

You were going to die. Of mortification. Brad was going to break up with you, and Peter freaking Parker would know how your tits looked.

You’re close to a full blown panic attack when you hear a ding! from your phone.

This was it. The consequences of your actions. A lengthy disgusted message from Peter about sending unsolicited nudes and the end of any future distinguished careers.

Squealing, you contort in your bed like a madman before huffing and opening your phone.

[picture attached]

Oh.

Pausing, you wonder what he could have sent you. It couldn't be...

Adjusting yourself in the bed, you lie on your stomach and click on the photo.

Peter Parker knew how your tits looked, and you knew how his dick looked now too.

Nice isn't the first word you'd think of to describe a penis, but his was... pretty? It was blushing at the tip, and even in the low lighting you could see the pre glistening.

You think you're about to combust when he sends something else.

A video.

You open it without hesitation.

He's holding his base, whining a—

"Fuckkkkkk. Wanted this so long."

He tugs upwards once, hissing at the sensation. "Please, please, let me come over. Fuck please, I'll make you feel so good..."

And just like that the screen goes blank. It’s embarrassing how quick you become wet.

You don't even blink before texting him your dorm room number.

10 long minutes later, there's a knock. By then, you'd watched the video over and over, and if you closed your eyes you could see it playing behind your eyelids.

You open on the first knock, smiling at the sheepish look on his face with his fist raised to knock again.

There's a thud behind you and you feel your spine tingle when you realise he's dropped to his knees before you.

You think for a second that you should reject his advances. That you should feel some type of shame, think of your relationship, muster any kind of logic.

But it was hard to think when he was looking at you so prettily.

Eyes all watery, like you’re the only thing in the world, like he’d do anything for you.

So when he says, “please,” softly, you feel like you don’t have a choice but to lean down and press your lips to his.