summary: in an effort to finally move on from MJ, peter hooks up with the pretty bartender from his class, but everything quickly unravels when he can’t push away his growing feelings for her— and when he finds out she’s been investigating spider-man
or, peter parker realizes he shouldn’t be afraid to fall again
warnings: 18+, slight angst, smut, dual pov, post nwh, strangers to lovers, canon divergent (loosely based on universe-accurate stuff), alcohol, peter’s grief is a character, allusions to depression and self-isolation, petermj erasure (i’m sorry), ned remembers again bc peter needs at least one friend sue me, 20/21-ish ages ??, canon-typical violence, peter’s a massive munch & a bit of a disaster (affectionate), inaccurate bnd info bc it wasn’t out when i wrote this lol
smut warnings: sloppy/semi-public sex, mutual handjobs, fingering, drunk (but consentual) hookup. tags will be updated on part two :)
word count: 22.4k — ao3, masterlist — playlist
author’s note: oh, the character that started it all. he will always be a special part of me, so i couldn’t not write for him with bnd coming out. writing for him (and actually posting it) after all this time with an adult mindset was interesting, but im happy with how this little story unfolded. i hope you enjoy this one <3 let me know if you do !!
⁀➷ now reading: part one | part two (coming soon)
Truthfully, in part, this was a bad idea from the beginning.
He knows who he is—always has—but no one really prepares you for what you lose of yourself when people leave.
Not really.
Sure, there’s pieces of it—age-old sayings, over-quoted self-help books, your pushy therapist’s nagging mantras—but it’s not only that a part of you dies with the person you lose— It’s that you start to question if what’s left of you is able to survive.
Or willing to, for that matter.
So, he was doomed from the start. He used to lie awake at night pushing back against the threat of morning light like his life depended on it. He used to come alive in the afterglow, swinging through the city like it was his heartbeat, chasing after it like a lifeline.
Now, he counts the hours down. He watches his clock move so slow it might as well be going backward. He stops wishing for days to be longer and foams at the mouth for more time asleep.
Unaware. Unbothered. Unmocked.
And suddenly he’s suffocating. He feels it in every thread he runs worn, tired fingers over. Frayed at the edges, torn and half-stitched together too many times to count, bloody knuckles laying so many patches he loses the seam.
It hangs, derisive as it clings to a crooked doorknob.
Fated blurs of blue and red used to fuel him, used to make every decision—every action, every mistake—feel worth it. It gave him purpose, gave him direction. It made him forget the violet in between every wrong turn and right hook and focus on the parallel fate propelling him forward.
Now it all feels eroded, taunting what he let slip away. Laughing in the face of failures that stopped making him stronger and won. Watching, waiting for a next move he could never make.
He only slipped deeper with every month that passed, desperate for something to tether himself to. His responsibility started to feel heavier, and his motivation to get off his futon and to a fire escape was few and far between.
Because what did he really have to fight for anymore?
Then the wails of sirens and veins of flickering streetlights tracing down the cool city pavement roared like a heartbeat he couldn’t shake, rattling him from the inside out, making him remember where he came from.
Reminding him that he is this city, and this city is him.
So he pushes through. She shoves it down. He pulls the mask off his doorknob and fixes what was broken in more ways than one. He conquers the battle one fight at a time. And the greater good remembers that it’s just the good in him.
Because after all, Peter Parker knows who he is.
And Peter Parker doesn’t give up.
But this wasn’t giving up— At least that’s what he’d convinced himself of. He was simply accepting a fate beyond his control. Giving credit where credit was due. Letting go, even if it hurt like hell.
He’d gotten particularly good at that.
Besides, how could he surrender when it was starting to feel like there was nothing to give up in the first place?
No matter how much he tried to ignore it, he keeps getting the reminder. Like when he sees her new friends, or when she waves past him in a room full of people, making him foolishly wave back at no one. When he says hi to her across the hall and she responds,
“Oh, hey… you.” And keeps walking, brows knit and laughing off the fleeting awkwardness with that guy.
With Paul.
“You,” he echoes in bitter disbelief, dropping into a seat he barely kicks half-out. “She called me you. Buddy or Pal would’ve stung less.”
Ned doesn’t even bother glancing up from the essay and lunch he’s hunched over, expression flat and unbothered. “Because she doesn’t know you, Peter.”
Right. Of course. Tact was never lost on him.
“Yeah, but you think she’d at least sense something by now, right?” He sighs, slumping deeper into his seat and mindlessly picking at something non-existent on the table. “She just looks right through me.”
Ned shrugs loosely. “It’s been two years. Maybe you should finally move on.”
The unwelcome words settle, rooting themselves inside his head and making him nearly choke on nothing.
“You can’t be serious.”
Ned lower his laptop screen, leveling him with a look. “She has a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, and people… break up,” he says with a shrug, completely unconvincing. Ned’s glare narrows, irony sharp on his tongue. “And don’t say that’s what we did,” he adds. “I really don’t need the reminder.”
“This is college, Peter,” Ned urges, tossing his hands up to the room of laughing students and chatty professors around them. “There’s way more options out there than just MJ.”
His face shifts into a scowl, making Ned sigh and adjust his approach, expression softening a notch.
“Listen, you know I love MJ— We’re still friends.” Yeah, just not with him. “But you’ve been chasing after her for a while now and you’ve gotten nowhere.”
Peter steals a fry from Ned’s tray, shrugging innocuously. “And?”
“And maybe that means it’s just not meant to be.”
Ouch. His stomach twists on cue despite the harrowing, irrefutable truth: Ned was probably right.
He’d been chasing after a ghost so long he could feel his own body going cold. He was trying to pin down something that kept slipping away so persistently, it was starting to dissipate from reality. He was stuck running after something that didn’t want to be found, a fate he couldn’t face.
Maybe they just weren’t right for each other anymore.
He still loves her— At least he thinks he does. Things fell apart before he could really figure it out. He’s grown a lot. Changed a lot, too—a bit for the better, certainly some for the worst—and despite it all, he was still standing, still pressing on like forward was all he knew.
But maybe he couldn’t ever really move on until he accepted what was so glaringly in front of him. The shell of his high school romance flatlined at his feet.
And the echo of a DNR order looming over it.
It killed him to surrender— To let something he always thought was special slip away like he’s mourning a piece of himself he never really had. Not in the ways that counted most. He didn’t even get the chance.
He was supposed to be resilient. He was supposed to face a challenge head on when all else fails. He was supposed to be a hero—hers, and his own—but lately it felt like he wasn’t even capable of that.
And if he wasn’t… then who was he, really?
The void that met him in the mirror was starting to fade faster than he was willing to accept. And choosing to acknowledge the barren, fractured truth sitting between him and someone who was nothing more than a stranger now was making him question if letting go was really worth it.
Or if it was just another crack he couldn’t fix. Another mistake that tarnished what was barely left of him.
Another loss he couldn’t stop.
“But what if we are right together?” he counters, voice low from its weight in raw, unbridled reckoning. “What if losing her means I lose me too?”
Ned frowns, eyes laden with something he can’t hide.
“You’re already lost, Peter.” He pauses, brows creasing in something too close to pity. “I can’t keep watching you chase after what’s already gone.”
He swallows, rough and tight. God, he hated when Ned was right. But he needed to hear it. He needed the truth to scream through his lungs instead of whisper.
Maybe then he could find himself again.
“I’m not saying it’ll never happen,” Ned adds through a mouthful of fries. “I just think this is a good opportunity for you to get it out of your system.”
Peter’s brows lift and not from intrigue. “My system?”
“You know what I mean,” he defends, polishing off his lunch and sliding his laptop into his bag. “Meet new people. Enjoy being single. Use it to your advantage.”
“That’s, like, the complete opposite of me, Ned.”
“Is that really a bad thing?”
“Dude,” Peter mutters, expression twisting.
Ned holds his hands up in faux surrender. “All I’m saying is it won’t kill you to let loose a little.”
“I’m totally loose!” He was not at all loose.
“Go to a party, have some fun for once,” he explains like it wasn’t abundantly obvious. “Maybe even hook up with someone.”
Peter shakes his head immediately, the thought foreign and sour swimming in his head. “No, no way. That’s not something I can just do.”
“Why not?” Flashbacks of the weird, flukey flings he’s witnessed his oddly-charming friend go through rush in all at once. Of course Ned wouldn’t get it. “Have a couple drinks and find someone hot. Easy.”
“I’m just not wired like you. I’m a relationship guy.”
“You’ve had, like, one girlfriend, Peter.”
“No,” he defends, voice cracking like it was on a mission to expose him. “There was Liz, too.”
Ned’s mouth tilts. “Yeah, if you consider ditching her at homecoming and sending her dad to jail a date.”
Jeez. He was right about that one, too.
Ned glances at his watch, quickly shoving the rest of his stuff into his bag while Peter mulls in the completely undesirable suggestion floated his way. Let loose. Party. Hook-up? No way— No chance in hell.
Ned lingers in front of the now empty table, weighing if being late to class was worth one last attempt at convincing Peter this was sound advice.
“Do me a favor and at least think about it? Please?”
Despite himself, he caves, giving Ned a half-hearted smile. “Yeah. I will.”
He sits alone in silence, helplessly watching as his friend disappears into the flood of mingling students he’s still a stranger to. Everything buzzes around him, alight with life and the fresh promise of summer’s rapid approach. All he can hear is himself, trying desperately to rationalize the new question humming in his brain.
What the hell did he just get himself into?
Three weeks. It had been three weeks since that conversation with Ned. The topic wasn’t really brought up again—at least not directly—and he wasn't exactly complaining.
Not at all.
It was mentioned in passing—a vague invitation to a party, a harmless question about weekend plans that hummed with the hope for more, a not-so-subtle nod at a pretty girl passing by—but neither of them dared to push it further.
Ned was smart enough to know Peter would take the push when it was needed, and Peter was too scared to even entertain the idea of it looming in his mind.
How could he? How was he expected to just turn his brain off and let himself go? Pluck at the loose strings of his body that beared too much tedious tension. Unravel just enough to do something that didn’t require meticulous, painstaking logic for once.
Knowing the option existed only made it worse.
His mind raced behind blank stares in class. He got more clumsy with every building he swung from in the crest of midnight. He tossed through every hour of sleep, desperate for silence to sweep his brain again.
Was it really over? Just like that? A love he thought was going to last a lifetime dying a pitiful, worthless death— Reduced to the shape of a name that decays, growing unfamiliar when it whispers through his soul.
And the worst part was that he was starting to consider it. Like, actually consider it.
Put himself out there. Reclaim his identity again. Kiss someone new like it means absolutely nothing and enjoy being young for once. Forget about the crushing threat of responsibility constantly burdening him.
It was becoming abundantly clear that he wasn’t capable of the mantle he took on, so maybe he should.
He tried to fight it—the nagging doubt staining his mind, the ghost of his failures coming back to haunt him—but how could he when he was grappling with the fact that this was just another thing he couldn’t save?
And if he couldn’t save this, was he worthy of saving anything? Was he worthy of the pressure put on his shoulders? To be the one people turn to when they need hope?
He didn’t particularly want that answered right now.
The longer it lingered in his mind, the more it crawled to the forefront. The last time he spoke with—no, spoke at—MJ was 12 days ago. 12 whole days and all he could come up with was an invitation to join his group in their Experimental Physics lab when she already had one.
Things were rough, to say the least.
All he had to do was survive a few more pointless lectures and drill through his pile of neglected work. Then maybe he could spend his weekend remembering what it’s like to recharge.
