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[l13]

hello!!!! can i ask for dc text fica that are like reader and the boys are exes (they ended on good terms) and now they try to keep in touch with reader in not an annoying way, but as if trying to still be someone reader cares about? idk if it's baddd im sorry tho 😖

idk if you wanted this to be fluffy, but the angst demon took hold of me, I'M SORRY

i've marked this as gn!reader, so if there's any she/her pronouns pls let me know because it's late and i'm tired af soi can't be trusted to proofread this better rn, thanks!

*✩‧₊˚ THEY TRY TO RECONNECT WITH YOU AFTER YOU GUYS BROKE UP

TEXTS starring my fave DC men<3: Dick, Jason, Roy, Wally, Bruce, Hal, Barry, Clark

cw: gn!reader except in clark's where the word 'aunt' is mentioned, swearing, angst, we're kind of the assholes in this one, the break-up is left ambiguous in some texts

2025 © l13 | Do not steal, copy, edit, translate or re-post any of my works.

[wanndavision]

little bit - jason todd

SUMMARY ; After Jason is resurrected, he came back into your life just to walk out, too caught up in his own mission. He only finds it fair that he gets to watch over you, just to keep you safe... right?

CONTENT ; jason todd x fem!afab!reader, jason lowks stalks u, jason pov, kindaaa steamyyy nothing explicit tho, angsty kinda, no real ending srry, making out scene in detail, a bit of violence nothing crazy just redhood

A/N ; this is my first jason todd fic hehe and first fic on this acc in years so hello! i also posted on my main acc recently so check that out ;) and to b clear, their ages are around 20/21 in this okiiii :> anyway i hope u enjoy this lil thang of my fav to help warm me up lolol

WORD COUNT ; 6.1k

ao3 link

Tuesday, September 17th 

It had been days since Jason reached out to you.

Days of chewing on his own mistakes, grinding his teeth on the reasons why. He still couldn’t explain what had possessed him to break his silence in the first place, why he’d stepped out of the shadows and let you see him, breathing, living, when the world was supposed to think he was nothing but a headstone and an empty casket.

That night replayed in his head like a bad tape. The look in your eyes—wide, shattered, like you were staring at something not quite alive, not quite dead—had burned itself into him. It lodged there like a knife, twisting ugly and raw every time he let himself remember. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe that’s why he told himself it was better to vanish again. To ghost you. To keep you safe from the storm living inside him, from the wreckage that trailed after him like smoke.

Because you weren’t just someone from his past. You were the first person he went to. The only one. And that made you dangerous.

The fact that you knew he was out here, breathing, bleeding, existing in the cracks of Gotham was a risk he had no right to gamble with. If anyone had seen the two of you together, they’d start connecting the dots, and the picture they’d draw would end with you in someone’s sights. Jason’s frown deepened even now at the thought of you being dragged into his mess because he couldn’t stay away.

That was what he told himself. That’s what he had to believe. That’s why he came that day, why he kept coming back to your block. To make sure you weren’t on anyone’s radar, to make sure his enemies didn’t get the bright idea to use you as leverage.

He swore he was there to protect you. Not to slip back into the gravity of your voice. Not to ache at the way you said his name like it was still something holy.

But even now, days later, he still remembered the tiny tremor in your hand, the way it twitched like you wanted to reach for him but didn’t quite trust your own eyes. He still heard the catch in your breath, like your heart had recognized him before your mind caught up. And he’d walked away anyway.

Now he lingered on the edges of your world, where he belonged. Watching from the shadows, peering into your apartment window just long enough to make sure you were okay. That had become his ritual, his penance. It was the last string keeping him from snapping completely, from exploding on everyone who’d failed him, everyone who’d left him in the dirt. You were his saving grace, the only piece of light he hadn’t smudged with blood.

He couldn’t risk hurting you. But he couldn’t risk letting anyone else get the chance either.

Sunday, September 22nd

Jason was back, crouched on the tip of a rooftop across from your building, the night pressing cold against his shoulders as he fixed his eyes on your window. The little square of light spilled out into the dark like a beacon, drawing him in whether he wanted it to or not. He told himself he wasn’t a creep. Not a perv. Not some sick voyeur with nothing better to do. But the thought still nagged at him as he watched you.

You weren’t doing anything scandalous—hell, you weren’t even trying. You were tucked into the couch in your old hoodie and sweats, slouched like gravity was winning tonight. A movie flickered on your TV, coloring your face in shifting blues and yellows, and Jason caught himself thinking you looked almost… peaceful. Safe. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, forcing himself to scan the street, the alleys, the rooftops around him. That’s what he was here for. That’s what this was. Recon. Keeping watch. Nothing else.

Still, his gaze slid back to your window like it had a mind of its own. He noticed how your hair fell in messy waves, loose from whatever half-assed bun you’d probably shoved it into earlier. You looked comfortable. At home. Normal. And the sight hit him harder than he expected, like a reminder of everything he’d lost, everything he couldn’t touch anymore.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered under his breath. Get it together, Todd. Be normal about this. Because if he let himself linger too long, he’d start wanting and wanting was dangerous. No, this wasn’t about him. It was about you—keeping you away from anyone's attention but his. Making sure you stayed safe in a city that liked to chew people up and spit them out bloody. 

That was the story, and he was sticking to it. This wasn’t obsession. This wasn’t weakness.

This was essential.

Friday, October 4th

You hadn’t been home for a while.

Jason told himself not to care. At least, not in the way he did. He kept shoving the shallow, selfish thoughts down like stuffing rags into a leaking pipe, trying to plug the ache before it drowned him. Concern. That was all it could be. 

He should’ve followed you. He knew it. Every nerve in his body had twitched with the urge to trail you, but you’d looked so excited when you left earlier—fresh lipstick, hair done, that light in your eyes like you were sixteen again and not living in Gotham. It made him hesitate, made him second-guess himself. He convinced himself you’d be fine. He told himself you were only vulnerable at home, in that shoebox apartment with its peeling paint and locks that wouldn’t keep out a motivated twelve-year-old. Out with friends, you’d be safe. That’s what he clung to, even while his gut screamed at him that he’d just made the wrong call.

How many lines am I going to cross before it’s too far? The thought hissed through his brain like acid. Do I care? Should I?

Perched on the cold ledge outside your building, Jason dug his fingers into the crumbling brick until grit bit into his skin. He felt like the worst guard dog Gotham had ever spat out; absent when it mattered, showing up late with teeth bared but no clue what to bite. 

He was still grinding himself down with guilt when he heard it: your laugh. It floated up from the street below, a sharp, bright note against the low drone of traffic and the far-off wail of sirens. His body reacted before his brain caught up—shoulders dropping, breath unclenching, muscles easing like a knot loosening.

He shifted, sliding back into the dark like smoke, eyes sharp until he found you. There you were, stepping under a flickering streetlamp, the moonlight snagging on your hair and turning the loose strands into silver threads. A halo. Fitting, he thought bitterly. You always had a way of looking untouchable, even when you weren’t. Especially when you weren’t.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Don’t go there.” But his eyes didn’t listen.

Your outfit didn’t help. Tight top, short skirt. Not scandalous. Just… you. Bold, alive, like you weren’t afraid of the city that had chewed both of you raw. The kind of thing that demanded to be seen. Jason hated how it made his chest tighten with something heavier than fear, something he didn’t have the right to feel anymore. But the sway in your step sobered him quick, the soft wobble of your ankles on uneven pavement. Drunk, tired, maybe both.

Jason’s stomach twisted, half endearment, half pure terror. Part of him remembered the warmth of your breath against his throat at old parties, your laughter vibrating into his collarbone. The other part wanted to snatch you clean off the sidewalk and carry you home before someone else noticed.

And someone would notice. He saw the cluster of men loitering at the end of the block, the kind who thought drunken girls were invitations, not people. He knew the kind of things they’d say, the way their eyes would snap to you like vultures spotting meat. His hands clenched, fists aching with the effort not to tear across the street and break their faces in. 

You didn’t notice them. Didn’t notice any of it. And that ignorance had Jason’s pulse spiking, sweat prickling under his collar, the itch of violence crawling up his spine.

Only when your key slid into the lock and you slipped inside did his muscles finally loosen. His fists unfurled, his heartbeat slowed, and for the first time all night, he let out a shaky breath. He stayed crouched there in the dark, eyes locked on your door like it was the only thing anchoring him.

This won’t happen again.

The words circled like a mantra, steady, absolute. For your safety, he’d follow. He’d shadow you, every night if he had to. He’d cross that line and the next and the next until the city understood: you were untouchable. It’s what had to be done.

Thursday, October 31st

Thankfully, Jason didn’t need to try hard to blend in. Gotham’s Halloween parties were an excuse for chaos; masks, costumes, drunk idiots pretending to be things far scarier than they’d ever actually face. So yeah, his leather jacket and jeans passed without a second glance, and his Red Hood mask? Everyone thought it was just a prop, some edgy choice for the season. If only they knew. It made slipping into the shadows easy. Perched in the corner, half-hidden by strobing lights and fake cobwebs, Jason kept his eyes locked on you.

And you… Christ, you were nothing like anyone he’d ever tailed before. Usually, his nights were spent hunting men who deserved a bullet in the back of their skulls. Thieves, traffickers, the kind of scum he didn’t have to think twice about putting down. His “stalking” was all about angles, about timing, about clean shots and exit plans.

But this? This was you.

You on the dance floor, hips moving to a beat you didn’t even have to think about, your laugh spilling brighter than the neon lights flashing across your face. Your smile soft, easy. Your hair catching the glow in ways that made him think of a time when you’d fall asleep on his chest and he’d bury his nose in those strands just to breathe you in. Jason told himself to stay clinical, detached—observe, assess, protect. But every second he watched you, he sank deeper into a hunger that had nothing to do with tactics.

You had no idea how badly he missed you. The ghost of your weight under his palms, the way you used to cling when he pulled you close, the shiver that raced through you when he brushed his nose along the crook of your neck. He’d never believed in things like devotion, not before you. He’d never trusted something soft enough to last. But now, standing in the crush of bodies and noise, he realized devotion was the only thing keeping him here, tethered to this world instead of burning it all down.

And when your eyes found him—heavy-lidded, glossy from the booze, but sharp enough to cut through the crowd—he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even try to hide.

No, instead, he dipped his head just slightly. A small signal, a promise. You’re safe. I’m here.

You froze mid-step on the dance floor, and for a heartbeat, the world stilled with you. Your friends kept laughing, spinning, calling your name over the bass, but you didn’t look away. It was just you and him in that crowded, suffocating room, your stare slicing straight through the mask like it was nothing. Like it had always done, even when he was alive the first time around. Jason’s pulse spiked, hammering against his ribs, but he didn’t move. He held his ground. And you didn’t either.

Then, someone tugged at your arm, shouted your name, and the moment fractured. You blinked, turning away, though your gaze lingered on him for as long as you could stretch it, like you were reluctant to let go. It was over. Jason stood there, still burning from the aftershock, watching as you laughed again, let yourself be pulled back into the swirl of lights and noise, as if nothing had happened. Like you could snap back into your life without missing a beat. And that was good. Maybe that’s what he should want for you—to live inside that bubble of normalcy, safe and untouched, unbothered by the weight of a resurrected corpse who couldn’t stay buried.

But as his hands curled into fists at his sides, as his chest ached from the phantom of your stare, the question struck sharp and unrelenting:

If that’s what he wanted for you… why couldn’t he leave you alone?

Saturday, November 9th

This was the first night since Halloween that Jason had taken watch over you again. Too many nights he’d been elsewhere—wringing himself dry on rooftops, chasing ghosts, grinding his resentment into bone-deep calluses until it felt like he’d explode if someone looked at him wrong. But tonight, he was where he belonged.

He knew your schedule down to the minute. By now, he could map your route blindfolded: the flickering neon sign above the liquor store, the busted streetlamp two doors from your building, the stretch of cracked sidewalk that always puddled after rain. He shadowed you from above, eyes sharp, chest tight.

And then it happened.

You turned the corner past a yawning alley, and three men peeled out of the dark like wolves catching a scent. Weapons glinted in the dirty light; knife, pipe, something heavier Jason couldn’t clock yet. They spread wide, corralling you like they’d done this a thousand times.

“Bag. Now.”

You froze. Jason saw the tremor in your shoulders even from a distance. And then one of them made the mistake—the fatal mistake—of reaching out and grabbing your arm, tugging you like you were something cheap off a rack. Jason moved before his brain had a chance to catch up.

He dropped from the fire escape like a thunderclap, boots hitting the pavement hard enough to echo off the walls. The men spun, startled, and Jason saw the recognition flicker in their eyes. Red Hood. Too late. The first lunged with a pipe, too slow. Jason caught him mid-swing, twisted the weapon free, and slammed it across his jaw. The crunch sang in Jason’s ears, and he didn’t stop. He brought the pipe down again, harder, until the man hit the pavement like dead weight.

The second was faster, knife flashing. Jason let the blade skim his jacket, leather tearing but skin untouched. It was enough to earn him the pleasure of retaliation. He buried his fist in the guy’s face, felt cartilage snap under his knuckles. The knife clattered away, and Jason drove him headfirst into the wall, brick scraping skin raw as he slid down unconscious.

The last man faltered, clutching his bottle like it could save him. Jason smiled behind the mask, cruel and humorless. He feigned a step back, let the man think he had a chance, then crushed it. One kick snapped his knee sideways with a wet pop that ripped a scream from his throat. Jason followed with an elbow to the temple, dropping him in a heap, twitching.

And then, silence.

Jason stood in the wreckage, chest rising slow and steady, a storm finally given room to break. Blood stained his gloves, dripping down the pipe still clutched in his hand. He let it drop, the clang echoing.

He tilted his head to look at you, wiping smeared blood off of his face. You were frozen a few feet away, clutching your bag, eyes wide. Jason could almost hear your pulse from here, feel the way the world had narrowed to just him and the monsters at his feet. He should’ve been ashamed of how good it felt. He wasn’t.

What gnawed at him instead was the fact that you’d seen it all. The violence, the blood, the damage he’d wrought in seconds. That same dark red smeared across his hands had pooled close to your shoes. The thought should’ve made him recoil, should’ve set his stomach twisting in guilt, but he let it slide. Adrenaline was still humming through his veins, giving him enough control to form thoughts into words.

“They won’t touch you again,” he said, voice low, steady, edged with the afterglow of violence. For once, he meant every word. 

You didn’t look down at the bodies. Jason couldn’t tell if he was relieved or more frustrated. Part of him wanted confirmation, the other part wanted to pretend it didn’t matter. He wasn’t sure who was still breathing and who wasn’t, and maybe that uncertainty was exactly how he liked it. You walked around the scene like a careful ghost, knuckles white around your bag, shoulders tight with self-protection. And still, you brushed past him just enough that the wind carried your scent, light, familiar, impossible to ignore. His nose caught it instantly, following it instinctively like a predator.

“Let’s clean you up before you go,” you murmured as you started toward your apartment, expecting him to follow.

He knew the words were your way of saying thank you, and he couldn’t refuse—not when every fiber of him wanted to keep you safe, wanted to be near you, even if it was the very thing that put you in danger in the first place. He could be cold, lethal, unstoppable when he had to be… but with you? With you, he’d bend like a leaf in a storm. Say jump, and he’d already be asking, “How high?”

Maybe it was the lingering adrenaline, the sharp aftertaste of violence still humming through him, or maybe it was the way your jeans hugged your legs, the sway of your hips as you walked, but Jason couldn’t take his eyes off you. Not fully. Not ever. He kept his face tucked under the mask, hidden, but it only gave him more freedom to drink you in; every line, every movement, every effortless grace he’d missed for far too long. He was chasing you in a way he hadn’t allowed himself in years. Inches felt like miles, each step you took a torment and a blessing. His chest tightened, his blood pumping with the fight still lingering in his veins, and yet somehow, it was nothing compared to how he felt just watching you move.

Jason didn’t register he was inside until the air of your apartment hit his lungs—warm, familiar, unshakably you. It clung to him, settled in his chest, and for a moment he felt like he’d stepped into a memory instead of reality.

Then it hit him all at once. He was here. In your space. Too close, closer than he’d been since that night he showed you he was alive again. And then left, like a ghost that had clawed its way back into the ground.

The weight of it pinned him against the door. His head reeled with reasons why he shouldn’t have crossed the threshold. Too many to count. Too many to fight. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too hard.

The sound of your feet shuffling snapped him out of the spiral. You’d already set your things down, your bag hitting the table with a soft thud, your hand running through your hair as if shaking the night off your shoulders. Jason tracked every step as you crossed into the hallway, pulling open a closet with a familiarity that made his chest ache. You grabbed a stack of small white cloths, disappeared into the bathroom, the rush of running water following after you. He stayed near the door, frozen like he was still outside on some rooftop watching you through glass, unseen, unnoticed. 

Your head peeked out from the bathroom doorframe. Tentative. Your eyes flicked everywhere but him, like the air between you both was too thick to stand in.

“Come on,” you murmured, tilting your head before disappearing back inside.

Jason forced his body to move, tried to empty his head of everything that screamed this wasn’t real. He stepped into the small bathroom, taking note of everything in a desperate bid to normalize it: the faint hum of the fan overhead, the tired buzz of the flickering bulb, the sharp tropical sweetness of the air freshener clinging to the walls. Normal, mundane things.

You stood by the sink, the wet cloth sliding through your fingers, twisting with nervous energy as you glanced at him expectantly.

“Uh…” Your throat worked before the words came out, a little too thin. “You gonna take off your mask, or are you really trying to lean into that creepy stalker vibe?”

Jason’s jaw flexed. He turned toward the mirror above the sink, and the reflection that stared back at him looked every inch the what you’d just described. The deep red mask sealing away his face, the leather jacket scarred and smeared with someone else’s blood, the bat-symbol etched across his chest, dulled and scratched, the gun heavy at his hip. He looked like the boogeyman. Maybe he was.

And yet, somehow, you’d still let him in.

Jason swallowed, the sound sharp in his throat, and tugged the helmet off slowly. Careful. Almost reluctant. He set it down on your counter with a dull clunk, the absence of it making him feel stripped, raw. His eyes never left you. He braced himself for you to look away, to flinch, to scatter your gaze like before.

But you didn’t. You studied him instead, unflinching. Drinking him in like you couldn’t help yourself, like your eyes had been starved for the sight of him. Jason’s stomach knotted. His head went light, his chest too tight, like he might crack open under the softness of your stare. You looked at him like he wasn’t a weapon, wasn’t a ghost, wasn’t something damned. You looked at him like he was just Jason.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Silence hung heavy in the cramped bathroom, every second stretched thin with electricity neither of you dared to break. He stared back, helpless. Couldn’t stop himself.  

Your hands rise again, the cloth gliding over skin where the blood had clung stubbornly from his earlier fights. The warmth seeps through, a quiet shock each time it presses against him. You move with a patience he doesn’t deserve, gentle, deliberate, as if you’re afraid he might splinter if you’re too rough. Jason feels it all: the careful drag of fabric, the way your knuckles brush his jaw, the faint tremor in your fingers that you’re trying hard to hide.

He doesn’t mean to lean into you, doesn’t mean for his body to betray him like this. But his shoulders loosen, his jaw unclenches, and his pulse slows to match your rhythm. It’s instinctive, bone-deep, the kind of surrender that terrifies him. And then your scent hits him again, grounding, overwhelming. He drowns in it.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmur, tilting his chin slightly so you can reach the other side of his neck.

Jason’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, almost something else. “Like what?” The words scrape low in his throat, the only way he can keep them steady.

Your gaze lifts to his, fleeting, but enough to gut him. “Like nothing's changed.”

The words land harder than any blow he’s taken tonight. Jason freezes, his head jerking back a fraction as though bracing for impact. His eyes narrow, his defenses flicker back into place—but only for a heartbeat. Because then you keep going, your hand steady as you wipe away the last streaks of red, as if each pass of the cloth is stripping him down further. Not just the blood. His fury. His armor. He should tell you to stop.

He should put the mask back on, slip out the door, vanish into the shadows where he belongs. But he can’t. He can’t when you’re this close, when your voice is this soft, when you touch him like the grave didn’t separate you once.

He knows what it must have been like for you. The loss, the grief, the hole he left behind. He imagines it and nearly buckles under the weight. To have him ripped away, then shoved back into your orbit. And tonight he followed you, saved you, bled for you, only to end up here, undermining his own resolve. Erasing his own distance and the very reason he created it in the first place.

There’s too much between you now, and none of it makes sense. He can’t figure a way out of it. It hollows him out, leaves him breathless as he looks at you. At the one thing that hasn’t changed. 

Because despite everything, despite death and rage and blood, the truth sits heavy in his chest, undeniable. He still loves you.

“Things have changed,” Jason says finally. He tilts his head up, trying for casual, like the words aren’t scraping against his ribs. “I’m enjoying the moment, though.”

Your eyebrows shoot up before you can stop them, and the cloth in your hand hesitates mid-swipe. Jason almost smirks at how transparent you still are, but then you recover, dragging the damp fabric lower over the plates of his armor, focusing on the stubborn dark-red stains clinging there. He catches the quick flick of your tongue over your lips—nervous habit, one he remembers like muscle memory—and the sight digs under his skin in a way no blade ever could.

“How long have you been watching me?” Your voice wavers on the question, quiet, careful, but it cuts through the hum of the bathroom fan all the same.

Jason stiffens, every instinct in him calculating what the right answer should be, though he knows there isn’t one that won’t sound bad.

“Uh, I’m not watching you, I’m monitoring your building,” he tries, tone steady, like rephrasing it might make it sound less insane.

But you freeze entirely this time, hand falling from his chest to your side, and lift your chin to look at him full-on. The blankness of your stare makes him itch beneath the mask he’s no longer wearing.

“I saw you at the Halloween party.” Your words slice clean, your voice calmer now, too calm. “Which, if I remember right, was like… twenty minutes away from here.”

Jason opens his mouth, shuts it again, and then defaults to the kind of shrug that’s gotten him out of worse interrogations.

“That was a big party.” His tone is almost flippant, almost convincing, except he knows you. Knows the way you’re giving him that sideways, cheeky grin like you’re already several steps ahead of him in this dance. And God, he missed that look, how it makes the edges of his chest ache in something between fondness and longing.

For a second, the tension dissolves into that old familiarity, a ripple of what it used to feel like between you. Jason clings to it, silent, like maybe if he keeps it alive in the space between you, you won’t notice how much darker the rest of him has become.

You let your hand fall, the damp cloth slipping from your fingers and landing on the counter beside his discarded mask soundlessly. For a moment, neither of you move. Then you drag your palm down over the lower half of your face, like you’re trying to wipe away the jumble of thoughts crowding in, before you shift back a step. Still, your head tilts just enough to keep him in view, your gaze stubborn even as you put distance between you.

“Are you being safe, at least?” The words come out softer than you mean them to, tired but edged with that familiar care. Your eyes flick over him, tracing what skin is visible, searching for cuts or bruises he hasn’t mentioned. Jason feels the air leave his chest in a rush.

When was the last time anyone even asked him that? When was the last time he let himself think about it?

He almost laughs, but it would break something fragile in the room. Instead, he steadies his voice, low and sure. “Always.”

The lie rolls off his tongue as naturally as breathing. If it gives you one less thing to worry about, if it keeps your shoulders from tensing under the weight of him, then it’s worth it. And you nod, like that answer is enough. Like you’re willing to believe it just so you can sleep at night. That’s what makes you so impossible for him to stay away from. Too easy to fall back into.

You hesitate, the faint shift in your body hinting at pulling away, and it hits Jason like a jolt of electricity. He can’t let this fade into nothing. Not tonight, not after everything. The nights spent haunted, the fights, the silence, the longing that never left. He wants you, and even if you push him off, yell at him, or tell him he’s insane, it’s better than letting this slip after he put everything back on the line already. Every heartbeat since you welcomed him in had been a risk, and he’d already passed the point of saying no.

His hand reaches for you, curling around your wrist with a firm but careful grip, drawing you closer. He leaves just enough space for you to step back, a silent question lingering in the tense air: Do you want this, too?

You don’t move. You tilt your face up, lips parting just slightly, eyes wide and searching his. There’s something unspoken there, a quiet permission he can feel vibrating through the small space between you. Slowly, gently, your lips brush his. Just a touch—but it’s all the confirmation he needs.

The rush of it makes him dizzy. He frees your wrist, letting his hand cup your jaw, thumb tracing delicately along your cheek as if memorizing the warmth of you. His other hand rests on your hip, anchoring you to him, grounding both of you in this moment. Your fingers weave into his hair, tugging gently, while the other drifts over his chest, tentative, almost afraid of how real it feels. Every brush of skin, every soft shift of weight, every breath you take together hums with tension. The space between you narrows until it almost disappears, and Jason leans closer, savoring the heat radiating from your body, the subtle scent of you that floods his senses. 

He presses his lips against yours, and the world narrows to nothing else. Every brush of his mouth against yours, every whisper of warmth, feels like it could vanish if he hesitates for even a second. You under his hands, close enough to taste, he can’t let this moment slip away.

His lips move over yours with a careful intensity, memorizing the curve of your mouth. The faint scent of you—soft, intoxicating—makes it impossible to think beyond the press of your bodies. One hand slides to the back of your head, threading into your hair to hold you steady, guiding the rhythm of your closeness. The other at your hip hooks under your leg and lifts you onto the counter with ease. 

You gasp softly, a shiver in your chest, but your eyes stay closed, only flicking open now and then to find him, searching, tethering yourself to him again. His mouth follows yours like a compass, lips meeting yours with a pressure that’s desperate and tender all at once. He leans in, heart hammering, and the subtle tug of your hands in his hair, the tilt of your head into his, makes him certain you feel it too.

He leans his hips against yours just enough to feel the friction, then pulls back slightly, only to meet your lips again, seeking that connection as if grounding himself in you is the only way to stay whole. The soft hum of your moan brushes against his lips, vibrating against him. 

And then, gentle but firm, your palms press against his chest, creating the tiniest of spaces between you, a measured pause that sends an ache through him.