His phone buzzes as he slides into his usual seat for his 2pm: Ned with his end-of-the-week attempt to drag him out to some Greenwich Village hole-in-the-wall spot called Lion’s Head Pub tonight. Pass.
He sighs thinly and clicks his phone off without replying, slumping further into the cool, sterile chill of his lecture hall chair like it could swallow him whole.
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this. Ned was getting his hopes up only for Peter to inevitably decline or go MIA. He hated the guilt that followed, making him question if he was even capable of starting over again. And it didn’t matter how many times he expressed his disinterest, Ned still offered like he might finally change his mind.
It was the same doomed cycle.
His stare hones in on the board in front of him, littered with indistinguishable strings of words that were starting to hurt his head. All the pre-lecture noise slips away with his attention—eyes glazed over, expression blank and unreachable—completely aloof to someone gently nudging his foot.
“Parker? Did you finish it?”
He blinks back to life, glancing up to find someone looming over him, blocking the blinding slats of stale overhead lights. And his brain nearly short circuits when he realizes it’s a girl— A really pretty girl.
Talking to him.
Your eyes flick between his in a straight-cut motion, silently beckoning his answer. Impatient fingers lightly drum a pencil against the edge of a thick stack of notebooks curled into your chest, studying him with barely pouted lips he suddenly can’t stop staring at.
His senses shift into overdrive, stumbling their way through trying to catalog everything about you: the soft strokes of hair gently framing your face in static light. Your perfume lingering around the heat of your skin, completely captivating and haunting through his head. The way your weight shifts the longer you’re forced to stand there, like time kneels to you and knows it has no business being wasted in your midst.
Then he realizes he’s just staring— Mouth parted, thoughts stuttering, eyes slack and completely silent like a fool… Or a freak.
Fuck, Peter, pay attention.
He clears his throat sharply, choking on the ghost of words that don’t come. “S-sorry, what?”
He’s completely thrown. Sure, he’s caught your eye once or twice when you transferred into this class, but you’ve never once spoken to him. Or really looked, for that matter. Why would you?
The slim clock hand usually brushed a few minutes past two when you slipped in, slowly easing the door shut like you could muffle the resounding click that echoes through the room, making heads snap to yours in a nosy wave. You always found an inconspicuous seat tucked in the last few rows, darting toward it like your name was etched there. Most days you were covered in an oversized hoodie, your eyes heavy from too many late nights, shoes shuffling, headphones in.
He didn’t know your name—or much of anyone’s anymore, for that matter—but he’d be lying if he said his attention didn’t snag on you when you scooted past him for the last remaining seat in his row the second week of class.
The warmth lingered in him, the memory of your hand brushing his shoulder to steady yourself over some asshole who wouldn’t tuck in his knees unmoored.
You didn’t speak, just offered him a soft, lopsided smile when you finally reached your destination like you appreciated that he didn’t slip away from under you— Like the steady weight of his shoulder simply being there was worth more than it should be.
He didn’t say a word either. Just matched your expression and went back to packing tiny, mechanical font into his notebook like it could help shake the way his thoughts were suddenly frazzled… And the fact that his favorite elective class was suddenly the least interesting thing in the world.
He forgot about you after that. It was better for everyone if he continued being invisible. Unknown, unnamed, un—
Wait… How the hell did you know his name?
“Your transcript?” Your eyebrows tick up in quickly fleeting patience, staring at him like it was obvious.
Right. The final project. The interview he totally hasn’t typed out yet… And you must be his partner.
Everyone was randomly assigned a faceless-name to work with through the class portal. Most identities in a class this big were a mystery, and it worked that way. No one cared. As long as your partner did some semblance of work that was good enough for a mostly passing grade, there wasn’t a second thought given.
The same went for you and him.
When the rubric was handed out and the deadline was set, you emailed a handful of times—designating roles, coordinating plans, dividing everything evenly—and that was that. You both had your tasks to do. But the way you peered down at him with a question held a between your brows told him you clearly did your part.
And the way his palms began to sweat and his brain started frantically flipping through its fuzzy filing cabinet of every half-assed assignment he barely survived this week made it abundantly clear he didn’t.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, digging through his bag and saying a silent prayer it looked convincing enough to you. “I think it got lost on my desk.”
It wasn’t even a titled document on his computer yet.
You sigh, tilting your head like this was the last thing you wanted to hear. His stomach twists on cue.
“I can’t start writing the feature without it.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he rushes, crumpling his bag shut and shoving it under his chair to distract from the heat crawling up his neck. “I’ll get it to you tomorrow, I swear.”
You pause, weighing it through narrowed eyes that were far too sharp to be making his heart flutter the way it was. Then you cave, sighing gently.
“Fine. First thing.”
He nods with a little tug at the corner of his mouth, settling back into a reality where he was known enough to have someone’s nerves grated because of him.
“O-of course. Promise.”
Your gaze stays on him for a beat longer than it should’ve, and he swears the room slips away when your expression softens, barely, just enough to make his brain go a little numb.
Then you smile—routine, polite, lined with something he wants to turn around inside his head—and slip past him for your seat in the back, same as always.
And for once he doesn’t feel too bad about being distracted during class if it was because of you.
By the time the clock crawls toward 11, he’s starting to genuinely consider the very plausible reality he’s no longer conscious.
He turned into a machine, natural instincts clicking into place as he tore through the growing pile of work looming on his desk.
Now he can finally see through his window again, dark and dusty reflection catching the bleak glow of his lamp light straining to cut through the shadow-swept room.
He glows like a ghost from the dying light of his laptop, clinging to a despondent seven percent battery, a victim of his relentless focus. He plugs it in, stretches against the chair squeaking under his weight, and stares at the ceiling, slowly recalibrating his psyche.
The city roars beyond his window with the resurgence of nightlife, floating conversations and the symphony of sirens a blanket of sound down below. He finished relatively early considering the dense amount of work he had to chew through, but now his reward was being left alone in his shamefully empty apartment.
Like even his walls could come to life and judge the lack of one he had. Nice.
Then his phone buzzes on his crumpled sheets. The muffled sound rips through the silence, and he doesn’t have to bothering looking to know who it is.
“No, Ned,” he mutters, rubbing a tired hand over his sunken, aching eyes.
There was no way in hell he was entertaining the idea of some overcrowded, borderline-animalistic dive bar when his skull was still throbbing with the lingering remains of theorems and study guide questions.
He kicks his music up a notch higher in retaliation when it buzzes again, focused on filing away his work.
By the third interruption, he breaks, letting out a tired groan and blindly fumbling just to find the ringer. He freezes before he gets the chance, blinking back at the hollow glow of the screen tracing the outline of his jaw in late evening indigo.
His eyes have to run across the subject line four times before he realizes his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. It wasn’t Ned. It wasn’t his reminder to pay rent or a new assignment added to his dashboard. None of that.
It was you. You, who now had a face he could connect to the name decorating his inbox. A pretty one, at that.
One his mind admittedly drifted to more times than it should’ve during class. And the class after that… And every hour between, slouched over his desk and trying to stay focused on slicing through his stack of work.
You still managed to slip in between the cracks he couldn’t seal. Your presence, your expression, your eyes. All of you lingered where he didn’t want you to— Where he felt like you weren’t allowed to.
Not yet.
He stares back at the notification, stunned like the universe was mocking his mind for drifting to you all night long. It wasn’t much—just a routine email with an outline for the rest of the project attached—but that was enough to do it. That was enough to make him realize he somehow, someway, wanted it to be more.
He quickly taps the dimming screen back to life, sliding the notification open, eyes tracing over every letter of your name like it could allow him to know more than just your student email address and a tapping pencil in midday Manhattan sunglow.
He opens the outline, slowly dropping onto his bed and running over the meticulous, fine-tuned details you laid out in the document. Something buzzes under his skin from it, like he just got another tiny piece of you—the way you were wired, the way you worked—all through a couple bullet points and bylines.
And if that was as close as he’d get, then he’d take it.
Suddenly something aches in him— Something he’s done such a good job of suppressing. Something human, hungry for more he knows he can't have.
This was stupid. The isolation he swore himself to had gotten so bad he was excited over an email for an elective credit group assignment— Over the fact that someone knew his name besides his landlord or Ned.
Someone clearly driven. Someone with soft skin and kind eyes edged with something that made his heart hammer. Someone with a baggy sweatshirt that brushed his desk every Tuesday and Thursday at two.
Someone he wanted to know more.
He shakes it off, quickly closing the document and marking the email as unread so it wouldn’t get buried in his inbox. This was something he already made peace with, something he already accepted: the less people know him—even as simple as a first name or assigned seat—the better. He couldn’t risk it again.
Besides, he couldn’t get distracted. He was meant for MJ— Now, and always.
No one else.
But it wasn’t you that was throwing him off. It couldn’t be. It was the nagging, persistent tenacity of his friend finally catching up with him, poisoning his focus and making him wonder if he was worthy of moving on.
He had enough on his plate as it was. He didn’t need to add to what he already couldn’t sort through. He needed to forget about you and every dangerous, fleeting thought that came with you.
He fails miserably.
You linger in this mind like you belong, warmth sparking through him like wildfire. The way you glowed in lecture hall light, hair a little messy and unkempt, but never careless. The way your eyes quickly flitted over him, like you sized him up and had him completely figured out before blinking, all with a faint tug at the corner of your mouth that made his bones hum.
He couldn’t get you out of his head. Why couldn’t he get you out of his head? Was Ned actually right about everything? That he was tying himself to something sinking, something already gone?
That maybe he was worth another chance again?
Regardless, some harmless, completely illogical little crush curls at the corners of his shredded heart, curious to try to put him back together again.
He blinks at the ceiling, letting frayed curls sink into his pillow, and thinks. His brain wrestles itself until it’s numb, making room for something to settle between his ribs— Something daring he hasn’t felt in forever.
The willingness to begin again.
And this time when his phone buzzes, he pulls himself off the bed, powers through a shower, shrugs on fresh clothes, and leaves his apartment with the address Ned sent lighting up his screen.
Because maybe sacrificing a little more hurt was worth the chance to feel something again. With someone—anyone—even just for a minute. Just for one night.
And you made him believe it might be possible again.
The place was easy to find considering the dense group of drunk ESU kids flooding the doorfront, shouting and laughing over music that’s easily drowned out. It’s a small place, almost unrecognizable along the strip, just one wobbly brick away from being swallowed into the rest of the building.
He slips between swaying bodies, following a dingy, stone staircase down to the roaring basement pub. There’s people everywhere: pressed against the walls, hanging over sticky tables, packed together in the tiny space surrounding the bar, all looking for attention.
Everything was dark, bathed in silhouettes and draped in the smell of margarita mix and mistakes clinging to the thick, balmy air. Shadows dance between bodies, painting slick skin in flickers of colored Christmas lights draped across the ceiling. Every inch of exposed brick was plastered in garage sale collectibles and old bar games that were charming enough to pass as decor.
Toward the back of the room he spots Ned near a high top with a tray of shots that were surely all sugar. He catches his eye, stopping dead in his tracks and instantly lighting up at the shocking sight of Peter swiftly cutting through the crowd.
“Dude, no way,” Ned beams, quickly pulling him in for their handshake. “I can’t believe you finally showed!”
Peter shrugs, trying to hide the fact that he was already regretting this decision. “If I had to look at one more derivative, my head was gonna explode.”
Ned shakes him by the shoulder, clearly tipsy. “Let’s get you a drink.”
He winces, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man. I just came to…” Well, he didn’t really know what he came for, to be honest. “Check it out, I guess.”