Jason hovers there, just above you, lips still glistening from your kiss, a single strand of hair falling across his forehead. His tongue peeks out unconsciously, craving the memory of your taste, his body refusing stillness after what he’s just felt.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs, voice low and ragged, dipping his head as if searching your eyes will give him the answer.

You press a hand over your mouth, as though trying to catch yourself, to anchor yourself to reality, yet you remain lost in thought, gazing at the floor. His chest tightens at the sight.

“Baby?” he breathes, voice rough with need and tenderness, and the single word cuts through your hesitation in a heartbeat. You slip from the counter, but your body still lingers against his, movement delayed, as if the air itself refuses to let you separate. You look up at him, and the way his eyes catch yours makes your breath hitch. He mirrors you, head tilting in silent understanding, chest brushing against yours.

“If you want to come back, then I’m here,” you say finally, and an uncomfortable weight pools in his stomach. “But if you want to keep leaving, then stay gone.”

Jason shakes his head slowly, hands sliding down your arms, lingering just to feel you one last time. Every fiber of him trembles with the temptation to pull you back, to ignore reason, but he knows the words he’s about to say could shatter everything fragile between you.

“You don’t understand how dangerous it is,” he whispers, his voice low, deliberate, almost fragile, as if the softness of it could keep the weight from crushing you both.

Unlike the first night he came back, you don’t argue. You just nod, small, quiet, like you’ve already expected the answer. And that stillness guts him more than anything else could. He swallows the ache, forcing his features into concentration, a mask for everything storming inside. Every inch of him is screaming to pull you close, to erase the space between you again, but he forces himself to step back first, claiming a shred of control before his desire breaks every boundary.

This isn’t good for you. He isn’t good for you. And no matter how much it tears at him, he won’t let his own wants compromise your safety—like tonight, like the alley, like every other night he’s lived in the shadow of his own recklessness.

“Then stay gone.” you declare, final, steady. There’s no hesitation, no pleading in your voice, and it cuts him. His jaw tightens, lips pressing into a hard line, but he doesn’t respond. He leans just slightly, reaching for his mask resting on the counter behind you, and in that closeness, he memorizes every detail one last time. He breathes in your scent, studies the curve of your nose, the subtle flickers of color in your eyes, the way the light hits your cheek. He tries to store it all, every fragment, because he knows he can’t stay.

Slowly, he pulls the mask back over his head, the barrier slipping into place, a shield from the vulnerability that almost crushed him. Without looking back, he strides toward the door. He doesn’t allow himself the luxury of glancing at you one final time, because if he did, he’d be lost making promises he could never keep, letting desire outweigh reason.

But just before he closes the door, he speaks over his shoulder, low and urgent: “Lock your door.”

The sound of the click as the lock engages behind him echoes in his mind as he steps back into the unforgiving streets of Gotham. The city presses in from all sides, cold, harsh, and chaotic—but his thoughts are consumed by the apartment, by the brush of your skin, by the quiet, steady pull of your eyes. Every thought is self-recriminating, bitter, impossible…except one:

You still love him. The realization tugs him home. Not to the alleyways or rooftops where he usually vents his fury, but back to the small, dingy sanctuary of his own space. He stares at the ceiling for hours, thoughts of you tangled with guilt, longing, and the memory of the warmth he’s forbidden himself to chase. Every beat of his heart reminds him of the first promise he’s kept since leaving: to stay alive. To stay safe. For you. 

[iv3mp]

i’m going to add to this pretty frequently or maybe i’ll make another one lmao but i really just want somewhere to have all my fav reads! (this is mainly tasm!peter i’m a simple woman) smut in bold!!

Keep reading

[wanndavision]

RHANK YOU SO MUCH OMF

i saw this notif and immediately melted, im so thankful!!! AHAHHS

[wanndavision]

AYEUEIDID WE HIT 100 FOLLOWERS HERE!!!!! LETS GOOOOOOOO

[wanndavision]

[♠︎] for dear life (P.P., drabble)

CONTENT; gn!reader; fluff. literally no substance to this other than fluff; spelling mistakes prob

SUMMARY; The swinging experience isn't built for everyone to enjoy.

WORD COUNT; 672

A/N; just a small drabble before i go to sleep :) late merry christmas to those who celebrated!! pls ignore spelling errors, i will edit when i wake up. enjoy :))

“Peter, I’m actually going to die.”

“Just relax.”

“Relax? Did really just tell me to relax? I’m going to strangle you as soon as we get down-”

“You’re making this worse for yourself.”

“I’m literally flying through the air. I could fall and die, Peter. I could be dead by now-” A loud, painful scream shot from your throat, preventing you from rambling on any longer when Peter swung again from a larger building. He giggled—actually giggled—at your reaction to swinging along with him.

You had begged him to do so practically seconds after finding out his identity, which he wasn’t too keen on in the beginning for very obvious reasons. Finally, after months, Peter had gained more trust in his abilities and offered to do exactly what you had asked for. What neither of you were prepared for, though, was your terrible fear of everything about the act itself: Heights, drops, and large buildings that could crush you if you hit them hard enough.

His grip on your side was secure, and your hold on his neck was deathly. He fully believed that if he were to let you go, you’d still cling to him without even noticing the lack of support—that’s how hard you were clutching him.

“Do you want to get down somewhere?” Peter asks with a laugh, which only escalates when he feels your head nodding feverishly. “Alright.”

Carefully, Peter shoots a web to the nearest (and shortest) building he could find and pulls the both of you to the flat, stable ceiling of it. You let out a large breath, that he assumes you've been holding ever since your last scream, before immediately sitting yourself down. Your head is placed in your hands when Peter squats down to your level.

"You okay?" Peter asks. It isn't patronizing, nor comical like his tone from before; it's honest concern. That's why you don't seem as angry as you promised you would be when you were in the air. You look up at him.

"Yeah," you shake your head. "I'm just sorry."

"For what?"

"Being dramatic." You hide your face in your hands once again, and Peter feels his heart sink at the genuine embarrassment that you curl yourself up with.

Grunting, Peter takes the seat right beside you, propping himself up with his hands. "Oh, you mean your screaming?" You wince. "That's hardly anything compared to my first time."

You snort. "You literally invented it, Peter."

"Well, yeah," he laughs in return. "But, when I took that first swing...God, I was probably heard all across New York." This time, you laugh. "No, seriously, I think I heard noise complaints on the police radio."

Your laughter didn't stop, and Peter's heart rises; it flutters up to his throat when you lean into him.

"You can't be serious."

He doesn't say anything, only staring at your beaming smile. For a moment, all he does is watch your body relax as the embarrassment and stress leaves you. When you catch his gaze, Peter finally finds words.

"It only gets better the more you do it, you know? You just need practice." He says honestly. That's how he'd gotten comfortable enough to be responsible of a whole other person while swinging, and that's how he plans on getting you to enjoy the experience. Because if you truly looked, the view was extraordinary.

You sniff before saying, "Okay."

Peter stands, stretching slightly, and offers his hand to you. You take it, lifting yourself up without letting his hand go.

"Ready?" he puts on his mask.

"Oh." You grip his hand tighter. "Can we walk?"

"Y/N, we're not even remotely close to your house." Peter explains quickly, slightly preparing himself to begin swinging again.

"But..." He feels a tug at his hand, and he knows turning around was in his worst interests

He turns to you regardless. Your eyes are wide, resembling a puppy who lost its toy, and a small pout shapes your lips. Exactly what he was expecting, and yet, exactly what took him off guard. Peter groans.

"Alright. But next time, we're swinging the whole time."

"Whatever you say, Spidey."

[genesisrose74]

BYE I HAVE BUTTERFLIES 🏃‍♀️💨

[wanndavision]

HAHEHEHEHEHEHWKDIOSJGJR THANK U!!!!!!

[wanndavision]

[♠︎] for dear life (P.P., drabble)

CONTENT; gn!reader; fluff. literally no substance to this other than fluff; spelling mistakes prob

SUMMARY; The swinging experience isn't built for everyone to enjoy.

WORD COUNT; 672

A/N; just a small drabble before i go to sleep :) late merry christmas to those who celebrated!! pls ignore spelling errors, i will edit when i wake up. enjoy :))

“Peter, I’m actually going to die.”

“Just relax.”

“Relax? Did really just tell me to relax? I’m going to strangle you as soon as we get down-”

“You’re making this worse for yourself.”

“I’m literally flying through the air. I could fall and die, Peter. I could be dead by now-” A loud, painful scream shot from your throat, preventing you from rambling on any longer when Peter swung again from a larger building. He giggled—actually giggled—at your reaction to swinging along with him.

You had begged him to do so practically seconds after finding out his identity, which he wasn’t too keen on in the beginning for very obvious reasons. Finally, after months, Peter had gained more trust in his abilities and offered to do exactly what you had asked for. What neither of you were prepared for, though, was your terrible fear of everything about the act itself: Heights, drops, and large buildings that could crush you if you hit them hard enough.

His grip on your side was secure, and your hold on his neck was deathly. He fully believed that if he were to let you go, you’d still cling to him without even noticing the lack of support—that’s how hard you were clutching him.

“Do you want to get down somewhere?” Peter asks with a laugh, which only escalates when he feels your head nodding feverishly. “Alright.”

Carefully, Peter shoots a web to the nearest (and shortest) building he could find and pulls the both of you to the flat, stable ceiling of it. You let out a large breath, that he assumes you've been holding ever since your last scream, before immediately sitting yourself down. Your head is placed in your hands when Peter squats down to your level.

"You okay?" Peter asks. It isn't patronizing, nor comical like his tone from before; it's honest concern. That's why you don't seem as angry as you promised you would be when you were in the air. You look up at him.

"Yeah," you shake your head. "I'm just sorry."

"For what?"

"Being dramatic." You hide your face in your hands once again, and Peter feels his heart sink at the genuine embarrassment that you curl yourself up with.

Grunting, Peter takes the seat right beside you, propping himself up with his hands. "Oh, you mean your screaming?" You wince. "That's hardly anything compared to my first time."

You snort. "You literally invented it, Peter."

"Well, yeah," he laughs in return. "But, when I took that first swing...God, I was probably heard all across New York." This time, you laugh. "No, seriously, I think I heard noise complaints on the police radio."

Your laughter didn't stop, and Peter's heart rises; it flutters up to his throat when you lean into him.

"You can't be serious."

He doesn't say anything, only staring at your beaming smile. For a moment, all he does is watch your body relax as the embarrassment and stress leaves you. When you catch his gaze, Peter finally finds words.

"It only gets better the more you do it, you know? You just need practice." He says honestly. That's how he'd gotten comfortable enough to be responsible of a whole other person while swinging, and that's how he plans on getting you to enjoy the experience. Because if you truly looked, the view was extraordinary.

You sniff before saying, "Okay."

Peter stands, stretching slightly, and offers his hand to you. You take it, lifting yourself up without letting his hand go.

"Ready?" he puts on his mask.

"Oh." You grip his hand tighter. "Can we walk?"

"Y/N, we're not even remotely close to your house." Peter explains quickly, slightly preparing himself to begin swinging again.

"But..." He feels a tug at his hand, and he knows turning around was in his worst interests

He turns to you regardless. Your eyes are wide, resembling a puppy who lost its toy, and a small pout shapes your lips. Exactly what he was expecting, and yet, exactly what took him off guard. Peter groans.

"Alright. But next time, we're swinging the whole time."

"Whatever you say, Spidey."

[spyduh-man]

hehehehhehehHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEEEHEEHHEHE

ilysm

[wanndavision]

ILYSMMKICKWJFN TY BAE

[wanndavision]

[♠︎] for dear life (P.P., drabble)

CONTENT; gn!reader; fluff. literally no substance to this other than fluff; spelling mistakes prob

SUMMARY; The swinging experience isn't built for everyone to enjoy.

WORD COUNT; 672

A/N; just a small drabble before i go to sleep :) late merry christmas to those who celebrated!! pls ignore spelling errors, i will edit when i wake up. enjoy :))

“Peter, I’m actually going to die.”

“Just relax.”

“Relax? Did really just tell me to relax? I’m going to strangle you as soon as we get down-”

“You’re making this worse for yourself.”

“I’m literally flying through the air. I could fall and die, Peter. I could be dead by now-” A loud, painful scream shot from your throat, preventing you from rambling on any longer when Peter swung again from a larger building. He giggled—actually giggled—at your reaction to swinging along with him.

You had begged him to do so practically seconds after finding out his identity, which he wasn’t too keen on in the beginning for very obvious reasons. Finally, after months, Peter had gained more trust in his abilities and offered to do exactly what you had asked for. What neither of you were prepared for, though, was your terrible fear of everything about the act itself: Heights, drops, and large buildings that could crush you if you hit them hard enough.

His grip on your side was secure, and your hold on his neck was deathly. He fully believed that if he were to let you go, you’d still cling to him without even noticing the lack of support—that’s how hard you were clutching him.

“Do you want to get down somewhere?” Peter asks with a laugh, which only escalates when he feels your head nodding feverishly. “Alright.”

Carefully, Peter shoots a web to the nearest (and shortest) building he could find and pulls the both of you to the flat, stable ceiling of it. You let out a large breath, that he assumes you've been holding ever since your last scream, before immediately sitting yourself down. Your head is placed in your hands when Peter squats down to your level.

"You okay?" Peter asks. It isn't patronizing, nor comical like his tone from before; it's honest concern. That's why you don't seem as angry as you promised you would be when you were in the air. You look up at him.

"Yeah," you shake your head. "I'm just sorry."

"For what?"

"Being dramatic." You hide your face in your hands once again, and Peter feels his heart sink at the genuine embarrassment that you curl yourself up with.

Grunting, Peter takes the seat right beside you, propping himself up with his hands. "Oh, you mean your screaming?" You wince. "That's hardly anything compared to my first time."

You snort. "You literally invented it, Peter."

"Well, yeah," he laughs in return. "But, when I took that first swing...God, I was probably heard all across New York." This time, you laugh. "No, seriously, I think I heard noise complaints on the police radio."

Your laughter didn't stop, and Peter's heart rises; it flutters up to his throat when you lean into him.

"You can't be serious."

He doesn't say anything, only staring at your beaming smile. For a moment, all he does is watch your body relax as the embarrassment and stress leaves you. When you catch his gaze, Peter finally finds words.

"It only gets better the more you do it, you know? You just need practice." He says honestly. That's how he'd gotten comfortable enough to be responsible of a whole other person while swinging, and that's how he plans on getting you to enjoy the experience. Because if you truly looked, the view was extraordinary.

You sniff before saying, "Okay."

Peter stands, stretching slightly, and offers his hand to you. You take it, lifting yourself up without letting his hand go.

"Ready?" he puts on his mask.

"Oh." You grip his hand tighter. "Can we walk?"

"Y/N, we're not even remotely close to your house." Peter explains quickly, slightly preparing himself to begin swinging again.

"But..." He feels a tug at his hand, and he knows turning around was in his worst interests

He turns to you regardless. Your eyes are wide, resembling a puppy who lost its toy, and a small pout shapes your lips. Exactly what he was expecting, and yet, exactly what took him off guard. Peter groans.

"Alright. But next time, we're swinging the whole time."

"Whatever you say, Spidey."

[finnwrld]

JAJJAJAJAJAJAJJAJAJAJAJAJJAJAJAJA JAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJA

JAJAJAJAJAJAJJAJA

JAGAGAGAGAGGAGAAG

yeah. wow.

[wanndavision]

AHAHQHHDIWJDNQ D TYSM TYMS

[wanndavision]

[♠︎] for dear life (P.P., drabble)

CONTENT; gn!reader; fluff. literally no substance to this other than fluff; spelling mistakes prob

SUMMARY; The swinging experience isn't built for everyone to enjoy.

WORD COUNT; 672

A/N; just a small drabble before i go to sleep :) late merry christmas to those who celebrated!! pls ignore spelling errors, i will edit when i wake up. enjoy :))

“Peter, I’m actually going to die.”

“Just relax.”

“Relax? Did really just tell me to relax? I’m going to strangle you as soon as we get down-”

“You’re making this worse for yourself.”

“I’m literally flying through the air. I could fall and die, Peter. I could be dead by now-” A loud, painful scream shot from your throat, preventing you from rambling on any longer when Peter swung again from a larger building. He giggled—actually giggled—at your reaction to swinging along with him.

You had begged him to do so practically seconds after finding out his identity, which he wasn’t too keen on in the beginning for very obvious reasons. Finally, after months, Peter had gained more trust in his abilities and offered to do exactly what you had asked for. What neither of you were prepared for, though, was your terrible fear of everything about the act itself: Heights, drops, and large buildings that could crush you if you hit them hard enough.

His grip on your side was secure, and your hold on his neck was deathly. He fully believed that if he were to let you go, you’d still cling to him without even noticing the lack of support—that’s how hard you were clutching him.

“Do you want to get down somewhere?” Peter asks with a laugh, which only escalates when he feels your head nodding feverishly. “Alright.”

Carefully, Peter shoots a web to the nearest (and shortest) building he could find and pulls the both of you to the flat, stable ceiling of it. You let out a large breath, that he assumes you've been holding ever since your last scream, before immediately sitting yourself down. Your head is placed in your hands when Peter squats down to your level.

"You okay?" Peter asks. It isn't patronizing, nor comical like his tone from before; it's honest concern. That's why you don't seem as angry as you promised you would be when you were in the air. You look up at him.

"Yeah," you shake your head. "I'm just sorry."

"For what?"

"Being dramatic." You hide your face in your hands once again, and Peter feels his heart sink at the genuine embarrassment that you curl yourself up with.

Grunting, Peter takes the seat right beside you, propping himself up with his hands. "Oh, you mean your screaming?" You wince. "That's hardly anything compared to my first time."

You snort. "You literally invented it, Peter."

"Well, yeah," he laughs in return. "But, when I took that first swing...God, I was probably heard all across New York." This time, you laugh. "No, seriously, I think I heard noise complaints on the police radio."

Your laughter didn't stop, and Peter's heart rises; it flutters up to his throat when you lean into him.

"You can't be serious."

He doesn't say anything, only staring at your beaming smile. For a moment, all he does is watch your body relax as the embarrassment and stress leaves you. When you catch his gaze, Peter finally finds words.

"It only gets better the more you do it, you know? You just need practice." He says honestly. That's how he'd gotten comfortable enough to be responsible of a whole other person while swinging, and that's how he plans on getting you to enjoy the experience. Because if you truly looked, the view was extraordinary.

You sniff before saying, "Okay."

Peter stands, stretching slightly, and offers his hand to you. You take it, lifting yourself up without letting his hand go.

"Ready?" he puts on his mask.

"Oh." You grip his hand tighter. "Can we walk?"

"Y/N, we're not even remotely close to your house." Peter explains quickly, slightly preparing himself to begin swinging again.

"But..." He feels a tug at his hand, and he knows turning around was in his worst interests

He turns to you regardless. Your eyes are wide, resembling a puppy who lost its toy, and a small pout shapes your lips. Exactly what he was expecting, and yet, exactly what took him off guard. Peter groans.

"Alright. But next time, we're swinging the whole time."

"Whatever you say, Spidey."

[wanndavision]

[✴︎] It's So Sweet. (P.P.)

CONTENT; GN!Reader (I'm pretty sure); Very loose mentions of violence here and there; Peter being dramatic lowk; fluff!!; kissing scene oooooooo

SUMMARY; Peter Parker isn't sure of a lot of things, but his love for you was never a question in his mind.

WORD COUNT; 2.1k

A/N; lowkey dissing on peter here, but i promise it's solely for creative purposes. also first andrew peter parker fic! woo!!!!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated :)) tysm!

Peter Parker isn’t very sure where he stands with anything.

In his high school, he’s just a student. A kid who goes to class and gets the grade, but can’t seem to succeed outside of that. He’s like a piece to a completely different puzzle, and he can’t fit where he doesn’t belong. It tires him out.

In the world of Spider-man, Peter was less than. Less confident, less strong. All he is is that same boy who doesn’t blend. It causes the constant twist in his stomach to grow whenever the realization crosses his mind.

At home, he only had Aunt May to worry about, and even then things could be…difficult. His unyielding guilt had created a large, overbearing wall between them, and Peter hated it. There’s not much he can do but wait it out—wait out his feelings, his resent.

Things like that only get better with time. But he was growing impatient. All of his issues, his conflicts, had to grow over time. That’s all the advice he’s been given. He just wanted a rest. A moment where clocks no longer ticked, where his stresses were melted away by something bright enough to do so.

He knew where he could find that moment of solace. That’s how he ended up at your window at 10:30 P.M., knocking exactly 5 times to alert you who was waiting.

From outside your window, where he was hanging off the second story wall, he could hear a small noise of surprise leave you and then footsteps. Peter felt his already growing excitement reach his throat, and before it could escape on its own, it shot out as a laugh when you greeted him.

“Jesus, Peter.” you laughed back in response, moving out of the way to allow him into your room. You continued as he settled in, “You really need to start texting me before you come over.”

He looked over and smiled. “You don’t like my little surprise visits?”

You scoff as you close the window shut. The room quickly adapted to the new warm temperature. Peter felt his ears grow warm again, and he was reminded why he came all the way over here in the first place. As soon as the window closed, he shut out the world and let his entire focus fall onto you.

Attentive eyes watch you move from the windowsill to the floor right in front of the bed. He always thought that habit was cute—you explained to him that laying on the floor helped you focus when you studied—especially with the small noise that escapes you when you reach the ground.

“Not when you scare me.” you say with a faux glare. Peter only laughs.

He finds his usual seat on the bed directly in front of you. These motions have been repeated so many times that it’s almost like a routine, a part of his life that he can’t go without. It’s happened so often; this exact moment in these exact circumstances. That’s why he’s surprised that his presence still scares you—a part of him hopes he just makes you nervous.

The repetitiveness is what makes everything so perfect. The comfort of knowing what to expect in a world where nothing seems to go the way he wants. Nights like these are really the only nights where he gets exactly what he looks forward to.

“So what were you up to?” Peter is casual. Of course you make his pulse rise and his palms sweat whenever, but he’s comfortable with you. More comfortable than he is around anyone else. No anxiety. No hyperactive thoughts. Just you.

“You mean before you scared the shit out of me?” you raise your eyebrows when he laughs. “I was studying.”

“For what?”

“A test I have this Friday.”

“Do you want help? I can help if you want.” Peter offered. You shake your head at him, your eyes growing wide in a strange amusement.

“I doubt you’ll be much help.” you said.

He raises his eyebrows. “Elaborate.”

“Oh, my gosh. This isn’t to say you aren’t smart, because you are but…” Peter feels his face warm at the passing praise, but he chooses to blame it on the rising temperature in the room. You explain further when his eyebrows are furrowed and his lips part as though he’s going to start speaking. “But you are such a distraction!”

“Excuse me?” Peter pretends to be hurt and angry, holding his hand above his chest in mock offense. “I am the best at studying!”

“Don’t start, Parker.” you warn lightly with an even lighter smile on your face. “You’re a distraction and you know it.”

“I’m hurt, Y/n. Truly, truly hurt.”

“You can sit on the bed while I go over some stuff,” you glance at him and his pout before adding, “I’ll join you soon, you baby. Just let me make sure I don’t fail my test.”

Of course, he ended up on the floor right beside you. Admittedly, he was a big distraction when he was sat on the bed, but in his defense, he had simply missed you. You were—in his words—too far from him, and he only wanted to be near you. When you’d given in, Peter had honestly tried to be of help to you. Flashcards he had written were sprawled all over the ground after having been used repeatedly for the past hour. The two of you were sitting close to one another, letting accidental acts of physical touch linger, and staring into each other’s eyes.

He doesn’t understand why you look at his eyes like that all the time. You’re staring into them now, and he can’t help but question why. His eyes were by no means special, nor did he think they were beautiful. All they were to him was just things he sees with. But, he did enjoy staring back into yours.

They glow. They’re soft, especially when you look at him after he’s done something good, and soulful. He liked the thought of being able to look into your eyes and actually, truly, really see who you are. And Peter doesn’t have to think too hard about what would be lying underneath.

“What?” the sound of your raspy, strained voice makes Peter snap up in attention.

“What?” he echoes.

“You were staring.” you say before turning over away from him. You act like it’s just a move to get up from your laid position on the floor, but it’s your way of hiding from his watchful gaze.

Peter can feel his ears become hot. Be smooth, Peter. Be smooth. "Well, it's hard not to."

There's a soft silence, and then, "Shut up, Parker."

He can't help the large, toothy smile that stretches across his face. You were everything that was good in the world. Peter might be dramatic or intense when it came to you, but he held no remorse for the admiration in his heart. It was earned.

“Why’d you come tonight?” you ask. You sit down on your bed and fully lean against the wall; Peter smiles when he notices the gap that you left for him to fill.

When he sits, your legs touch. Neither of you move. “I don’t know.”

You nod, accepting that answer. With the way your forehead creases and your lips fold down into a faint frown, he knows you have underlying concern. He knows that more questions press the tip of your tongue, and he knows that you’re pushing it down so as to not overwhelm him. And he knows that his heart is now beating faster because of the care you handle him with.

“Well, I do know,” he says quickly. You look up at him, your frown now a straight, attentive line on your face. Peter feels like melting into the floor when he looks back. “I uh…I had some fights today, y’know. The usual, but they, uh…”

Peter doesn’t know why his mind chose to erase any thought it held in that specific moment. The last thing he wanted to do was make you worry about him any further, and his stalling was not helping you whatsoever.

Your hand hovers over his in hesitance before you pull it back completely, settling to only graze his arm with your knuckles. The sensation still relaxes him, your light touch rippling through his tense body despite the exiguity of it. “They what, Peter?”

He leans his head back against the wall, settling his stare on the ceiling. Looking at you as he recalls the night he had would push him over the edge and send him falling into a pit of despair; he’d let go of everything he was desperately trying to hold together.

“They were worse than usual today. I couldn’t—I almost couldn’t…” Peter explains, although that barely cleared the fog he created. You seemed to understand though. Just as you always did.

This time when you reach for his hand, you place it in yours with confidence. Your palm presses against his; Peter focuses on the pressure you create between him and yourself. It grounds him. The feeling reminds him that he is there, that he’s real and that he is not alone.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. You use your free hand to push hair away from his face. Before letting your hand fall to your side, you touch his cheek with a small smile. “You’re here now.”