He hadn’t even been there for two minutes and he was already starting to get cold feet. The reality was setting in quicker than he could handle, and allowing himself to divulge in this fickle moment of bravery might equate to something he couldn’t take back.
With someone who wasn’t MJ.
Then he scans the room and his attention immediately settles on the person behind the bar, tilting a pint under the tap and politely indulging in a customer clearly too old to be alone at a college bar.
You.
You were here. Not in his class, not in his head, not on his screen. Here, standing in front of him under dusty, jagged spotlights and falling perfectly into his line of sight like it was the only place you belonged.
His pulse thumps in his ear, cheeks hot while he stares, in awe of you completely in your element. Then you laugh and he swears it cuts right through the crowd and punches him square in the gut like the sweetest sucker punch to his better judgement.
Wait, why was he regretting this again?
“Peter,” Ned whines, immune to the spellbinding daydream he was suddenly stuck in. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to go dry on me.”
He clears his throat weakly, trying to act normal. “I live, like, four blocks away, Ned.”
“And you didn’t walk four whole blocks just to bail on me again. Come on— Just one drink.”
Ned’s right: he didn’t. He came to let loose, to get out there. To explore the feeling you helped him remember how to have—and now here you were—so he mumbles,
“Yeah… yeah, you’re, uh— I’m gonna go… Yeah.”
He says it under his breath, meandering over to the line at the bar like a moth drawn to life’s last light. If Ned responded, he didn’t catch it— Just cuts his way through every sweaty body like a man on a mission.
To say what, exactly? That was still unclear.
He almost turns on his heels and abandons ship when your attention lands on him— Smooth, mindless motions buffering, almost like him being thrown into your orbit again made you do a double take.
You blink, calculating how to place him in your mind, and smile. It’s small—almost missable—but it’s there.
And it’s for him.
The moment slips away like it’s nothing—probably because it was—but the stutter in his heartbeat grows with every step he takes toward to you.
As soon as a narrow, empty spot clears up at the counter, he takes it, patiently waiting with his nerves in his throat while you top off a drink with the soda gun. You look so effortless, gliding through motions like you were keeping the whole bar afloat without even trying.
There’s something about you that has him captivated with every little thing you do— So much so that by the time you sling the towel over your shoulder and slide up in front of him, he’s completely unprepared for it.
You smile, expression lined with something that makes his brain buzz, head gently cocked as you size him up with one swift tick of your eyes.
“You know, when I said first thing tomorrow, I didn’t mean it literally,” you tease, glancing at the overhead clock showing just a hair past midnight.
Red covers the top of his ears, lips pressing into a tight, sheepish smile.
“So you mean to tell me I came all the way down here for nothing, then?”
Your confidence falters, disbelief slowly seeping in. “Oh my God, did you actually bring it with you?”
“No,” he chuckles, a little proud. “But the look on your face kinda makes me think I should’ve.”
Your shoulders loosen a notch, smiling with a shake of your head that was anything but annoyed. “Very funny, Parker.” You pause a beat, watching him like you’re searching for something. “What’re you having?”
He blinks. “Huh?”
“To drink.” You casually lean against the counter until the heat of your skin brushes his. “You’re at a bar, remember?”
He clears his throat, praying his synapses click back into place and start doing their job.
“Oh, uh, right. Sorry.” He quickly glances over your shoulder at what was on tap like he has any idea what kind of beer he even likes. “Can I get the, um,” he pauses, eyes narrowing, “the Voodoo Ranger?”
You grab a clean pint glass, glancing over your shoulder while you pour. “You don’t come here often, do you?”
“What makes you say that?” he asks against the thin head of foam before taking the kind of sip that wants to prove something. The second it hits him, his face twists, sheepishly coughing on the bitter trail of honey-gold liquid that cuts down his throat like a threat.
You cross your arms, smiling in satisfaction. “That.”
His cheeks heat in a way he can’t hide, but it’s hard to care when you’re looking at him like that, laughing in a way he knows will get stuck in his head.
“What,” he manages, “is this, like, a notoriously bad beer, or something?”
“Not necessarily.” You shrug, taking the glass and dumping it. “You just don’t strike me as an IPA guy.”
His eyes settle on the tug at the corner of your mouth, soft and undeniable. It makes his heartbeat skip.
“You seem to know a lot about me.”
“This kinda job comes with a lot of people watching,” you say casually, just the simple truth. “You learn how to read people pretty quickly.”
He smears the ring of condensation left on the bar, staring at it like it could wipe his smile away.
“Okay, what am I drinking, then?”
You lean a fraction closer and it’s like thunder strikes behind his ribs. He barely even knows you but suddenly none of it matters.
You hum, eyes sharp. “You tell me.”
He studies you for a second, gaining the confidence to look you square in the eye again and raise you. It comes out of nowhere—this low, pulling buzz—but he can practically feel the electricity pulsing between you now.
“Whatever you wanna make me.”
Your eyes sweep over him, the movement kickstarting his pulse. Then you pull away, nodding just once. “You got it, Parker.”
The world falls away while you work behind the bar, slipping into an easy rhythm like garnishes and simple syrups were second nature. He’s completely hung up on your every move, so much so he barely catches Ned across the room flashing an ever-so-obvious thumbs up and toothy smile. He ignores that.
“Alright,” you say, sliding a freshly chilled rocks glass to his fingertips. “Give this a try.”
He studies the drink like it bites. “What is it?”
“A secret. Just try it.”
“I’m good at keeping secrets.” His grin unfolds despite himself. You have no idea just how true that really is.
You cock your head, weighing it. “Okay. Only if you tell me why you finally decided to show up here tonight.”
“Because I was bored. Your turn.”
You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath while he beams over a cautious sip of his new drink.
“Weak answer, but fine.” You tilt your chin to the glass between you. “7 and 7— Easy ingredients, stronger than a tap beer, and more interesting than a Captain and Coke. You’re welcome.”
The warm, woody burn of whiskey floods his system, perfectly balanced by the fresh tang of lemon-lime. It’s good—genuinely something he likes—but with a smile that inviting and eyes impossibly soft under faint splashes of copper spilling through the room, he know’s he’d happily take just about anything you made.
“Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a knack for this?”
You huff a timorous laugh, dropping your stare to the counter like the loose pieces of hair falling in your face could hide the way your smile lightens with something that lands right between his ribs.
“Yeah— Only the creeps who tip too much and, well… you.”
He nods, mouth tilting as he pushes two measly, crumpled singles he had in his pocket across the counter to you. “Glad I’m neither of those things, then.”
You laugh, all sweet and breathless like it was meant to find itself along the way. It’s fleeting, but he actually makes you blush. His nerves flutter from knowing he’s the reason behind that kind of sound.
It was terrifyingly easy to become enamored with you. You were like a trap he walked himself into and didn’t want to escape. Why was he even here, again?
You slide the bills back, fingers tentatively meeting his in the process. “Get that transcript to me and we’ll call it even?”
Before his nerves could talk himself out of it, he takes your hand—small, warm, gentle in his palm—and shakes it, sealing the promise of more between you. “I would anyways, but deal.”
His voice comes honestly, almost too quiet beneath the blanket of social sound unfolding around him. It didn’t matter— Not when something dangerous runs behind your eyes as you watch his fingers loosen from yours.
Everything else goes forgotten between the brick and sloppy string lights. Nothing more exists. Just you, just him, watching each other like maybe you’d find a way to define what was starting to settle inside the thinning space between you. Not the crowd, not the noise, not—
Ned plants a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder, slurring a loose hello and shaking him free— Literally. He places the tray that’s now a graveyard for the sticky-sweet shooters from earlier down for you to take.
“Thanks again for the shots,” Ned says to you, trying way too hard to be cool about what he just stepped into as he passes over his card to close out his tab.
Peter’s brain blanks, eyes basically screaming for Ned to please be normal about this as he watches in mild-panic. Then he glances between you both with the kinda look Peter hates—especially when it’s preceded by alcohol—and his stomach drops in preparation.
“You guys know each other?”
“We’re in Investigative Journalism together,” Peter quickly cuts in, not willing to risk things when Ned was currently on a one man mission to make his life more interesting. He introduces you, silently praying his friend doesn’t take it as an invitation and leaves.
“Woah,” Ned breathes, looking at you like you’re a paradox. “You go to ESU, too?”
You nod, finishing up a quick vodka cran for someone else. “Yup. Sophomore. What about you guys?”
“Same,” Ned affirms.
“Wait,” Peter interrupts, brows furrowing gently. “How are you a bartender if you’re still a sophomore?”
He regrets it immediately, fearing he might have offended you. You could’ve been held back or taken a year off or something, but he was too caught up in daydreaming over you, he didn’t really properly assess how his question would come across.
Or how much of his drink he’s already thrown back.
Luckily, you just shrug and hand Ned his card back.
“Eh, Eddie doesn’t really care that I’m underage. The less he has to report to the IRS, the better.” You pause, smirking at Ned. “Besides, according to your friend here, I’m pretty damn good.”
It flashes across Ned’s face immediately: the kind of dangerous curiosity Peter could only silently curse.
“Oh, I’m sure he’s probably thinking more than that.”
Peter exhales sharply, quickly steering Ned away while you laugh under your breath at just how obviously flustered he is. “Okay. See you later, Ned.”
Your easy laughter only makes the embarrassment knot tighter through him, skin hot with harmless heat as Ned takes the hint and disappears into the crowd.
The bar is rocking far beyond full capacity now, finally at the height of Thirsty Thursday fun. His vision goes a little hazy as he scans the crowd around him, dense and desperate for drinks. Some girl immediately slips into the space Ned left, eager in hopes of getting some service, but you don’t pay her a shred of attention.
And he notices.
Instead, your eyes stay locked on Peter, sharp with something that toed a line neither of you have decided to draw yet. You glance down at his freshly empty glass, lips curved with curiosity.
“You plan on sticking by for another round, Parker?”
A thick beat of heady silence pulses while he lets his nerves drown in the sweet, careless buzz of warm whiskey and wanting. The tension stretches, humming with a shameless electricity dire for direction.
The same perfume from earlier floods his senses, his eyes heavy with something he couldn’t ignore, and it hits him: there was no where else in the world he’d rather be right now. So he tilts his head, leans closer to you bathed in dusty, yellow spotlights that suddenly look like heaven, and dares to feed the spark.
“Do I have a reason to?”
You don’t say a word, just reach between you, grab the sweating glass, and pour a fresh drink in record time, garnish and all. When you slide it back, you lean in to match his stance, bass and breath brushing his cheek until his heart makes a good case for cardiac arrest.
“You say that like it’s a challenge.” The trace of heat in your eyes raises the stakes instantly, not daring to back down.
“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, low and level.
In this moment, he is truly, wickedly, in deep, and he doesn’t want to even think about climbing out of it. He’d happily drown in indulgence if it meant he got to spend another second under the pressure of your full attention.
You huff a laugh, soft and fatal. Then your voice falls low, the danger in it criminal for anyone else to hear.
“I like you loose, Parker.”
Before he can respond, your coworker who’s been swarmed by a rush of drunk, demanding college kids—and no longer willing to cover—calls you over, a gunshot in the spell. So you sigh, fingers brushing his as you slide the drink closer.
And this time, they don’t leave.
“Stay here and think about what you want that reason to be.” Then you slip away to the other side of the bar, leaving him alone with a spark coiling between his ribs.
It was insane— The dizzying, undeniable combination of you and whiskey all rushing to his head. Traces of anything else behind his eyes melts away between the heat of stolen glances at you across the room and the alcohol striking like fire through his veins.