You had no idea how thankful he was for that fact.

Peter swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

The subject would have dropped if he was talking to anyone else, but he was talking to you. Your eyes, your sweet soul, look into his, and he feels unworthy. With what happened…he doesn’t deserve half of what you give him—you love too much for your own good. That’s what he finds so fascinating about you. You hear all about his mistakes and regrets and still choose to hold his hand the way you do.

You know that there’s more going on in his scattered, relentless brain just by studying his face. He looks away to hide himself, a habit he stole from you.

“Peter,” you say with a tighter squeeze to his hand. “Look at me.” He complies. “It doesn’t matter what almost happened. You made it through. You figured it out, because that’s what you do. Don’t worry that pretty head of yours too much, okay? You got it. You always do.”

You were perfect.

Peter lets his head fall limp on your shoulder and he buries his head into your neck. You remained still and warm, allowing him to soak up every last bit of your radiance.

His heart beats more and more as his thoughts are no longer blank or deafening—they are only you. Just over, and over, and over, and over. You. When he takes in more of your presence, his thoughts and reality become one, and he looks at you.

“Y/N…” he grabs your attention, but it was already his. You were already his. Peter doesn’t speak another word.

He leans forward, unclamping his hand from yours only to place it just under your jaw and near your cheek. Pulling you closer, he touches his lips to yours.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you, until he physically can’t any longer. You were a sanctuary of love and everything good in the world. You were everything. Having that closeness with you was a blessing, and Peter didn’t want to waste a second of it. When his chest tightens as air is lost, he rests his forehead on yours and holds your face.

“I don’t know what I’d be without you, Y/N.” he whispers. You say nothing at first, only holding his wrists tightly and smiling at him the way you always do—smiling in the way that makes him smile back, only brighter.

“You’d be just the same,” you respond. “Maybe a little sadder, but—” your own laughter interrupts you before you carry on, “—but you got here on your own, Peter. Don’t give someone else credit for the good you’ve done.”

Although he’s sure you have no idea what you’re talking about, he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t speak at all. He simply thinks.

He thinks of all the times he felt like giving up, and all the times he’s tapped at your window so he could find a reason to try again. He thinks of all the times you’ve cleaned his cuts in silence because you knew asking would only reopen the wounds you had just tried to heal. He thinks of all the times the pure thought of you was the only thing he could hang onto as he lost grip on everything else.

Peter wouldn’t be the same. He wouldn’t be the same at all.

But your belief in the fact that he could be was enough for him to consider it.

[genesisrose74]

HOW DID I JUST SEE THIS NOW?? WHY THE HELL AM I NOT FOLLOWING THIS ACCOUNT YET??

THE PACING 😭 it’s so lovely and soft, and I absolutely adore the interchanging emotions of both grief for something irreplaceable and Peter’s hope that he finds in the reader 🥺 so brilliant

[wanndavision]

THANK YIU SO MUXH????

wowowowowo. you’re so sweet i’m losing my midneofowkf TYTY

[genesisrose74]

Movie Nights & Makeshift Medics

TASM!Peter Parker x Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: It’s Thursday, and Peter doesn’t realize you’re in his room until he’s quite literally crawling through the window.

Peter Parker has spotted you as Spider-Man three times in the past week.

Three times that you’ve caught his eye, completely enamoring him even while he’s supposed to be focusing, swinging a hundred feet in the air and yet barely catching the glinting shine of a skyscraper that’s right in front of his face. It’s the only moments where Peter curses his perfect sight, because in a crowd of people denser than a neutron star, you’re the one his senses seem to seek out every time. He’s starting to think it’s some sort of psychological phenomenon that only he experiences, and it’s driving him mad.

Of course, he never despises getting the opportunity to see you. He’s simply not a fan of being that preoccupied on patrol.

Not to mention, he really shouldn’t be this attracted—shit, distracted—by one of his best friends in the first place.

He already gets to spend classes with you on a weekly basis, gets to rest his chin on his palm as you give a brilliant presentation on this literary concept he barely understands but finds fascinating when you explain it. He already knows the way you smile sweetly when you come over to his apartment on Thursdays, how you burst into laughter when Aunt May makes a lighthearted joke at his expense over dinner.

Peter convinces himself that it’s simply his protectiveness at work every time he pinpoints you. Purely platonic. There is no other explanation for why he can find your face in a crowd so easily, so that’s what he settles for.

And now, after an uneventful evening of scouring the city streets for any signs of trouble (save for the one drunken fight that he helped break up on Jackson Avenue, where some dude in his thirties snagged him with a broken beer bottle), Peter finds himself face-to-face with you for the fourth time this week whilst still in his Spider-Man suit. Except this time, he’s crawling through his bedroom window as you prop open his door.

Was it Thursday already?

You gape at him incredulously, an old DVD of Congo clattering right onto the wooden flooring of his room as a rushed string of curse words fly from your mouth. Peter basically freezes in his spot, half of his body already in the apartment when you catch him red handed, his face contorting into a grimace under the mask like he’s just tasted something sour.

“You’re…” you try to fish for words, your hand gripping the door handle like some sort of lifeline, “you just broke into here.”

Peter’s mind goes blank, and he scrambles through the window frame the rest of the way, just barely avoiding falling to the ground with a thud that might have left his poor Aunt May calling out in concern. You, on the other hand, barely have the time to decide if turning on your heel and running is a better option than staying to hear out your infamous intruder. He can see the internal conflict that plays out in your head in a matter of seconds, your hands trembling with pure adrenaline as your lips press into a thin line. Luckily—and to Peter’s relief—you slip past the doorway and swiftly shut it behind you without another sound.

“I can explain,” he starts in a voice almost comically deeper than his own, putting his hands up as he cautiously treads further into the room.

You raise an unbelieving brow at him, although he can see your eyes darting from wall to wall as your brain attempts to process this very new, very unexpected development. “Oh, can you?”

He feels the rapid beating of his heart as it prattles against his ribcage, blood pumping heavy in his ears as you anxiously await an explanation. “Peter—you see, your friend Peter and I are acquainted.”

Acquainted? Who the hell uses that in a sentence regularly?

Your nose scrunches up, just like it does whenever you’re thoroughly confused on those statistics problems that Peter always helps you work through. “You know Petey?”

The nickname makes his stomach churn with something like guilt. “Yeah, we’ve met a couple of times.”

All of a sudden, you start to pace around the untidy room, narrowly avoiding the heaps of workbooks and the strewn about photographs that litter the floor. Your gaze flickers from his still-masked face, to the posters hanging on his walls, to the half-ajar closet door. And then without warning, your mind seems to click into a sense of understanding that leaves Peter’s hands fidgeting with nothing but the stilled air around him.

“Is this why he always seems to have those first aid things hidden in here?” you gasp, running a shaky hand through your hair at this apparent revelation. “He helps patch you up sometimes, doesn’t he?”

Peter nearly collapses where he stands.

All the immense pressure that had been building up in his body since the moment you spotted him is taken off at once, and he finds himself nodding enthusiastically with your absolutely oblivious proposition. Thank the stars that you even noticed a fact so minuscule, or else he would’ve had nothing else to go off for an explanation besides a prayer.

“Yup, he’s my guy, that’s for sure!” He hurriedly agrees, shooting you a thumbs up that makes him want to disappear into a dark hole for eternity. “He’s fixed me up a couple times—just small things! But he’s always a big help, you know.”

“God, I can’t believe it! Peter knows the actual Spider-Man. And he didn’t even tell me! For how long? I mean, if you don’t want to say that’s fine too, it’s just…this is so crazy.”

The boy in question watches on quietly as you start firing off your thoughts one by one, a low chuckle escaping his lips at your mindless rambling and incessant theorizing. You pick up on his staring after a few minutes, however, and a sheepish look quickly overtakes your features as your gaze returns to him.

“Sorry,” you cough out, unconsciously wringing your hands together. “Peter isn’t here at the moment, but he’ll probably be back soon if you need something. I can call him if it’s urgent. And I won’t bother you, promise.”

A rush of warmth floods his chest at your gentle concern. “Oh, it’s alright. If he’s not here I’ll just, ya’ know…get myself sorted back at home base.”

“Are you sure? It feels like you wouldn’t have stopped in if it wasn’t necessary.”

He panics, waving his arms around. “I’m sure! Just a cut or two, but nothing I can’t handle.”

As soon as the word cut leaves his lips, Peter knows he’s screwed up. Your eyes flash with that all-too-familiar empathy, and all of a sudden you’re approaching him, closing the distance between you to just a few feet.

“Listen,” you sigh, and he already knows where you’re headed, “I can help you, even if they’re just small injuries you need looked at. Stick around for a bit, at least? Even just to rest?”

Every bit of hesitation in him dissipates at your sweet insistence, and the way your face lights up at his reluctant nod makes it all worth it in the moment. You beckon him over with a small wave, taking a gentle hold of his arm and sitting him down on the edge of the bed—his bed, to be exact. As you settle down beside him, a hint of nervousness ever-present in your features, the smell of your body wash hits him almost immediately; it’s the one he got you a new supply of for your birthday, the one with a stupid name that he spent way too long trying to find at the mall. Peter fights the urge to shake his mind of the memory when a stupid smile begins to curl on his lips.

God, why of all times does he have to think about that? How does he even know your care products by scent? You don’t even know that behind this stupid mask of his is your best friend, who’s feeling more and more shame-filled by the second. You’re completely blind to the fact that he’s seen you more than once in the past few months—not just as Spider-Man, but as your classmate. You aren’t even aware that he’s started to fall in love with you—

“So, where’s it hurt the most?”

Peter blinks, finding your attentive stare focused right on his unmoving face. “Oh! Um, I think I got grazed on my collarbone.”

“Okay. Would you mind, maybe showing me where it is so I can clean it?”

He startles a bit in recognition of your request, but he gives you an affirmative nod nonetheless. You turn away for a moment to sift through the clutter on his desk, allowing Peter the opportunity to tug down the collar of his suit just enough to reveal a nasty looking laceration right below his neck. To his relief, it doesn’t appear to go very deep (although it would likely be worse if not for his conveniently quick recovery times), and while his skin has stained itself with dried blood, it’s clearly nothing fresh. Regardless, the wound seems to sting the longer he looks at it, and he hisses when he brings a gloved finger up to trace the broken skin.

You’re quick to return to his side, a scavenged pack of rubbing alcohol, ripped cloth, and a half-empty box of adhesive bandages in your hands that you’ve managed to find amidst his other things. Peter can’t help thinking that he needs to start hiding that stuff better.

“Careful,” you chastise him lightly, gingerly moving his hand away from the cut. “You don’t wanna get more dirt in it.”

“Sorry,” he says. “Thanks, by the way.”

“It’s no problem. The least I could do for the friendly neighborhood hero, although you did scare the hell out of me.”

You’re joking, but a twinge of regret still swirls in his gut. Peter completely forgot you were coming over today for a cheesy movie night, something you’d repeatedly begged to do with him ever since the idea crossed your mind months prior. And now, on the day you finally convinced him to agree? Now you’re treating his injuries in his own room, completely unaware that he’s lying to you straight through his teeth.

He decides that at the very least, maybe he could put on his Spidey charm and entertain you for a while. Even if for a sparing moment or two.

“So, you think I’m a hero?” He jokes back, and he can’t help admiring the way your face contorts into flustered embarrassment.

“I mean,” you splutter, staring holes into the bottle that you flick open with a resounding pop, “you save people a lot, so I’d say you’ve earned the title.”

“Well I’m flattered that you think so highly of me—uh…”

Peter barely catches himself before your name can come rolling off his tongue, but he plays it off with as much charisma as possible, peering at you through those big white eyes of his mask as if awaiting your response. Thankfully, he gets one, and he even tests the pronunciation of it for good measure.

Way to cover, man.

“Pretty,” he comments, not fully understanding the weight that such easygoing compliments can have on you. While on the outside you manage to retain an air of confident coolness, your train of thought is already chugging away into a world of over-exaggerated imaginations, as you’re not well versed at handling such unabashed flattery from anyone, let alone this vigilante who’s probably the most famous person in Queens. You opt to wave him off, muttering a low-volume thank you as you drip rubbing alcohol onto a cleaner part of the cloth in your grasp.

Peter presses on, not wanting to leave anything hanging in the air, lest this conversation be made more uncomfortable than it currently is.

“So, how do you know Peter?”

You perk up at the casual inquiry, the mention of your closest friend very quickly reminding you that this was, in fact, his place. Technically his Aunt May’s, but you very much doubted she knew about this little arrangement between her nephew and Spider-Man.

“Well, he’s my best friend, and we’ve known each other since freshman orientation of high school—try not to tense up, this might sting a bit—” you’re right, it does, and he suppresses the urge to writhe away from your grasp like some sort of child, “but it feels like I’ve known him longer, you know?”

“I can understand what you mean,” he says, although it’s slightly muffled by the way he bites the inside of his cheek.

“Is it similar for you and him?”

“I suppose you could say that. Though, I doubt I’m as close with him as you seem.”

You dab delicately at the already healing gash, a hint of a smile on your face. “We spend a lot of time together, that’s for sure. His aunt says we’re attached at the hip.”