All the responsibilities, all the overthinking—all of his desperation to cling to what was lost—is gone. The only thing he can think about is how he would do anything to make this night last forever— To tie himself to the feeling of falling, to keep his head above water just a little bit longer. To lose the air in his lungs by making you breathless instead of from suffocating in the reality he’s faced every day since the last time he was looked at and known.
But tonight—for one fleeing, thoughtless night—he had an identity. His face was next to his name. His soul, perceived again.
And, God, it felt good.
So he was okay with this being a bandaid on a wound that needed sutures. He was okay with leaning into this dumb, reckless rush. He was okay with caving to echoing impulse and seizing what was right in front of him instead of chasing after ghosts.
And he was damn well tired of being one.
His second drink is noticeably stiffer, but still downed nice and easy without any pretense catching in his throat. His depth perception grows foggy, his nerves loose and looking for something to hang onto.
He doesn’t know how much time passed, but he doesn’t care— Not when his self-control was slipping away with every minute he watched you work. His knee won’t stop bouncing, his mind won’t stop running to you. Restless fingers fiddle with the edge of his empty glass, eventually earning the attention of one of the other bartenders to replenish it.
Every sip swaps his apprehension with a familiar buzz that curls between his ribs and replaces his better judgement. Not a problem— It didn’t want to be found.
By the time the clock nears one, you find your way back over to him, smile all temptation and trouble. The late night crowd filed in: bodies packed, bass slamming through the speakers, drunken drama traded for dancing under flashing strobe lights.
Everything got too loud—too intense—including the bubbling ache knotting at the pit of his stomach for you. The alcohol was making him want to do something dumb— To jump, to lay it all on the line and finally forget the consequences.
Go where he normally wouldn’t have the guts to.
But right now—with the salacious way your eyes glimmer in the spill of midnight, with the way your soft lips curve like you know you have him undone—denying the spark that was tired of threatening to catch was the complete opposite of dumb.
“You stayed,” you hum over the wall of sound, warmth brushing the shell of his ears going hot as you lean in.
He tucks his head closer to your neck, lips ghosting your hair. “I had a good reason to.”
You laugh gently, making his heart hammer senselessly behind the cage of his chest as you pull back a fraction to study him. God, he was in trouble with you.
“Oh, yeah?” you murmur. “And what might that be?”
His cheeks flush, boyish nerves written raw across his face. It was miraculous just how easy it was for you to get him all worked up.
“If I say,” he begins, stare helplessly flicking down to your lips for a beat, “you won’t believe me.”
You hum, narrowing your eyes like you were preparing to sink him. “And why’s that?”
“Whiskey.”
You glance at the almost-empty glass tilted to his lips, brow lifting gently. “Still nursing those?”
“No.” He swallows, setting it down between you with a final, echoing thud. “Waiting for them to be worth it.”
It flashes across your features so quick you’re able to hide it, but not to him. He sees it: throbbing under your skin, lingering in your eyes, slipping across your sly smile that almost falters— Almost.
You look nervous, like you’re slightly taken back with the way he matches your game. Like you weren’t expecting him to flirt back—all harmless and fun—but weren’t opposed to the surprise of it, either. It makes you shift your weight from the whisper of wicked want.
Even if just for a second, it’s there.
And it counts.
You shake it off in an instant, cocking your head like you’re ready to go toe-to-toe with him to see just how far he’s really willing to take this.
The answer on his end was abundantly clear.
“You know,” you murmur, voice low and syrupy-sweet as you reach to take the glass between you. “If you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just said so.”
His heart slams into his chest, hard and ruthless. His breath catches, brain trying to rationalize that your fingers were still touching his on the lukewarm glass— Curious. Tempting. Deliberate. He’s truly no match for you, and the way his eyes go a little wide and his lips part in pure elation tells him you know it, too.
But he tries, anyway.
His lips tilt, trying to hide the way his mind was struggling to reboot under your intensity. “Kinda sounds like you’re putting words in my mouth now.”
“Careful, Parker.” You smile, soft and fatal. “Say the right thing and you might get more than just words.”
His blood’s on fire, his heart awestruck, completely and hopelessly so. You were water in the circuit board of his self control, quickly sparking through him until he shorted.
Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was the loneliness or the abandoned feeling he’s been chasing after for years, but suddenly he doesn’t have a single thought behind his eyes that isn’t getting his hands on you.
So he swallows any innocence sitting his tongue, humming like he knows something that could raise what you put down.
Your eyes flit over him, curious. “What?”
“Nothing.” He lowers his voice, finding your hand splayed on the sticky wood. His eyes hold yours as he slowly uncurls your fingers and places his card in your palm to cover his tab. “I just like how you say my name.”
The tension hums, thick and persistent in the air that suddenly feels electrifying. His heart was a mess, his nerves the same. You were so close— Your heat, your breath, your lips, full just like the blush crawling up to your cheeks.
Your hand, still held in his.
Every doubt folds into impulse, every impulse demands action. Every action loses its command between the adrenaline and alcohol flooding his system. You’re the only thing he feels— The only thing he wants.
The principle checks out of his brain, the sanctions he placed on his hunger dissipate. It’s all you, and only you.
So when you slip toward the back of the bar for the night, clocking out and reaching for the back door, he grabs your wrist— Gently, but with complete and total desperation.
You find his eyes in the sweeping shadows, the dangerous spell of high stakes and low contrast wild beneath your body aching for his.
He’s not prepared to speak, he doesn’t know what he’s willing to do— All he knows is he can’t let you go just yet. Not when his bleeding heart was finally patched by the tourniquet of tender touch. Not when it was still in his hands, hammering pulse tying itself to yours. He needs you. He needs to know you want this too.
So he whispers the only truth he has left, raw and timid.
“I don’t want you to leave yet.”
Your lips curve, eyes molten under his gaze as they catch the dim, dusty blur of a bleeding bar behind you. Then you lean closer and take his hand in yours. Your skin shocks his like a defibrillator bringing him back to life, the promise of dawn in his palm.
“I’m not. I’m making those drinks worth it.”
Before he can process it, he’s stumbling through the backdoor and slamming you against the wall. Limbs tangle, new heat is knelt to, every cell of his body fights for dominance against unshed need sparking in the narrow alleyway of the rear bar exit. Your mouths are hot—hungry and demanding—as they devour every inch of each other. Sounds, skin, spit— All of it.
His palms trace every spill of your skin, frantic to uncover more. He grips tightly, tilting your head back to kiss you deeper. Your tongue curls around his, legs wrapping around his waist, tiny little hands pulling until every messy curl comes undone right along with him.
He groans into your mouth, lips melting into yours, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. His hands are wild: skimming up your sides, looping through the hem of your shirt, palming you through the fabric until your whimpers ring through the echoing brick.
“I don’t usually do this,” he breathes between kisses, trialing his wet mouth down your neck. “I swear I don’t just hook up with people all the time.” His weight presses you into the wall, pinning you to it. “Do you?” He laps at your collarbone, pausing for a second as that thought settles. “Wait— Fuck, sorry,” he pants. “Don’t answer. That sounded wrong. And judgey. I meant—”
“Just shut up and touch me, Parker.”
He obeys like he was made for it, letting you yank him by his hair back to your lips, crashing together.
He follows your lead like he’s possessed, letting you guide his ravenous fingers from their bruising grip on your waist down to the hem of your skirt. They rest on the crest of your bare thigh, inviting him to cross the line he long but killed in his mind.
You smile, slow and sly at the way his breath catches when you return the favor. Fingers he can’t get enough of find the pressing weight at his zipper, stroking him through his pants until he can’t think straight.
He didn’t come here for this. He didn’t plan this.
But, fuck— He doesn’t care.
He wants you badly, and the way you’re looking at him while your fingers dig in deeper—hips mindlessly shifting against his rough, calloused touch like you’re desperate for it—tells him you want this just as much.
And he’d be damned to deny you both of it.
He unravels quickly, turning off his brain and blindly following every sensation that rips through his cells. His teeth graze your swollen lips. Your breath catches on a soft, sinful sigh. His body jolts with heedless need, blood rushing so far south his head spins.
His fingers drift under your skirt, tattered knuckles brushing the smooth fabric as he slides his hand to the lace stretched over your pulsing center. He shudders into your mouth as you fumble with the zipper of his jeans, fingers tracing the soaked spot sitting between your thighs.
His mouth latches onto your neck, sucking your skin like it could distract from the needy way his hips follow every drag of your touch. He’s ready for it—to finally feel your bare skin wrapped around him in more ways than one—when you stop, pulling back a fraction to look him square in the eyes despite your fingers still hovering over the crest of his newly unbuckled jeans.
Your voice is husky, slicked over with wild, messy want that hits him low in his gut. “You’re sure, right? You’re not, like, drunk drunk?”
He shakes his head instantly, still helplessly teasing his touch at your clothed core. “Barely buzzed.”
You snort in the spill of abandoned darkness and the sound etches its way deeper into his heart.
“We both know that’s not true.”
“Probably,” he pants, “but I’m still sure. I want this.”
He pauses, leaning closer until his lips brush yours. His eyes are heavy, mouth daring to capture yours when he adds,
“I want you.”
You waste no time going to his bulge, thick and straining below his belt. Catharsis finds its breath when you finally mold your palm around the long curve of him, hips bucking into your patient pressure, chasing more.
His lips smash into yours, swallowing your breathless, little moans as he circles your folds through your panties. His mind is soaked in sin, teasing pace increasing tenfold on a desperate mission to make you fall apart first.
His head spins, veins buzzing like they're pumped full of jet fuel. Every wired, heightened sense is dialed into you like you’re where life begins again— Each touch slowly bringing him back to the wake of resurrection.
Your mouth is wet on his, finding the waistband of his underwear and diving underneath. The hot and heavy weight of him greets you, held closely in your clumsy fingertips, both limbs screaming with need.
He returns the favor, pushing soaked, clinging lace to the side until he feels your bare, throbbing skin. Both of you indulge in every desperate, collapsing need, fingers working over each other in ruthless tandem.
Nothing else matters—not pounding bass, not the distant noise, not the drinks or bruised feelings he shoved down to get here—just this.
Just you and him.
When he finds just the right spot, he’s rewarded with a gentle tremble in your thighs, fingers blindly swiping in a frantic, building rhythm against your clit swollen from the friction you chase. Your hips rock, completely drunk on the pressure he pleasures you with.
His mind starts to blank, knees threatening to give as you stroke him with the same vigor now, shamelessly smearing the pool of precum while you work him ruthlessly through his pants.
Every thread of tension pulls tighter until neither of you can breathe. A moan breaks in your throat, rhythm on his length faltering, hips grinding into his hand— Needing more without saying it. He listens, hoisting you up in one smooth, quick motion so you’re pressed against the wall on top of his thigh.
You gasp against his mouth at the new position, melting against his firm muscle as he holds you up around your waist with one hand, anchoring you to the wall while your legs wrap around him and your fingers blindly search for his cock again.
Your strokes go slow, twisting at the base and tracing the heavy curve of his underside in a tedious, aching motion. You continue to pump him while he runs his finger through your slick and plunges inside, making you adjust around the sudden stretch.
“Fuck, right there,” you whisper into his mouth while he thrusts inside you, curling up against your soft, spongy walls. “Feels good. You feel good.”