Peter chuckles lightly. Of course you recall May’s badgering from when you two started to hang out on a frequent basis. While he was exasperatedly trying to nudge his lovely guardian into the kitchen before she could make any further implications about your relationship with one another, you simply shot him an amused smile, assuring him that she was a lovely woman and that you didn’t mind her amiable nature in the slightest. Your kindness that day still made him fuzzy, knowing that you felt comfortable around his family—unconventional as their living situation was.

A beat of silence falls over the room as Peter quietly watches you work. Your touch is so careful, trying to avoid his discomfort with as much consideration as possible, as if he’s not some masked guy who can stop a bus with his hands and who just took on multiple drunk idiots at once. You’re clearly apprehensive to let your fingers even touch his bare skin at all, only letting the soaked cloth press against his collarbone with thought-out precision.

It’s most likely because you want to avoid infecting the cut, but he can’t help wanting to feel the warmth of your hands anyway.

God, can his internal thoughts shut up for five minutes? Apparently not, because at this point his palms are growing clammy (not a good combination with a spandex costume, he discovers), and he’s practically itching to take your hands in his own, scrapes and bruises and secret identities be damned. He elects that asking another question will suffice as an alternative.

But then you’re peeling off the backing of a jumbo bandage and smoothing it out over his skin, and every nerve in his system jumps at the contact he’s been wanting but thought incapable of actually receiving.

What was he doing again? Right, asking a question. Something resembling an icebreaker. Maybe nothing too cheesy, but something standard.

“Are you dating anyone?”

Not that question.

Although it takes a moment for his words to register in your mind, Peter can tell they have as soon as your eyes widen, your hands freezing against his chest like a deer caught in headlights. He’s surprised that you’re not already running for the door screaming at this rate—a faceless guy of who-knows-what age asking if you’re in a romantic relationship, with the only saving grace being that your best friend allegedly helps him out sometimes. Rather, you simply avert your gaze to the wall, an awkward laugh bubbling in your throat.

“Not at the moment, no,” you tell him (and he doesn’t notice, but heat is creeping up from the base of your neck at an alarming rate). To his surprise, your words still hold an air of teasing confidence. “Who’s asking?”

“I—well,” he blanches, at a complete loss—and he’s quite nearly prepared to smack himself in the face at any moment, “I was just curious.”

“Sorry to disappoint, Spidey, but there’s someone else I’m into right now.”

Peter’s brows furrow. “Who?”

Wait. Too personal.

But you’ve never told him about anyone you’ve liked recently. The last time you’d ever brought up something like that was back in sophomore year, when Curtis Manfred was in that biology class with you and got you coffee on exam mornings. That never lasted though, seeing as he started dating some freshman you didn’t bother to share the name of soon thereafter.

Peter never liked Curtis. But that’s besides the point.

“Sorry,” he tacks on. “I doubt I even know who it is.”

You wave it off, smoothing out the edges of his bandage with much more deliberation than truly necessary. “It’s alright. Honestly, it’s probably the one person from my life that you do know.”

Peter freezes completely.

His heart rises to his throat, his every sense going haywire as if screaming ‘trouble!’ in big bold letters. Except, instead of realizing that something terrible is about to come his way, he’s left with the building realization that he might have just gotten confessed to. He decides to check just in case.

“You mean…you mean Peter?” he inquires, “As in Peter Parker?”

You finally meet his eyes again—well, as much as you can with that costume of his—and nod, offering him a sheepish smile.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit.

“I don’t know why I told you that,” you admit, blowing out a puff of air and giggling. “I think the mask thing makes it easier to be honest with you.”

“No! No, it’s fine!” and now his voice is two octaves higher than it began. “How long have you, uh, liked him for? I mean—if I can ask that.”

“Two years? I think it’s two now.”

“Wow. What’s made you like him for so long?”

“He’s just really sweet, you know? And smart. I’m sure you get that since you’ve known him for a while now too. And, y’know, he’s really cute. Dorky.”

You pause for a moment, realizing that the vigilante in front of you has barely moved a centimeter since your spiel began. It feels oddly tense, but you’re not really sure why.

You clear your throat, moving your hands away from him and back to your sides. “But anyways! That bandage should hold fine, but you might want to swap it out in a day or two. Do you need anything else looked at, or…?”

He still doesn’t move, and now you’re growing anxious. Did you say something you shouldn’t have? Was this way too familiar for just meeting the guy, who hours ago was simply a figure on your television? Was he going to tell Peter?

Before you can utter another word, Spider-Man is tugging his mask off, and in a matter of seconds you’re staring right at your best friend.

This time, it’s your turn to nearly pass out.

“Peter?” You’re practically whispering, and the shock in your face is clear as day. Not to mention, you can feel the embarrassment flaring on your face like a scalding lick of flames that just won’t burn out.

His hickory brown stare bores into yours without remorse, and he leans forward to grab your hand, pulling it towards his chest again. His hair is terribly ruffled in the best of ways, and even hours of doing the rounds through New York City have left his face without as much of a scrape, at least on this particular night. His thumb brushes the back of your knuckles with a tenderness that makes your stomach erupt with butterflies, and a gentle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“You mean it?” He says, just as quietly as you spoke his name.

A permanent warmth settles in your cheeks, and you figure that holding back anything else is out of the question now. “Of course I do. What about you?”

Peter doesn’t give you any time to be nervous once he leans into you fully, bringing you forward by the hand and catching your lips with his. You barely have enough time to inhale, let alone get a word out before you melt into him, a breathy laugh the only thing you can manage when a gloved hand reaches up to cradle the base of your jawline. In a word, everything about the kiss is soft, and Peter is very evidently over the moon.

Your arms wind their way around his shoulders, getting pulled further against him and into his lap—right until you accidentally bump the spot on his collarbone that you just managed to clean, which is proven still sore when Peter fails to conceal a huff of discomfort against your lips.

“Alright,” you scold playfully, flashing him a knowing look, “don’t strain yourself.”

“Come on,” he groans, brushing your nose against his, still holding you by the waist, “I’m a friendly neighborhood hero, right? I can take it.”

“Nice try. Maybe you should enlighten me a bit more on that whole Spider-Man thing first, hm?”

Peter drops his head back to stare at the ceiling, a dazed smile lighting up his face. “I thought it was cheesy movie night.”

You can’t help laughing. “I cannot believe you.”

“I’m not hearing a no.”

When he tilts his chin down again, he finds you looking right back at him, a glimmer of admiration in your eyes that makes his breath catch. You cup his face in your hands without a second thought, and he willingly relents to your touch without a moment’s hesitation, the urge to kiss you again settling in the back of his mind.

“Movie first, and then we’re talking,” you concede, affection laced in each word. “God, Peter. You’re incredible.”

He just smiles, shaking his head lightly. “And you’re everything to me.”

Peter Parker spotted you four times as Spider-Man this week, and now he’s got a brand new stock of first-aid materials stowed away in his closet. Plus, he’s got a date scheduled for next Thursday that he sure as hell won’t be forgetting.

[wanndavision]

i just passed out

this was

wowowowowowowowowowowowowoowwo

THROWING UP!!!!!

[wanndavision]

[✴︎] It's So Sweet. (P.P.)

CONTENT; GN!Reader (I'm pretty sure); Very loose mentions of violence here and there; Peter being dramatic lowk; fluff!!; kissing scene oooooooo

SUMMARY; Peter Parker isn't sure of a lot of things, but his love for you was never a question in his mind.

WORD COUNT; 2.1k

A/N; lowkey dissing on peter here, but i promise it's solely for creative purposes. also first andrew peter parker fic! woo!!!!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated :)) tysm!

Peter Parker isn’t very sure where he stands with anything.

In his high school, he’s just a student. A kid who goes to class and gets the grade, but can’t seem to succeed outside of that. He’s like a piece to a completely different puzzle, and he can’t fit where he doesn’t belong. It tires him out.

In the world of Spider-man, Peter was less than. Less confident, less strong. All he is is that same boy who doesn’t blend. It causes the constant twist in his stomach to grow whenever the realization crosses his mind.

At home, he only had Aunt May to worry about, and even then things could be…difficult. His unyielding guilt had created a large, overbearing wall between them, and Peter hated it. There’s not much he can do but wait it out—wait out his feelings, his resent.

Things like that only get better with time. But he was growing impatient. All of his issues, his conflicts, had to grow over time. That’s all the advice he’s been given. He just wanted a rest. A moment where clocks no longer ticked, where his stresses were melted away by something bright enough to do so.

He knew where he could find that moment of solace. That’s how he ended up at your window at 10:30 P.M., knocking exactly 5 times to alert you who was waiting.

From outside your window, where he was hanging off the second story wall, he could hear a small noise of surprise leave you and then footsteps. Peter felt his already growing excitement reach his throat, and before it could escape on its own, it shot out as a laugh when you greeted him.

“Jesus, Peter.” you laughed back in response, moving out of the way to allow him into your room. You continued as he settled in, “You really need to start texting me before you come over.”

He looked over and smiled. “You don’t like my little surprise visits?”

You scoff as you close the window shut. The room quickly adapted to the new warm temperature. Peter felt his ears grow warm again, and he was reminded why he came all the way over here in the first place. As soon as the window closed, he shut out the world and let his entire focus fall onto you.

Attentive eyes watch you move from the windowsill to the floor right in front of the bed. He always thought that habit was cute—you explained to him that laying on the floor helped you focus when you studied—especially with the small noise that escapes you when you reach the ground.

“Not when you scare me.” you say with a faux glare. Peter only laughs.

He finds his usual seat on the bed directly in front of you. These motions have been repeated so many times that it’s almost like a routine, a part of his life that he can’t go without. It’s happened so often; this exact moment in these exact circumstances. That’s why he’s surprised that his presence still scares you—a part of him hopes he just makes you nervous.

The repetitiveness is what makes everything so perfect. The comfort of knowing what to expect in a world where nothing seems to go the way he wants. Nights like these are really the only nights where he gets exactly what he looks forward to.

“So what were you up to?” Peter is casual. Of course you make his pulse rise and his palms sweat whenever, but he’s comfortable with you. More comfortable than he is around anyone else. No anxiety. No hyperactive thoughts. Just you.

“You mean before you scared the shit out of me?” you raise your eyebrows when he laughs. “I was studying.”

“For what?”

“A test I have this Friday.”

“Do you want help? I can help if you want.” Peter offered. You shake your head at him, your eyes growing wide in a strange amusement.

“I doubt you’ll be much help.” you said.

He raises his eyebrows. “Elaborate.”

“Oh, my gosh. This isn’t to say you aren’t smart, because you are but…” Peter feels his face warm at the passing praise, but he chooses to blame it on the rising temperature in the room. You explain further when his eyebrows are furrowed and his lips part as though he’s going to start speaking. “But you are such a distraction!”

“Excuse me?” Peter pretends to be hurt and angry, holding his hand above his chest in mock offense. “I am the best at studying!”

“Don’t start, Parker.” you warn lightly with an even lighter smile on your face. “You’re a distraction and you know it.”

“I’m hurt, Y/n. Truly, truly hurt.”

“You can sit on the bed while I go over some stuff,” you glance at him and his pout before adding, “I’ll join you soon, you baby. Just let me make sure I don’t fail my test.”

Of course, he ended up on the floor right beside you. Admittedly, he was a big distraction when he was sat on the bed, but in his defense, he had simply missed you. You were—in his words—too far from him, and he only wanted to be near you. When you’d given in, Peter had honestly tried to be of help to you. Flashcards he had written were sprawled all over the ground after having been used repeatedly for the past hour. The two of you were sitting close to one another, letting accidental acts of physical touch linger, and staring into each other’s eyes.

He doesn’t understand why you look at his eyes like that all the time. You’re staring into them now, and he can’t help but question why. His eyes were by no means special, nor did he think they were beautiful. All they were to him was just things he sees with. But, he did enjoy staring back into yours.

They glow. They’re soft, especially when you look at him after he’s done something good, and soulful. He liked the thought of being able to look into your eyes and actually, truly, really see who you are. And Peter doesn’t have to think too hard about what would be lying underneath.

“What?” the sound of your raspy, strained voice makes Peter snap up in attention.

“What?” he echoes.

“You were staring.” you say before turning over away from him. You act like it’s just a move to get up from your laid position on the floor, but it’s your way of hiding from his watchful gaze.

Peter can feel his ears become hot. Be smooth, Peter. Be smooth. "Well, it's hard not to."

There's a soft silence, and then, "Shut up, Parker."

He can't help the large, toothy smile that stretches across his face. You were everything that was good in the world. Peter might be dramatic or intense when it came to you, but he held no remorse for the admiration in his heart. It was earned.

“Why’d you come tonight?” you ask. You sit down on your bed and fully lean against the wall; Peter smiles when he notices the gap that you left for him to fill.

When he sits, your legs touch. Neither of you move. “I don’t know.”

You nod, accepting that answer. With the way your forehead creases and your lips fold down into a faint frown, he knows you have underlying concern. He knows that more questions press the tip of your tongue, and he knows that you’re pushing it down so as to not overwhelm him. And he knows that his heart is now beating faster because of the care you handle him with.

“Well, I do know,” he says quickly. You look up at him, your frown now a straight, attentive line on your face. Peter feels like melting into the floor when he looks back. “I uh…I had some fights today, y’know. The usual, but they, uh…”

Peter doesn’t know why his mind chose to erase any thought it held in that specific moment. The last thing he wanted to do was make you worry about him any further, and his stalling was not helping you whatsoever.

Your hand hovers over his in hesitance before you pull it back completely, settling to only graze his arm with your knuckles. The sensation still relaxes him, your light touch rippling through his tense body despite the exiguity of it. “They what, Peter?”

He leans his head back against the wall, settling his stare on the ceiling. Looking at you as he recalls the night he had would push him over the edge and send him falling into a pit of despair; he’d let go of everything he was desperately trying to hold together.

“They were worse than usual today. I couldn’t—I almost couldn’t…” Peter explains, although that barely cleared the fog he created. You seemed to understand though. Just as you always did.

This time when you reach for his hand, you place it in yours with confidence. Your palm presses against his; Peter focuses on the pressure you create between him and yourself. It grounds him. The feeling reminds him that he is there, that he’s real and that he is not alone.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. You use your free hand to push hair away from his face. Before letting your hand fall to your side, you touch his cheek with a small smile. “You’re here now.”

You had no idea how thankful he was for that fact.

Peter swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

The subject would have dropped if he was talking to anyone else, but he was talking to you. Your eyes, your sweet soul, look into his, and he feels unworthy. With what happened…he doesn’t deserve half of what you give him—you love too much for your own good. That’s what he finds so fascinating about you. You hear all about his mistakes and regrets and still choose to hold his hand the way you do.

You know that there’s more going on in his scattered, relentless brain just by studying his face. He looks away to hide himself, a habit he stole from you.

“Peter,” you say with a tighter squeeze to his hand. “Look at me.” He complies. “It doesn’t matter what almost happened. You made it through. You figured it out, because that’s what you do. Don’t worry that pretty head of yours too much, okay? You got it. You always do.”

You were perfect.

Peter lets his head fall limp on your shoulder and he buries his head into your neck. You remained still and warm, allowing him to soak up every last bit of your radiance.

His heart beats more and more as his thoughts are no longer blank or deafening—they are only you. Just over, and over, and over, and over. You. When he takes in more of your presence, his thoughts and reality become one, and he looks at you.

“Y/N…” he grabs your attention, but it was already his. You were already his. Peter doesn’t speak another word.

He leans forward, unclamping his hand from yours only to place it just under your jaw and near your cheek. Pulling you closer, he touches his lips to yours.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you, until he physically can’t any longer. You were a sanctuary of love and everything good in the world. You were everything. Having that closeness with you was a blessing, and Peter didn’t want to waste a second of it. When his chest tightens as air is lost, he rests his forehead on yours and holds your face.

“I don’t know what I’d be without you, Y/N.” he whispers. You say nothing at first, only holding his wrists tightly and smiling at him the way you always do—smiling in the way that makes him smile back, only brighter.

“You’d be just the same,” you respond. “Maybe a little sadder, but—” your own laughter interrupts you before you carry on, “—but you got here on your own, Peter. Don’t give someone else credit for the good you’ve done.”

Although he’s sure you have no idea what you’re talking about, he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t speak at all. He simply thinks.

He thinks of all the times he felt like giving up, and all the times he’s tapped at your window so he could find a reason to try again. He thinks of all the times you’ve cleaned his cuts in silence because you knew asking would only reopen the wounds you had just tried to heal. He thinks of all the times the pure thought of you was the only thing he could hang onto as he lost grip on everything else.

Peter wouldn’t be the same. He wouldn’t be the same at all.

But your belief in the fact that he could be was enough for him to consider it.

[finnwrld]

EHGOHNWHWHWEOHEHE YES YES IVE MISSED UR WRITING HELLO???

Peter felt his already growing excitement reach his throat, and before it could escape on its own, it shot out as a laugh when you greeted him.

BOI THE WAY THIS WAS PERFECTLY EXPLAINED THIS HAPPENS TO ME SM AND I NEVER KNOW HOW TO PUT IT IN WORDS FOR A FIC

a part of him hopes he just makes you nervous.

he does.

The repetitiveness is what makes everything so perfect. The comfort of knowing what to expect in a world where nothing seems to go the way he wants. Nights like these are really the only nights where he gets exactly what he looks forward to.

BAJAJAJAJAJAJ BJAAJAJJAJA BAKABAKBAKBAKBAJBAKBAKAKBAKBAKBAKBAKABKBAKBAKABKABAKBAKBAKBAKABKABSKBOIDSGFIGEUHIOIHGFGHJHGJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJJAAJJAJAJAJAJJA YYESSHJSHGHJ

, your light touch rippling through his tense body despite the exiguity of it.

damn bitch i had to look up the world exiguity

You hear all about his mistakes and regrets and still choose to hold his hand the way you do.

this is a whole bar.

this is life-changing.

this is earth shattering.

[wanndavision]

HEHEHHWHJRJWSIAOST

thank you SO MUCH OMFGOWKFKT

i’m literally in heaven rn rnrnrnrnrnrnrn

[wanndavision]

[✴︎] It's So Sweet. (P.P.)

CONTENT; GN!Reader (I'm pretty sure); Very loose mentions of violence here and there; Peter being dramatic lowk; fluff!!; kissing scene oooooooo

SUMMARY; Peter Parker isn't sure of a lot of things, but his love for you was never a question in his mind.

WORD COUNT; 2.1k

A/N; lowkey dissing on peter here, but i promise it's solely for creative purposes. also first andrew peter parker fic! woo!!!!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated :)) tysm!

Peter Parker isn’t very sure where he stands with anything.

In his high school, he’s just a student. A kid who goes to class and gets the grade, but can’t seem to succeed outside of that. He’s like a piece to a completely different puzzle, and he can’t fit where he doesn’t belong. It tires him out.

In the world of Spider-man, Peter was less than. Less confident, less strong. All he is is that same boy who doesn’t blend. It causes the constant twist in his stomach to grow whenever the realization crosses his mind.

At home, he only had Aunt May to worry about, and even then things could be…difficult. His unyielding guilt had created a large, overbearing wall between them, and Peter hated it. There’s not much he can do but wait it out—wait out his feelings, his resent.

Things like that only get better with time. But he was growing impatient. All of his issues, his conflicts, had to grow over time. That’s all the advice he’s been given. He just wanted a rest. A moment where clocks no longer ticked, where his stresses were melted away by something bright enough to do so.

He knew where he could find that moment of solace. That’s how he ended up at your window at 10:30 P.M., knocking exactly 5 times to alert you who was waiting.

From outside your window, where he was hanging off the second story wall, he could hear a small noise of surprise leave you and then footsteps. Peter felt his already growing excitement reach his throat, and before it could escape on its own, it shot out as a laugh when you greeted him.

“Jesus, Peter.” you laughed back in response, moving out of the way to allow him into your room. You continued as he settled in, “You really need to start texting me before you come over.”

He looked over and smiled. “You don’t like my little surprise visits?”

You scoff as you close the window shut. The room quickly adapted to the new warm temperature. Peter felt his ears grow warm again, and he was reminded why he came all the way over here in the first place. As soon as the window closed, he shut out the world and let his entire focus fall onto you.

Attentive eyes watch you move from the windowsill to the floor right in front of the bed. He always thought that habit was cute—you explained to him that laying on the floor helped you focus when you studied—especially with the small noise that escapes you when you reach the ground.

“Not when you scare me.” you say with a faux glare. Peter only laughs.

He finds his usual seat on the bed directly in front of you. These motions have been repeated so many times that it’s almost like a routine, a part of his life that he can’t go without. It’s happened so often; this exact moment in these exact circumstances. That’s why he’s surprised that his presence still scares you—a part of him hopes he just makes you nervous.

The repetitiveness is what makes everything so perfect. The comfort of knowing what to expect in a world where nothing seems to go the way he wants. Nights like these are really the only nights where he gets exactly what he looks forward to.

“So what were you up to?” Peter is casual. Of course you make his pulse rise and his palms sweat whenever, but he’s comfortable with you. More comfortable than he is around anyone else. No anxiety. No hyperactive thoughts. Just you.

“You mean before you scared the shit out of me?” you raise your eyebrows when he laughs. “I was studying.”

“For what?”

“A test I have this Friday.”

“Do you want help? I can help if you want.” Peter offered. You shake your head at him, your eyes growing wide in a strange amusement.

“I doubt you’ll be much help.” you said.

He raises his eyebrows. “Elaborate.”

“Oh, my gosh. This isn’t to say you aren’t smart, because you are but…” Peter feels his face warm at the passing praise, but he chooses to blame it on the rising temperature in the room. You explain further when his eyebrows are furrowed and his lips part as though he’s going to start speaking. “But you are such a distraction!”

“Excuse me?” Peter pretends to be hurt and angry, holding his hand above his chest in mock offense. “I am the best at studying!”

“Don’t start, Parker.” you warn lightly with an even lighter smile on your face. “You’re a distraction and you know it.”

“I’m hurt, Y/n. Truly, truly hurt.”

“You can sit on the bed while I go over some stuff,” you glance at him and his pout before adding, “I’ll join you soon, you baby. Just let me make sure I don’t fail my test.”

Of course, he ended up on the floor right beside you. Admittedly, he was a big distraction when he was sat on the bed, but in his defense, he had simply missed you. You were—in his words—too far from him, and he only wanted to be near you. When you’d given in, Peter had honestly tried to be of help to you. Flashcards he had written were sprawled all over the ground after having been used repeatedly for the past hour. The two of you were sitting close to one another, letting accidental acts of physical touch linger, and staring into each other’s eyes.

He doesn’t understand why you look at his eyes like that all the time. You’re staring into them now, and he can’t help but question why. His eyes were by no means special, nor did he think they were beautiful. All they were to him was just things he sees with. But, he did enjoy staring back into yours.

They glow. They’re soft, especially when you look at him after he’s done something good, and soulful. He liked the thought of being able to look into your eyes and actually, truly, really see who you are. And Peter doesn’t have to think too hard about what would be lying underneath.

“What?” the sound of your raspy, strained voice makes Peter snap up in attention.

“What?” he echoes.

“You were staring.” you say before turning over away from him. You act like it’s just a move to get up from your laid position on the floor, but it’s your way of hiding from his watchful gaze.

Peter can feel his ears become hot. Be smooth, Peter. Be smooth. "Well, it's hard not to."

There's a soft silence, and then, "Shut up, Parker."

He can't help the large, toothy smile that stretches across his face. You were everything that was good in the world. Peter might be dramatic or intense when it came to you, but he held no remorse for the admiration in his heart. It was earned.

“Why’d you come tonight?” you ask. You sit down on your bed and fully lean against the wall; Peter smiles when he notices the gap that you left for him to fill.

When he sits, your legs touch. Neither of you move. “I don’t know.”

You nod, accepting that answer. With the way your forehead creases and your lips fold down into a faint frown, he knows you have underlying concern. He knows that more questions press the tip of your tongue, and he knows that you’re pushing it down so as to not overwhelm him. And he knows that his heart is now beating faster because of the care you handle him with.

“Well, I do know,” he says quickly. You look up at him, your frown now a straight, attentive line on your face. Peter feels like melting into the floor when he looks back. “I uh…I had some fights today, y’know. The usual, but they, uh…”

Peter doesn’t know why his mind chose to erase any thought it held in that specific moment. The last thing he wanted to do was make you worry about him any further, and his stalling was not helping you whatsoever.

Your hand hovers over his in hesitance before you pull it back completely, settling to only graze his arm with your knuckles. The sensation still relaxes him, your light touch rippling through his tense body despite the exiguity of it. “They what, Peter?”

He leans his head back against the wall, settling his stare on the ceiling. Looking at you as he recalls the night he had would push him over the edge and send him falling into a pit of despair; he’d let go of everything he was desperately trying to hold together.

“They were worse than usual today. I couldn’t—I almost couldn’t…” Peter explains, although that barely cleared the fog he created. You seemed to understand though. Just as you always did.

This time when you reach for his hand, you place it in yours with confidence. Your palm presses against his; Peter focuses on the pressure you create between him and yourself. It grounds him. The feeling reminds him that he is there, that he’s real and that he is not alone.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. You use your free hand to push hair away from his face. Before letting your hand fall to your side, you touch his cheek with a small smile. “You’re here now.”

You had no idea how thankful he was for that fact.

Peter swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

The subject would have dropped if he was talking to anyone else, but he was talking to you. Your eyes, your sweet soul, look into his, and he feels unworthy. With what happened…he doesn’t deserve half of what you give him—you love too much for your own good. That’s what he finds so fascinating about you. You hear all about his mistakes and regrets and still choose to hold his hand the way you do.

You know that there’s more going on in his scattered, relentless brain just by studying his face. He looks away to hide himself, a habit he stole from you.

“Peter,” you say with a tighter squeeze to his hand. “Look at me.” He complies. “It doesn’t matter what almost happened. You made it through. You figured it out, because that’s what you do. Don’t worry that pretty head of yours too much, okay? You got it. You always do.”

You were perfect.

Peter lets his head fall limp on your shoulder and he buries his head into your neck. You remained still and warm, allowing him to soak up every last bit of your radiance.