He effortlessly adds a second finger, sloppy and slow as he strokes you from the inside out, knuckles disappearing between your slick-smeared thighs. Your thighs tremble, muscles locking in focus as you teeter on the edge of euphoria. He’s knocking on the same door, body ready to implode with a ravenous release he’s desperate to nail down as you work him harder.
Your fingers coax his throbbing head, twisting around his length until his breath catches and his movements falter, fighting back against the plummet of his own pleasure to get you exactly where you need to be. You cling onto him for dear life as his fingers slam inside of you, filling the dark, dingy hallway with the shameless sounds of sweat and sex.
Your lips fall to his neck, breath fanning over the juncture of his shoulder as your body thrums with a quickly approaching climax you desperately chase.
“I’m close,” you pant against his skin, eyes fluttering shut in focus while you work your relentless rhythm around his cock. “Please tell me you’re close.”
He hums, broken and breathless, completely devoid of forming coherent a sentence when you quicken the pace and circle your thumb quickly around his head.
“Uh huh,” he mumbles, needy and pathetic. “Keep going. Just like that.”
You bite gently at his shoulder, body shaking as his fingers thrust inside you, slick thumb gliding in vigor over your clit in determination despite the burn.
He could feel you going slack at the pleasure building inside your body, moaning with every torturous, messy slide of his fingers. Your words are a mess, spilling helplessly into the sweat building on his skin as his pace falters and his arm burns from the chase.
“Don’t stop,” you plead. “Don’t you dare stop.”
“I got you,” he groans, deep and low in his throat, breath hot and spent. “I got you, baby. Take what you need.”
Your walls shudder around him, hips thrusting into his hand as you follow his command and grind into his palm. Oh, what he wouldn’t do to give you his cock right here right now if deeper was what you needed.
His eyes screw shut, breath hot and strained in your ear as he crumbles from every dirty stroke, begging to unravel him like it’s the only thing you know.
Sinful sounds bounce off the walls— Your moans, his panting. The sloppy slam against your cunt, his twitching cock, wet and muffled in his pants.
Neither of you care. Nothing else matters.
His pace turns dangerous, fingers demanding you to cum with their messy, filthy movements. His thumb sears into your clit, commanding your finish. He can feel it coming. Your muscles lock, stiff with focus, fingers barely surviving the rest of his handjob. Your voice gives out with a weak, winded little sound crawling from low inside your throat, hips slowing.
And just like that, you fall apart around his fingers, walls pulsing, throbbing as they flutter in pleasure at the way he rubs you through it. Your forehead collapses into his neck, breath wrecked and spent despite still being desperate to push him off the same ledge as you.
It doesn’t take much between the broken little sounds you make or the way your soft, slick walls swallow his fingers, soaking down his hand. Part of him wonders if it wasn’t even about his own pleasure, but yours— Or the pride of knowing he was able to get you there.
Regardless, one testing, tedious slide of your finger along his slit before you pump him with tight, desperate demand is all it takes to tear him apart.
His groans into your hair, spilling ropes of thick, hot cum into your hand and his pants. You pump him through it, fingers tightly wrapped along his shaft until you slow your pace when his release stops twitching.
Both of you go completely silent, hands still buried in each other's pants like stupid, horny teenagers. The alleyway hums with released tension finally given the kind of space it demands, thick and sweet with hammering heartbeats and sweaty, reckless sex.
Both your breathing eventually evens out, regulating itself as you take a moment to unwind and slowly untangle, a little dazed at what just happened… Because what the fuck just happened?
His head is swimming with lust and raw, undeniable afterglow. You look euphoric, fucked-out and free of frustration. He slowly sets you down, sliding his fingers out from between your legs while you both situate yourselves.
And it dawns on him, slow and creeping, invading the fleeting ecstasy fading away with the night,
Maybe he has no idea who he is anymore.
By morning, he’s half convinced all of it was a dream.
The scrape of the exposed brick against his burning arms, powering through every move to make you fall apart. The whisper of every word and sound you made for him echoing through his head. The unbridled, deteriorating speed of it all like nothing else mattered.
It crashed just as quickly as it built. One minute you were demanding his half of your project, the next his fingers were buried between your legs in a very public space as he spilled himself into your trembling hand.
Jesus. What the fuck was he thinking?
He regrets it… and yet doesn’t all at the same time. The feeling was foreign— Something he doesn’t really know how to name swimming through his gut as he blearily blinks up at the ceiling bathed in pale morning light.
Maybe if he could lean back into the clean-cut, meticulous, logical part of his brain, he could compute the solution in ways he knows how to. Sort through what he couldn’t shake and settle into a rhythm he could navigate again.
There were some undeniable, irrefutable facts he could file away with this: he was interested in you. He thought you were pretty, thought you were intriguing. He wanted you in the moment—the quick, haphazard connection, the sexual frustration, the costs that came with it—all enough to override the doubt.
None of what happened was just the liquor talking, but it gave him the confidence to let go. It gave him the permission to find what he lost— Something buried under the dusty, desolate semblance of a heart that could still be heard.
Not forgotten.
But the other side to that coin was the fact that he let himself betray every truth he tied himself to. Just a few days ago he was only focused on getting MJ back. That was all that mattered. He was completely opposed to even entertaining the idea of letting loose.
Drinking. Socializing. Hooking up.
He thrived on structure. He had a responsibilities on top of crushing grief and a girlfriend to win back. Finding the guts to let go was completely unparalleled to the neatly sanctioned rules that keep his brain in check.
…So then why did last night feel so good?
Life flickered for a moment, penance suddenly bathed in careful, cautious saturation. He indulged in the chaos. He let his tension melt. He blended in with a crowd instead of avoiding it and talked to someone who wasn’t just a ghost in his head.
Then did a lot more than just talk.
But why couldn’t he stop overthinking the jumbled, tangled mess of it come morning? Waking alone in his cold, rickety bed, only joined by knotted nerves and doubling doubts. Thinking about MJ… and you.
Betraying something that wasn’t there anymore.
He pushes that to the back of his mind as he gets ready for the day. The thin toothpaste trail swirling down his sink was like a trance, stuck staring dizzy and dazed as his mind remains riddled with memories of you.
He sighs, scrubbing his hands over his tired eyes, headache pounding beneath his skull. He didn’t do anything wrong… Right? It’d be different if MJ knew who he was. Or if he never found her. Never tried.
Instead he was busy waiting—holding himself at bay—because he knew eventually, somehow, someway, she would remember and come back to him. She would realize the guy she was with wasn’t worth it, and see she was meant to be with him instead.
Because wasn’t she meant to be with him?
Worse than the self-inflicted guilt, he feels a thread of insecurity threatening to tangle out of control. It spirals deeper, waiting for him to finally accept the harrowing truth—
MJ moved on.
If she could, then maybe he should, too. Which was exactly what he did. Even if it was brief—unplanned, and doomed to end before it could really begin—he still did it. And he liked it more than he thought he would.
He tugs his hoodie closer to his chest against the sharp chill of morning air, popping his headphones in and starting down the street like it could clear his head. It didn’t matter how far he walked, you linger everywhere.
It wasn’t fair for him to drag you into this mess— All just to chase down the dizzy taste of lust that would never fix what was broken in him. Even if it could, the boundary between you was set in stone.
You didn’t owe him anything. This was strictly sex. Just imploding hormones, or erroneous adrenaline. That’s it. And that was all he needed it to be, even if deep down it felt wrong— Even if it silently sliced through his gut until he felt nauseous with the implications.
He had no right to your heart… But he also couldn’t act like it didn’t happen, especially if he still had to work with you— Pass you by on the street and navigate how to associate more than just your name to your face.
So he buys two coffees and follows a street he’s walked a million times like he’s lost. He goes, hoping you could exchange something a little more baseline— Even if he has no idea how you’ll take it.
Both the coffee and the opportunity to start fresh.
Maybe it was unorthodox to smooth things over with a one night stand, but it was one of the only things he felt sure about right now. He was too hung up on the feeling of hearing someone else speak his name and know him.
That was all he needed to try.
The pub looked different in the light. It might as well’ve been abandoned in the soft shimmer of sunlight slowly brushing the atmosphere again, empty, without a soul in sight. The door at the end of the descending stairs was left wide open, letting lulls of cool city air filter through like it could cleanse the lingering echoes of cheap bar crawls and impulsive tequila shots.
His nerves ignite, rising to his throat as he slips down the weathered steps. He inhales, sharp and tight, trying to convince himself this was still a good idea.
You don’t notice a thing. Fresh light paints you perfectly, filtering through thin hopper windows, clinging to the soft edges of your skin. Your hair is pulled out of your eyes, attention lazily locked on a dusty broom’s labored drags across the floor still sticky with sin. Everything was turned off like the whole bar needed time to reset, only the stale overhead spotlights piercing through the room.
Pretense falls away when it’s just you and him in a small space that suddenly feels huge in its silence. He clears his throat softly, internally wincing at the sudden interruption.
Your attention snaps toward the empty, echoing sound, expression blank and unreadable as you process the fact that he’s awkwardly wading in the entryway— A place he certainly didn’t belong at 10 a.m. on a Friday.
He half-expects you to call out the absurdity of it, but instead you cross your arms like it’s nothing, letting lips he could still feel the memory of curve into a smooth, knowing smile.
“One night and suddenly you’re a regular, huh?”
He laughs, thin and nervous in a way he hopes you miss despite knowing you won’t.
“I figured it was my turn to get you a drink now.” He takes a small step over the threshold, holding out the humble offering of standard-order caffeine. “Hopefully you like subpar bodega coffee.”
He glances down to the sweating cups, one with cream and sugar, the other one black, just in case. You let him simmer in the uncertainty—just long enough to remind him how wildly you could make his heart race—then you tilt your head, beckoning him inside.
“I like anything that makes up for the sleep I lost.”
He shuffles inside, careful to avoid the pile of dust bunnies and bottle caps you swept up. He passes over your coffee with a wobbly smile, trying to ignore the way his skin sparks when your fingers brush his again.
“So…” you hum over a sip, swirling the ice around to fill the awkward beat of silence. “I’m kinda surprised you’re alive before noon.”
If he didn’t already know you handle the afternoon regulars for a bit of extra cash on days you don’t have classes, he’d say the same about you. But he does.
It’s the kind of soft, domestic information he tries not to dwell on despite filing it somewhere in a deeper cavity of his heart.
He unzips his backpack and pulls out a copy of the transcript, still warm and slightly curled at the corner.
“I’m a man of my word,” he says, running his thumb over the crease before passing it over. “Sorry it took so long.”
You study him, eyes flicking between his sheepish expression and the packet. Then you take it, shaking your head with a gentle smile.
“Didn’t seem like it yesterday,” he points out, not judgmental— Just honest.
“You know how it gets. I got kinda worried you might be bailing on me or something.” You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. “Plus Thursday was kinda the only time I had to do it because I work the night shift here and… basically the whole weekend.”
“But, thanks.” You pause, glancing up at him with something far too soft lining your eyes— Just a flicker of it. “I appreciate it. And the coffee.”
He smiles, warm and honest. “No problem.”
Silence unsure of itself settles in the hazy morning light, catching the soft curve of your jaw and exposing the subtle pink hiding in your cheeks. Lingering traces of exhaustion poison your expression, smile weighed down just enough that it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
You look pretty despite it.
He’s still standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, unsure of what to do next— What you’ll do next.
“So…” you start, grabbing the broom and glancing his way again. “I’ll see you Tuesday?”
“A-actually,” he sputters, thoughts quickly snapping back into place as he steps an inch closer. “I was kinda thinking, um… Maybe you wanted to hang out and study?” He pauses, face going red. “I-I mean, like, actually study,” he adds quickly. “With me.”