His heart beats more and more as his thoughts are no longer blank or deafening—they are only you. Just over, and over, and over, and over. You. When he takes in more of your presence, his thoughts and reality become one, and he looks at you.

“Y/N…” he grabs your attention, but it was already his. You were already his. Peter doesn’t speak another word.

He leans forward, unclamping his hand from yours only to place it just under your jaw and near your cheek. Pulling you closer, he touches his lips to yours.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you, until he physically can’t any longer. You were a sanctuary of love and everything good in the world. You were everything. Having that closeness with you was a blessing, and Peter didn’t want to waste a second of it. When his chest tightens as air is lost, he rests his forehead on yours and holds your face.

“I don’t know what I’d be without you, Y/N.” he whispers. You say nothing at first, only holding his wrists tightly and smiling at him the way you always do—smiling in the way that makes him smile back, only brighter.

“You’d be just the same,” you respond. “Maybe a little sadder, but—” your own laughter interrupts you before you carry on, “—but you got here on your own, Peter. Don’t give someone else credit for the good you’ve done.”

Although he’s sure you have no idea what you’re talking about, he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t speak at all. He simply thinks.

He thinks of all the times he felt like giving up, and all the times he’s tapped at your window so he could find a reason to try again. He thinks of all the times you’ve cleaned his cuts in silence because you knew asking would only reopen the wounds you had just tried to heal. He thinks of all the times the pure thought of you was the only thing he could hang onto as he lost grip on everything else.

Peter wouldn’t be the same. He wouldn’t be the same at all.

But your belief in the fact that he could be was enough for him to consider it.

[user6161234-deactivated20250518]

— SECRETS AND SKATEPARKS.

pairing: tasm!peter parker x reader

summary: you have a sneaking suspicion about your best friend and will apparently go to any lengths to prove yourself right.

warnings: mentions of violence/bruises, kissing, basically just a bunch of pg13 fluff, friends to lovers au.

author’s note: very much enjoying the andrew garfield spiderman love recently (don’t know where you all were 9 years ago but that’s not my business) so here’s a fic for my favourite spidey! i don’t think i’ve written for marvel in over a year and my writing is kinda rusty, but enjoy nonetheless!! ♡

“I wonder what Spider-Man looks like,” you absentmindedly mumble, scribbling down the answer to the Calculus question you were working on.

This piques your best friend Peter’s interest and his gaze quickly shoots from his own homework to you. “What, why? Wh-why does that, uh, matter?”

“No, I’m just saying, y’know?” You shrug, not thinking anything of it until you catch his expression. His head is tilted in confusion and he resembles a lost puppy with curiosity painted plain as day on his face.

God, why does your best friend have to be so cute. Okay, maybe a slightly inappropriate thought to be having, but it’s not like you’re hurting anyone! Other than yourself, that is, by not having your feelings returned. Collateral damage.

“He’s, like, super strong right?” you ask, turning back to your homework. Mostly to avoid looking at Peter, but also because you aren’t quite as good at calculus as him. He hums in answer, prompting you to continue. “Which means he’s probably super ripped. And if he’s super ripped, he’s gotta be like…”

You trail off, thinking he gets where you’re going. But when you look at him again, his brows are furrowed and you can’t help chuckling. “Spider-Man is probably really hot.”

Peter chokes on air.

Keep reading

[wanndavision]

what if i posted a green goblin x reader

[wanndavision]

[✴︎] It's So Sweet. (P.P.)

CONTENT; GN!Reader (I'm pretty sure); Very loose mentions of violence here and there; Peter being dramatic lowk; fluff!!; kissing scene oooooooo

SUMMARY; Peter Parker isn't sure of a lot of things, but his love for you was never a question in his mind.

WORD COUNT; 2.1k

A/N; lowkey dissing on peter here, but i promise it's solely for creative purposes. also first andrew peter parker fic! woo!!!!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated :)) tysm!

Peter Parker isn’t very sure where he stands with anything.

In his high school, he’s just a student. A kid who goes to class and gets the grade, but can’t seem to succeed outside of that. He’s like a piece to a completely different puzzle, and he can’t fit where he doesn’t belong. It tires him out.

In the world of Spider-man, Peter was less than. Less confident, less strong. All he is is that same boy who doesn’t blend. It causes the constant twist in his stomach to grow whenever the realization crosses his mind.

At home, he only had Aunt May to worry about, and even then things could be…difficult. His unyielding guilt had created a large, overbearing wall between them, and Peter hated it. There’s not much he can do but wait it out—wait out his feelings, his resent.

Things like that only get better with time. But he was growing impatient. All of his issues, his conflicts, had to grow over time. That’s all the advice he’s been given. He just wanted a rest. A moment where clocks no longer ticked, where his stresses were melted away by something bright enough to do so.

He knew where he could find that moment of solace. That’s how he ended up at your window at 10:30 P.M., knocking exactly 5 times to alert you who was waiting.

From outside your window, where he was hanging off the second story wall, he could hear a small noise of surprise leave you and then footsteps. Peter felt his already growing excitement reach his throat, and before it could escape on its own, it shot out as a laugh when you greeted him.

“Jesus, Peter.” you laughed back in response, moving out of the way to allow him into your room. You continued as he settled in, “You really need to start texting me before you come over.”

He looked over and smiled. “You don’t like my little surprise visits?”

You scoff as you close the window shut. The room quickly adapted to the new warm temperature. Peter felt his ears grow warm again, and he was reminded why he came all the way over here in the first place. As soon as the window closed, he shut out the world and let his entire focus fall onto you.

Attentive eyes watch you move from the windowsill to the floor right in front of the bed. He always thought that habit was cute—you explained to him that laying on the floor helped you focus when you studied—especially with the small noise that escapes you when you reach the ground.

“Not when you scare me.” you say with a faux glare. Peter only laughs.

He finds his usual seat on the bed directly in front of you. These motions have been repeated so many times that it’s almost like a routine, a part of his life that he can’t go without. It’s happened so often; this exact moment in these exact circumstances. That’s why he’s surprised that his presence still scares you—a part of him hopes he just makes you nervous.

The repetitiveness is what makes everything so perfect. The comfort of knowing what to expect in a world where nothing seems to go the way he wants. Nights like these are really the only nights where he gets exactly what he looks forward to.

“So what were you up to?” Peter is casual. Of course you make his pulse rise and his palms sweat whenever, but he’s comfortable with you. More comfortable than he is around anyone else. No anxiety. No hyperactive thoughts. Just you.

“You mean before you scared the shit out of me?” you raise your eyebrows when he laughs. “I was studying.”

“For what?”

“A test I have this Friday.”

“Do you want help? I can help if you want.” Peter offered. You shake your head at him, your eyes growing wide in a strange amusement.

“I doubt you’ll be much help.” you said.

He raises his eyebrows. “Elaborate.”

“Oh, my gosh. This isn’t to say you aren’t smart, because you are but…” Peter feels his face warm at the passing praise, but he chooses to blame it on the rising temperature in the room. You explain further when his eyebrows are furrowed and his lips part as though he’s going to start speaking. “But you are such a distraction!”

“Excuse me?” Peter pretends to be hurt and angry, holding his hand above his chest in mock offense. “I am the best at studying!”

“Don’t start, Parker.” you warn lightly with an even lighter smile on your face. “You’re a distraction and you know it.”

“I’m hurt, Y/n. Truly, truly hurt.”

“You can sit on the bed while I go over some stuff,” you glance at him and his pout before adding, “I’ll join you soon, you baby. Just let me make sure I don’t fail my test.”

Of course, he ended up on the floor right beside you. Admittedly, he was a big distraction when he was sat on the bed, but in his defense, he had simply missed you. You were—in his words—too far from him, and he only wanted to be near you. When you’d given in, Peter had honestly tried to be of help to you. Flashcards he had written were sprawled all over the ground after having been used repeatedly for the past hour. The two of you were sitting close to one another, letting accidental acts of physical touch linger, and staring into each other’s eyes.

He doesn’t understand why you look at his eyes like that all the time. You’re staring into them now, and he can’t help but question why. His eyes were by no means special, nor did he think they were beautiful. All they were to him was just things he sees with. But, he did enjoy staring back into yours.

They glow. They’re soft, especially when you look at him after he’s done something good, and soulful. He liked the thought of being able to look into your eyes and actually, truly, really see who you are. And Peter doesn’t have to think too hard about what would be lying underneath.

“What?” the sound of your raspy, strained voice makes Peter snap up in attention.

“What?” he echoes.

“You were staring.” you say before turning over away from him. You act like it’s just a move to get up from your laid position on the floor, but it’s your way of hiding from his watchful gaze.

Peter can feel his ears become hot. Be smooth, Peter. Be smooth. "Well, it's hard not to."

There's a soft silence, and then, "Shut up, Parker."

He can't help the large, toothy smile that stretches across his face. You were everything that was good in the world. Peter might be dramatic or intense when it came to you, but he held no remorse for the admiration in his heart. It was earned.

“Why’d you come tonight?” you ask. You sit down on your bed and fully lean against the wall; Peter smiles when he notices the gap that you left for him to fill.

When he sits, your legs touch. Neither of you move. “I don’t know.”

You nod, accepting that answer. With the way your forehead creases and your lips fold down into a faint frown, he knows you have underlying concern. He knows that more questions press the tip of your tongue, and he knows that you’re pushing it down so as to not overwhelm him. And he knows that his heart is now beating faster because of the care you handle him with.

“Well, I do know,” he says quickly. You look up at him, your frown now a straight, attentive line on your face. Peter feels like melting into the floor when he looks back. “I uh…I had some fights today, y’know. The usual, but they, uh…”

Peter doesn’t know why his mind chose to erase any thought it held in that specific moment. The last thing he wanted to do was make you worry about him any further, and his stalling was not helping you whatsoever.

Your hand hovers over his in hesitance before you pull it back completely, settling to only graze his arm with your knuckles. The sensation still relaxes him, your light touch rippling through his tense body despite the exiguity of it. “They what, Peter?”

He leans his head back against the wall, settling his stare on the ceiling. Looking at you as he recalls the night he had would push him over the edge and send him falling into a pit of despair; he’d let go of everything he was desperately trying to hold together.

“They were worse than usual today. I couldn’t—I almost couldn’t…” Peter explains, although that barely cleared the fog he created. You seemed to understand though. Just as you always did.

This time when you reach for his hand, you place it in yours with confidence. Your palm presses against his; Peter focuses on the pressure you create between him and yourself. It grounds him. The feeling reminds him that he is there, that he’s real and that he is not alone.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. You use your free hand to push hair away from his face. Before letting your hand fall to your side, you touch his cheek with a small smile. “You’re here now.”

You had no idea how thankful he was for that fact.

Peter swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

The subject would have dropped if he was talking to anyone else, but he was talking to you. Your eyes, your sweet soul, look into his, and he feels unworthy. With what happened…he doesn’t deserve half of what you give him—you love too much for your own good. That’s what he finds so fascinating about you. You hear all about his mistakes and regrets and still choose to hold his hand the way you do.

You know that there’s more going on in his scattered, relentless brain just by studying his face. He looks away to hide himself, a habit he stole from you.

“Peter,” you say with a tighter squeeze to his hand. “Look at me.” He complies. “It doesn’t matter what almost happened. You made it through. You figured it out, because that’s what you do. Don’t worry that pretty head of yours too much, okay? You got it. You always do.”

You were perfect.

Peter lets his head fall limp on your shoulder and he buries his head into your neck. You remained still and warm, allowing him to soak up every last bit of your radiance.

His heart beats more and more as his thoughts are no longer blank or deafening—they are only you. Just over, and over, and over, and over. You. When he takes in more of your presence, his thoughts and reality become one, and he looks at you.

“Y/N…” he grabs your attention, but it was already his. You were already his. Peter doesn’t speak another word.

He leans forward, unclamping his hand from yours only to place it just under your jaw and near your cheek. Pulling you closer, he touches his lips to yours.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you, until he physically can’t any longer. You were a sanctuary of love and everything good in the world. You were everything. Having that closeness with you was a blessing, and Peter didn’t want to waste a second of it. When his chest tightens as air is lost, he rests his forehead on yours and holds your face.

“I don’t know what I’d be without you, Y/N.” he whispers. You say nothing at first, only holding his wrists tightly and smiling at him the way you always do—smiling in the way that makes him smile back, only brighter.

“You’d be just the same,” you respond. “Maybe a little sadder, but—” your own laughter interrupts you before you carry on, “—but you got here on your own, Peter. Don’t give someone else credit for the good you’ve done.”

Although he’s sure you have no idea what you’re talking about, he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t speak at all. He simply thinks.

He thinks of all the times he felt like giving up, and all the times he’s tapped at your window so he could find a reason to try again. He thinks of all the times you’ve cleaned his cuts in silence because you knew asking would only reopen the wounds you had just tried to heal. He thinks of all the times the pure thought of you was the only thing he could hang onto as he lost grip on everything else.

Peter wouldn’t be the same. He wouldn’t be the same at all.

But your belief in the fact that he could be was enough for him to consider it.

[wanndavision]

i edited my fic but the edits didn’t save so now i don’t remember what i edited and i’m upset