His pulse roars in his ears, fingers uselessly fidgeting at his side for what feels like an eternity. His eyes are nervous as they meet yours, always steady and even.
Always holding something that makes him want more.
You study him, clearly amused at the way he trips over himself in every sense of the word.
“You don’t do this very often, do you?”
He shifts his weight, nerves pressing. “Not exactly.”
“I can tell,” you tease, light and harmless. “Plus you made sure to tell me that last night.”
He groans, dropping his head to the ceiling in agony as he pinches the bridge of his nose like it could erase the very painful memory of his mouth running when it wasn't on yours.
“Can we pretend that didn’t happen? I was drunk.”
You cock your head, not biting. “And nervous.”
“…Maybe.”
“Or barely buzzed— Your words, not mine.”
He sighs, reduced to a ball of embarrassment plagued with the echoes of last night. “Please don’t remind me.”
You laugh softly, the sound kissing over his bruised ego and wounded memories. “We can sign the marriage license later.”
His cheeks go crimson, heat crawling up from under the collar of his shirt. Man you loved making a mess of him, didn’t you? He’d be crazy to admit he kinda loved it, too, but he did.
You scan over the tension in his posture, leaning the broom against the bartop soaked in the sterile scent of clean citrus and chemicals, expression unbothered.
“Relax, Parker. We hooked up. It happens. Life moves on.”
“So what happens next?” He asks it honestly, a little quiet from the traces of genuine uncertainty seeping through the edges of what you both danced around.
Things were clearly different, one way or another.
You gesture to the packet still in hand with that same knowing smile as you comb over the first page. “You tell me why you referred to Al’s children as kids,” you tease. “Your AP style needs work, Parker. They’re not baby goats.”
He chuckles, shoulders loosening a notch. “Writing’s not really my thing.”
“Right,” you say, pulling out a stool and raising a brow at him still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “What is your thing, then?”
He shrugs, mouth tilting as he takes the hint and joins you. “I do better in STEM stuff.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t necessarily make it your thing.”
His brows knit, really thinking about it as he drops his bag to the floor and slouches against the counter.
“I’m into photography, I guess.” He hesitates, insecurity suddenly sinking in. “It’s kinda dumb.”
“It’s not,” you counter, nudging his foot gently. “Can I see?”
His eyes widen, surprised you’re actually interested— Or willing to pretend, at least. When you don’t change the subject, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up a folder with some final edits.
“What’s yours, then? Your thing,” he echoes, watching as you swipe through with a faint smile on your face.
“Writing, actually.” You glance up from the screen, sliding it back his way. “Original, I know.”
“Well, that explains a lot,” he teases, nudging your foot back. It’s only then he realizes you haven’t pulled away.
Your smile tugs. “Should I be offended?”
“N-no, the opposite. Definitely the opposite.” He rakes through his messy curls, giving his nervous fingers a distraction. “I just meant it makes sense why you care so much about our feature when half the class is just trying to survive for the credits, you know?”
Your cheeks tint an innocent shade of pink. “Well, that and the fact that I have to be. I’m a journalism major and I’m interning at the Daily Bugle, so…”
He shifts his weight, trying to hide his visible disdain at the clickbait-machine of a tabloid that has a particularly colorful opinion on him.
“Really? People still read that thing?”
“No, not at all,” you snort, soft and genuine. “But hey, an internship is an internship… Plus they kinda let me do whatever I want, which is cool.”
He smiles, dimples deepening as he watches the way you lean against the bar, traces of the night before roaring through the veins wired to his fluttering heart. Soft, desaturated light pours in from the door, casting your features in the hazy, muted crescendos of spring. You made everything so easy. He loved the easy.
And suddenly, whatever’s left of the semester wasn’t nearly long enough.
“…Safe to say you’ll have a busy summer, then?”
He hopes you don’t hear it— The undercurrent of a low, unidentified ache threaded through the question, cushioned in casual formalities like it didn’t hurt to think you’ll clearly be much too busy to get to know him outside of a drunken hookup and a group project.
But his heart knows things his mind doesn’t, and showing up here today was clearly about more than just smoothing things over and easing his conscience. He didn’t realize he wanted it until it was staring him square in the eye and making him name it. But he does.
He wanted to see what you could look like in his life.
“You can say that.” You pause, stare dropping to your hands like your expression gave away more than you were willing. “They’re always looking for photographers to buy from, actually… You should check it out.”
His pulse flips, nerves buzzing again.
“Yeah? What kinda photographers?”
“Whatever the articles need, really.” You shrug, running a finger along the edge of your cup starting to leave a ring of condensation on the counter. “Maybe you could shoot for me— If I ever make any progress, that is.”
His posture straightens, instantly intrigued. “Y-yeah— Of course. What’s yours on?”
He’d take pictures of anything you wanted, actually.
“Don’t laugh, okay… But I’ve been trying to track down Spider-Man.”
Anything but that.
He nearly chokes on his coffee, eyes going helplessly wide as he tries to suppress a strangled cough.
“Oh my god, you think it’s dumb,” you mumble, shrinking in your seat. “I knew that would make me sound insane.”
“N-no, not at all! It’s not that, it’s just, it’s—”
“Then are you one of those weird conspiracy theorists or a pro Mysterio guy or something?”
“No! Definitely not that.” Quite the opposite, actually. “I-it’s just…” He’s Spider-Man. “That seems like a hard subject to tackle, you know? Tall order.”
“Exactly!” You lean in, face lighting up. “That’s what makes him so interesting. Haven’t you noticed that dude’s been like a ghost lately? Doesn’t that make you wonder why?”
Nope, definitely not. The reality was disappointing.
“Like, what’s he so busy doing?” you continue, passion lining your eyes despite his posture going rigid. “Is he just old and ready to retire? Is he going through something personal?” You sigh, obsessed with the possibilities. “Imagine it: a hero who hurts… That’s the perfect story.”
Leave it to you to make his grief-ridden identity crisis sound cool and mysterious. He wishes he could agree and mean it, but the truth is pretty disappointing. You’d hate the reality maybe more than him— Maybe more than the sour truth settling deep in the pit of his stomach: he couldn’t get involved with this. With you.
He clears his throat, trying to sound unassuming. “You said it yourself, though… The guy’s a ghost.”
You smile like you know something he doesn’t, swirling the thin line of coffee lining the bottom of your cup.
“Do you know what a ghost is?”
He blinks, lost. “What?”
“They’re just souls with unfinished business,” you add, eyes sparkling in a way he’s gotten too used to seeing in the likes of him. “We only have ghosts because they can’t move on—can’t rest—so they linger in between.”
His brows knit, unsure of what you were getting at.
“Point is, all ghosts want to be found eventually.”
Maybe, but not this one. It took some time, but he was perfectly fine with falling off the face of the Earth. It was for the best. The less people who pried into his life, the better. They’d only come up empty.
And so would you once you realize he’s a ghost in more ways than one.
He goes quiet, the thoughts fast and unreadable behind his eyes as he tries to find a casual way out of this… And maybe convince you to follow.
“I don’t know… He’s, like, really hard to get pictures of.” He shrugs, innocuous and empty. “There’s no way they’d buy from me even if I could.”
“Printed media is a dying art,” you level. “They’re so desperate they’ll take just about anyone.”
He smiles tightly. “Gee. Thanks.”
“Which is why you’ll definitely get it because you’re actually good,” you add, nudging his arm. You pause, grabbing a pen and empty piece of receipt paper from the register behind the bar, scribbling something down.
“Just think about it.” You slide the slip with the Bugle’s email address inside his jacket pocket, heat tangling with his. “You never know— Your summer might get a lot more interesting.”
Something tells him you’re right, regardless.
By the time his last class gets out, Ned’s already blown up his phone.
He sighs, pulling it out of his pocket as he assesses the damage, quickly climbing out of his seat and beelining for the exit. 3 missed calls and 17 unanswered texts.
No wonder why Happy never used to answer him.
None of it phased him. The whole time his mind was riddled with you. Your body, your laugh, your voice.
…And now your investigation as well.
Every thought he had lately was a contention point, all opposite of each other. You were like the best kind of quicksand, enticing despite his resistance. He tried to chalk it up to the fact he’s been living like he never existed the last couple of months—that any semblence of human connection was fucking with his head—then the memory of your roots itself deeper, carves lower into his bones until you linger without eviction.
Every class. Every lecture. Every question and equation answered. You were there, making him second guess if this spiraling feeling was something he could contain.
Or wanted to, for that matter.
Then the logic seeps in. What you did in your free time. Who he already belonged to. What happened was strictly sex—reckless release, a casual thing—and both of you agreed on that.
Anyone he got involved with only got hurt. It would be selfish to let himself get close to you, and the last thing he wanted to be was that. Maybe it was best if he never saw you again. He was busy with more than he could handle, and he definitely couldn’t let you get near that. He’s been there before, and every time it somehow ended up worse than the time before.
Liz. Ned. Happy. All collateral damage he had to answer for. Then there were the real losses. Tony. May. MJ.
At least maybe one of those could still be salvageable.
That’s what he had to focus on—getting back to what mattered—not distracting himself with you. Not when his life was an irreparable mess and he still wanted—
MJ clips him as he rounds the corner, completely caught up in himself: feet shuffling, face buried in his phone, mind stuck on a different planet entirely. It sends him reeling, leaving him a speechless, sputtering mess as he helps her pick up her things and rambles through a string of flustered apologies.
“Sorry,” she echoes. She pauses, tilting her head toward the lecture hall he just left, letting out the last few stragglers for the day. “So… How’d you do?”
He blinks, mouth dry with unannounced contrition.
“H-huh?”
“Ket’s exam.” She says it like it’s obvious, probably because it was considering he just took it. “I thought it kinda sucked— Especially on a Friday.”
“Oh, right, yeah,” he rushes with a nod, trying to act normal like she didn’t just knock the wind out of him, more so than literally. “Y-yeah, it did. How, uh… How’d you do?”
“Standardized testing is subjective to the true measure of intellectual truth.” She shrugs. “We’ll see.”
It melts his frozen heart, all while exposing a pulse of something foreign curling at the pit of his stomach. It’s MJ—it’s the MJ he fell in love with—but there’s still an awkward beat of silence like neither of them were sure how to be around each other anymore.
It wasn’t new, it just built up enough to be noticeable now. Every conversation didn’t make things easier. It didn’t remind either of them of their shared past. It only exposed just how quickly things slipped into a void of nothing.
He hated to even think it, but it's still there. It’s still true.
She presses her lips together, giving him a tight wave—polite, but distant—and continues down the hall like she was never there.
His shoulders slump as she slips out of view, fighting the the betrayal crawling up his throat and sitting like a lump of guilt. Why did everything feel so forced? If they were meant to get back together, shouldn’t it come naturally? Like things never changed?
The sharp jolt of his phone buzzing in his hand snaps him out of it. Everything forgotten from last night comes crashing back at full force.
MJ might be different, but now he was, too.
He slides the answer bar with a defeated sigh, already bracing himself for an onslaught as he heads to the coffee shop on the corner of 8th and Astor he already knows Ned will be at.
“Dude,” Ned says as soon as the call connects. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been texting you, like, all morning.”
He shrugs loosely, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder as he cuts between passing cars.
“I had class.”
“Yeah, at noon and three— And you never sleep until noon.”
His lips pinch together, already regretting the words before they find themselves in his brain. “I stopped by the Lion Head before my first class…”
“To go see—”
“Yes,” he hisses under his breath, suspiciously scanning the room through the window like his classmates could somehow sense this was a new version of the walk of shame. “Just keep your voice down, alright?”
Ned might as well’ve inherited his own version of a sixth sense with the way his attention immediately snaps up to Peter opening the door and darting toward their usual back-corner table, head tucked and cheeks flushed.
“What the hell happened after I left?” Ned pushes, hanging up once Peter got close enough, sliding his backpack off the unoccupied seat to make room.
Peter hesitates, shame creeping up the back of his neck. “We just… hung out.”
“Hung out?”
“Yes,” he says weakly, dropping into the chair. “Hung out.”
“And by ‘hung out’ you mean hooked up, right?”
The way he goes helplessly silent with crimson-warmed cheeks might as well’ve just spilled his entire personal life to the whole Coffee Bean. Ned’s eyes blow wide, coughing on a sip of his drink in disbelief as the realization sets in.
“Holy shit, no way!” he gapes, eyes alight with intrigue. “You actually slept with her?”
Peter exhales, strained and tired. “Can we not talk about this now? Please?”
“Peter—”
“I’m serious, Ned.”
“Yeah, so am I!” He closes his laptop, hanging on every imaginary detail like this was life or death. “Are you gonna see her again?”
Peter’s face twists like the question was egregious. “What? No— No way. This was a one time thing.”
Especially after what he learned this morning.
“Why not? Peter, come on— This is your chance.”
“Chance for what?” He bristles despite himself, muscles going rigid with the obvious. “It’s just… not a good idea, okay? It’ll ruin things with MJ.”
Ned blinks. “You can’t be serious.”
“I promised her, Ned!” He pauses, slumping forward like the guilt was taking a physical toll on his body. “Besides, it’s too risky. I can’t get involved with someone else like that again. I just can’t.”
Ned goes quiet, brain running a million miles a minute behind his eyes.
“Did you have a good time last night?”
He shifts in his seat like it’s sinful to admit. “…Yes.”
“And you’re into her, right?”
His mouth tilts like he hated to admit it, but couldn’t stand to lie, either. He does like you—more than he probably should—but he also wasn’t ready to say that.
Then his mind drifts to you, soft swells of spring sunlight sweeping over you, eyes warm and honest, sparkling like you couldn’t help yourself around him. You made everything lighter, made everything in his life suddenly feel meaningful without trying. It didn’t matter if he just met you, or if what you shared was something you brush off and don’t look back at.
You still made him feel like it was more. Or could be.
So, despite his vicious doubt, he nods.
“Then there’s your answer!” Ned levels, eyes grounded and certain. “MJ’s happy, you’re happy— Or having fun, at least. That’s all that matters.”
His jaw works with a truth he couldn’t accept. He knew MJ was happy—and the thought that she was probably better off without him certainly wasn’t a new one—but his mind fought the idea of moving on like it was ingrained in his bones and woven into his DNA.
Like he had a duty to die with the part of him that died to the world.
He shakes his head, loose and evasive. “That doesn't really change things.”
“That changes everything, Peter.”
He exhales sharply, voice low. “It’s just… complicated, okay?” His eyes drop down to his lap like the truth was drowning him. “I’ve had enough problems lately. I really don’t need another.”
He doesn't elaborate, prompting Ned’s brows to lift past his glasses, silently urging him on. He tilts his head like he has to weigh it, wincing in painful surrender, voice low and shameful.
“I think I like her…”
“Peter, how is that possibly a problem?”
“Because…” He pauses, rubbing his temple. “Because it just is, okay? I’m not supposed to. This is supposed to be a one time… two time thing— Nothing more for either of us.”
It didn’t matter how many times he turned it over in his head—how many times in the last 24 hours he’s tried to file away every feeling and redefine it with firm, resolute logic—you hummed between what he knew of himself. You warmed your way into a soul that forgot what it’s like to be spoken to.
You were in his head—your smile, your charm, your body, slick and needy against his—all of it. You were there, exactly where you shouldn’t be, and it didn’t matter in the least.
Nothing could come of this, that much was obvious. Even if he wanted it—just a sliver of it—it couldn’t happen. You established the boundary yourself.
Casual. Thoughtless. Something to help block out the noise, even if the way he chose to muffle it only made it louder. The amplified sound of exile’s rest sang through him when he was with you.
And that scared him.
Then there was the other piece of it. The piece that made his heart stutter and his head hurt. The reminder that the face behind Spider-Man needed to be forgotten for a reason. No excuses.
You’d only end up hurt.
Ned frowns. “Dude, this sounds like the solution. She’s hot. Like, way-out-of-your-league hot.”
He’s right. You were. That much they could agree on.
Like Ned could read between the anxious lines etched on his face, he sighs, expression softening a notch like he knew Peter needed to hear what they both avoided if he wanted a shot at pulling him out of his head.
Something true, more so than he’d like it to be.
“You’re allowed to be happy, Peter.” He pauses, eyes searching. “You don’t have to punish yourself forever.”
Peter goes quiet, letting the words sink into his skull. Was he? After everything—after everything he’s lost, everything he’s become, everything he’s failed to save and ruined while trying—was he really worth the risk of being a taken chance again?
And if he was, who was willing to take it?
It crawls under his skin slowly, the hungry, human crave, whispering with what he wanted more than he realized. Something starved and no longer patient after a taste of indulgence.
Maybe he did deserve to be happy.
Even if the path to get there wasn’t what he planned.
You had no idea how to file Peter Parker in your mind.
There was something there— Something right beneath the surface that didn’t want to be found, yet didn’t know how to stay hidden, either. He was quietly interesting, a paradox dressed in zip-up hoodies and wired headphones. He lingered like a color just a shade off: close enough to blend in, but noticeable if you stared long enough. You didn’t, and yet there he was.
In your class. In your life. In your mind.
It didn’t start out that way— Or not intentionally, at least. It was routine. Controlled. He was nothing more than just another faceless-name you hoped could string together a coherent sentence and carry his weight. The only space he occupied in your head was attached to a few deadlines and an email address that frequented the top of your inbox.
That was it. You didn’t give him a second thought.
Until about a week later.
Rain clung to the edge of tall window panes, dripping down the glass in steady, weighted drops. Stale, droning sounds of your professor blurred into already-answered questions and the soft scratch of your pen pretending to be busy. The clock was a hostage to your eyes, diligently tracking every tick full with the promise of just five more minutes.
And that’s when you heard it.
His name.
Your head snapped up, eyes scanning across the room until they landed on a guy five rows in front of you, lowering his hand and slinking back into his seat.
He didn’t crash into your system, he didn’t completely upend your balance or make you lose focus. He just simmered under your skin, clinging to the edge of your mind until you caught the side of his face slipping out of class.
He was nothing more than just the back of a head, but it would be a lie to say the day you first saw him didn’t trip you up. The moment was nothing—because it wasn’t one—but you still remembered it like it was.
You were barely half-awake, eyes and feet heavy as you moved up the aisle with your head down. Past-due rent was coming in faster than your already pathetic paychecks, and suddenly the offer of extra hours and handling closing at Lion’s Head was worth a little less sleep.
It was embarrassing enough to be late, but pulling open the lecture hall doors to find one empty seat left felt personal— Like the universe tilted a little off-axis just to make sure the memory of him would stick when it really counted.
And it did.
He was all soft stares and scuffed up sneakers, like he’d seen every edge of the city. Soft curls framed his face, stubborn and wind-tossed with a mind of their own. His shoulder stayed steady, ready to catch you like waiting came naturally to him.
Then there was the brief smile once he saw you safely reach your seat— The kind that was softer than most, like he was afraid of it leaving an impression.
He slid into your mind with ease after that.
Your thoughts drifted to him without permission, eyes cataloging the quiet confidence he tried so hard to hide. It lived in the way he carried himself—reserved, but certain—like he didn’t have to be rewarded to persist.
He was always there before you, same seat halfway up the hall. Ankles crossed. Slumped low with his hood half-up, pretending to work while his attention wandered somewhere else entirely. He thrived on routine, on quiet systems that let him disappear into the background. Smart enough to coast, but diligent enough to care.
It only made the day he failed to send the transcript more confusing.
You woke up half asleep, blankly scrolling through your notifications with the expectation of seeing his name at the top of your inbox bright and early.
It wasn’t.
Your brows furrowed slightly, helplessly refreshing the screen like it might pop up. Eventually, you forgot it and moved on with your morning. It was the end of the semester, he was always relatively prompt unlike half the barely-functioning students in your class. He was probably just busy with a million other things. Whatever— You could crunch the first draft of the feature before your shift like you’ve done a million times before.
Then the whole day went by.
The radio silence was unnerving. The assignment was due next Tuesday, sandwiched between an early opening, long shifts, and an exam Monday you’d surely fail—not to mention you had to make some serious headway on your piece for the Bugle—so the decision to ask him about it was an easy one.
You expected a lot of things to happen when you did, but what you didn’t expect was how easily it changed everything.
Your pulse stuttered with something fierce and foreign under his attention. Your heart became cautiously aware of its rhythm like his stare could write a cardiogram. And it didn’t matter what you had reserved him to— Peter Parker stuck.
He lingered, settling somewhere you couldn’t find. He found his way into everything without trying.
That was new.
You weren’t one to get caught up on guys—you’d spent too much time watching them disappoint you to expect anything else—but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find any trace of what you avoided in Peter.
And suddenly seeing how far he was willing to go with you was the only thing that made any sense at all.
Despite being a little unassuming, he wasn’t one to scare easily. He held the kind of strength that made for a sound soul, and the physical traces of it were just an extra added bonus. You could fall breathless from the memory of the way he had you pressed up against that wall alone— Effortlessly holding you like you were nothing while he moved in time with your whimpers.
Maybe it was your own fault, but he wouldn’t stop buzzing under your skin after you opened that door. He was like a string left loose, still finding what to thread itself through. And for the first time, you found yourself disappointed at a one night stand being just that.
One night.
Luckily, he felt the same, lingering in the doorway with more than just coffee in hand. Guilt hummed low in your stomach as he left that morning, leaving you stunned at the way you flipped your own world upside down to fit him in it like you didn’t have a choice. He was supposed to be a one time thing. He was supposed to be nothing.
Why did you suddenly hate the idea of that?
It didn’t matter what you wanted from him— Not when you had to focus on your article. Your lede was buried in more ways than one, and the last thing you needed was a distraction in the form of warm eyes and soft lips.
The Bugle wasn’t going to entertain your petulant fantasies of Spider-Man forever, especially once they figured out your angle was pretty opposite to theirs. You couldn’t coast by with complicated conspiracies, and you certainly weren’t going to secure a job with only the concept of an article to your name.
You needed real journalism. Now, or never.
Even fighting through your mind riddled with memories of Peter, you managed to shift into survival mode. It was your only option if you wanted to get through being pent up with drunk assholes for the rest of your Friday at Lion’s Head… And most of the weekend.
Whispers of the day clung beneath your eyes, heavy and indifferent as you peeled off your tank top soaked through with sweat and the stale bite of basement vodka the second you stepped into your room. The city never stopped moving, always waiting beyond your window no matter how little time you had for it.
Your phone showed a little after 10 as you climbed onto the fire escape, desperate for a minute to recalibrate before collapsing into bed and doing it all over again tomorrow.
And that’s when you found it. A sticky note.
It was missable, like it was meant to flutter against the rusted metal with regular city litter. You almost left it—almost didn’t even notice it, actually—but then you realized in the soft pulse of breeze, it’s tucked. A simple corner curled under the curve of the railing so it stays put. You glance around, quickly examining the empty spill of shadows, and snatch it before it blows away.
I know you’re looking for Spider-Man, it says, written in stiff, block letters. I can show you who he really is.
A chill runs up your spine as you slip inside, locking the window behind you with a final click. Damp, hollow desk light clings to the corners of it tight in your grip, eyes darting between every word like something bigger could hide between.
Whispers of doubt runs through your head as you trace your finger over the bottom, memorizing the vague address scribbled at the bottom.
Then something else curls in your veins, reclaiming your nerves and demanding they cave to the other part of you.
A tip. Your first tip. Maybe even real.
Someone who wanted to nail Spider-Man and was desperate enough to hand you the trail. Someone looking for the right person to blow it wide open. Maybe you— The one who could finally uncover another facet to the face of New York, who could finally shed some light on why he’s gone dark.
Yeah, Peter Parker was gonna have to wait.
The late evening air was unforgiving, sweeping the city in a blanket of hollow breeze. The edge of May bites your cheek while you wait, discreetly tucked on top of a subway station elevator entrance in Midtown East.
You didn’t know the area, but you knew it well enough to know it was littered with low traffic allies. The only life this late came from the wailing sirens floating by, perfect for shaping shadows. No one was around to catch you watching— Or care, for that matter.
That’s one of the things you loved most about New York: people would die for this city all without giving a damn about what went on within it.
It’s been about an hour of you staring blankly at the starless, light-polluted sky. A blanket of black stretched across the skyscrapers and the last trickle of traffic up a handful of blocks. Maybe all of seven people walked by in the time you were there, making you jump at any sign of other warm bodies, scrambling to the edge of the station cover to peek around the corner.
Nothing was ever there.
You checked your phone constantly, groaning in agony at the inevitable reality of the clock only changing by a minute or two. There wasn’t a soul in sight— No sign of someone wanting to meet you. No sign of danger or another life-altering event to plague the city.
But most importantly, no sign of Spider-Man.
You sigh in defeat, watching your breath curl in the midnight chill, ready to pack up your things when it happens: a flash of light in the distance. Just once.
You freeze, shuffling just enough to study the block around the corner. The same block written on the note.
You wait a minute. Then two. And you almost fall off the edge when you catch it just out of the corner of your eye— A quick blur of red and blue swinging from one building to the other.
You bite back a squeal of shock, bursting with excitement as you watch him scan across the streets from a rooftop.
The distance didn’t swallow his intent. His posture was rigid, almost defensive in nature, legs folded in a stance ready for action if it came. His eyes felt obsessive, even behind the mask as he watched for something, same as you.
You tried to calm down, tried to regulate your nervous system, but God, how could you? It was Spider-Man. Actually Spider-Man— Here, in front of you, just like you were told he would be.
Your heart hammers ruthlessly behind your chest, a ball of conflicted feelings bubbling up inside your body. You’re completely enamored, blindly fishing a pair of flee market binoculars out of your bag and scooting to the furthest edge of the structure to see him better.
This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. You were in complete and total shock—
So much so you forgot about the mysterious, unnatural flash of light that brought him here in the first place.
A violent, bone-shattering noise rocks the concrete beneath you, making you drop the binoculars to scramble for purchase against the dingey, faded metal. Your breath catches in your lungs, tight and sharp as you quickly slide away from the edge, still equally as desperate to search for whatever Spider-Man was surely watching too.
Anxiety floods your veins as you crouch down, blindly fumbling for your phone as a shadow melts into the corner. He flickers in your mind for a moment, thoughts wandering to the kind of pictures he’d take if he were here— How he’d probably protect you at the first sign of danger.
You shake it free, adjusting your phone’s lens. Focus.
Everything around you quickly spirals into frantic static. There’s yelling in the distance between mercenaries and the masked hero, whirls of strange technology and the shattering sound of explosions imploding. Bodies collide, the sharp sting of punches and whipping webs striking through the air.
You couldn’t see much from this distance, but zooming in only further compromised the blurry altercation, so you push your luck and slide closer to the edge. The focus racks, your fingers slipping across the screen in a rush to combat the ashy static on your screen.
One second he’s there, the next, he vanishes.
Then he gets closer.
Spider-Man is suddenly hurling straight toward you, swinging down at full speed, increasingly filling your frame. He’s right there, he’s right in front of you. He’s—
A violent burst of heat engulfs the block, light blasting, concrete bones shaking so intensely they might as well shatter. The building across from you erupts, crumbling back to the dust it was built from.
And suddenly you’re falling.
The structure holding you up explodes, slicing through the city in shards of flying glass, shattering from beneath you. Heat curls around your body, fear striking through your spine as you plummet to the ground.
Your stomach drops. Everything slips away from under you in the blink of an eye like it never existed. Fear crawls to the top of your throat, tight and helpless like the frantic pulse hammering in your ears until you’re in someone’s arms right before hitting the pavement.
Before you could process that you’re falling, your feet brush solid ground again, watching in shock as a vehicle flies by you, blasting everything in sight. Flames catch the shell of broken buildings, eroded and barely standing. Sirens scream around you, painting the crisp edges of skyscrapers in flashes of red and blue, surely chasing what left you behind as collateral damage.
You’re frozen, clinging to a solid frame that tries to stop the van screeching around the corner by webbing loose scaffolding down in its path. Everything spins as you desperately try to ground yourself in the middle of imploding, adrenaline-hungry chaos.
Dust and debris clings to your matted hair, caught in wind that refuses to settle like your nerves. Slowly, you turn in his grasp, measuring the humming aftermath still catching its breath along with you. Then it hits you, slow and crawling, but all consuming. All at once.
Spider-Man. You’re standing in front of Spider-Man. Real and warm beneath your trembling touch.
He’s shorter than you expected, hovering beside you like he hasn’t figured out how to step away yet. His suit has character up close—less high-tech, Stark-type build, and more homemade—like only he knows exactly what makes it move. It’s tattered, covered in flimsy stitches trying to hold more than just fabric together. The eyepieces fluctuate like he’s quietly assessing you, ensuring you’re still standing in one piece.
It stops your breathing, sweeping you off your feet even after he put you back on them. You should be talking to him, questioning him—saying literally anything that might help your story—but you’re frozen, completely speechless as you blink up at him in the curl of smoke.
“You alright, Miss?”
Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Embarrassment floods you, making your mouth snap shut as you feebly nod. He matches your movement, nodding once like he could move on now that he had the confirmation.
“Good. You stay safe out here.” And he swings away before you could say a word.
You blink, stunned and starstruck. Your phone is buried under rubble, cracked and covered in dust, barely holding on for dear life. Blurred photos of nothing litter your camera roll, fingers shaking, mind in overdrive as you run through every unthinkable piece of what just happened— And the fact that you failed to come away with anything useful.
Except, maybe in a way, you did.
Now you know that tip was real, and maybe they’ll come and find you again. Your heart hammers, nerves fierce with lingering traces of adrenaline. Only one thing comes to the forefront of your mind. One person.
You had to tell Peter.
He’s halfway through his window when his phone rings, buzzing with what had to be your newly added number.
He fumbles for the answer bar, snapping the window shut and tugging off his mask, fighting to keep his voice casual as he says your name and quick hello.
“Oh, so you do know the girl.”
He freezes, veins going cold under his skin. “Detective Dewolff.” He swallows, rough and thick, trying to calm his racing mind before it runs away on him and dives head first into the deep end. “I-I’m sorry… who?”
“Seems you already know,” she says evenly. “You don’t have to worry, she didn’t show.”
His mouth goes dry, lungs tightening. “Show where…?”
“Doesn’t matter. The important thing is you’re not being followed like I thought. In other news, how did tonight go? Please tell me you made some progress.”
His phone buzzes against his ear while she talks, your name dropping down from the top of his screen.
You
i got a tip. can u come by my place?
His heart stops, clues snapping into place quicker than he could handle. You. A tip. From the high-profile detective he was working with as Spider-Man… Who apparently knew you were looking for him and sent you straight to the first sign of danger just to prove it. Fuck.
“Wait, wait— You sent her that tip?”
“Did your hearing get damaged in the fight? I just said she didn’t show.”
Anger bubbles up in his throat, ruthless and fast as his defenses click into place. It takes everything in him to bite his tongue and keep what he knows to himself. The fact that there was someone else out there who knew who you were—knew you were looking for him and exactly where to send you—swims with twisting, unshed panic in his stomach.
Silence crackles on the other end, thick and empty while the detective waits for his response. He has nothing to give that wouldn’t cause more problems, so he says,
“I can’t do this right now.”
“Wait, we need to—”
“Sorry. We’ll talk soon.” And he hangs up the phone before she can get another word in. What matters most right now is getting to you.
The faded brick and cool concrete on the edge of the East Village slips away in blurs behind him as he finds the address you sent. Nothing else matters—not the fight and the failure that came with it, not what got away or came after—none of it. The only thing on his mind as he smoothes over his hair and brushes lingering soot off his fingertips is knowing you’re okay.
Sure, he caught you before you fell. The danger skirted by you like it was never there. He saw you in one piece—held you that way, too—but something bordering on the perfidious edge of panic slices its way through the pit of his stomach until he feels sick with the possibilities.
He didn’t really want to think about what it meant.
Or why he felt so strongly about it.
It was nothing, right? It was his job to keep people safe. This was no different, nothing special… But why does that feel like a lie when he knocks on your door, nerves crawling up his throat, eyes, anxious to see your face instead of drab, chipping paint.
The lock unlatches with a groan, swinging open to reveal him straightening his shoulders and tugging his sleeve down to cover a gash on his forearm he forgot about. You greet him the same way you have ever since he met you— Efficient. Controlled. A whirlwind that makes him reassess how he fits into a world you share.
Warm kitchen light spills through the apartment behind you, bathed in milky white tiles and little signs of life. Your face is freshly washed, shadows hugging the gentle curves of your skin. Delicate, sweeping blush settles at the tops of your cheeks softly carved from midnight. Traces of the city cling to you in smears of dust on your clothes, chaos still knotted through your hair, but your eyes are alight with something unbridled.
You tug him inside and lock the door behind him, wasting no time dragging him down the dim hallway to your room, steps sharp and purposeful. Everything slips away, eyes stuck on the way your soft hand is wrapped around his again.
He hovers awkwardly in the threshold while you slip into quick, calculated motions: closing the door, locking your windows, flinging your curtains shut. Despite the evidence of your paranoia, excitement floods your expression, buzzing and palpable like the adrenaline hasn’t settled yet.
Luckily, you’re distracted enough to miss the way he quickly scans over you for anything out of place.
“No one followed you, right?” You glance over your shoulder, raising a brow at him like the question was a test created for him to fail. “You were careful?”
He clears his throat and weakly gestures to the dark grey sweatshirt swallowing his frame, hood still half-up in his thoughtless pace. “I was inconspicuous.”
If only you knew the half of his experience with that.
You nod, disappearing into the tiny ensuite bathroom, leaving him alone in your space. It was intimate, soft and spilling at the seams with you. Your heartbeat was threaded through every blanket, your past pressed between the pages of every book on your shelf. Your soul sang through every inch, clean and concise, but free.
Undeniably you.
His hands wring, timidly stepping further inside like he was crossing a boundary bigger than an invitation.
The faint drone of running water melts into the gentle hum of midnight just beyond the windows. Delicate little string lights illuminate the room, draped over your bed that’s a bundle of thick, plush pillows and smooth sheets. A sweater he’s seen you wear to class a million times hangs on the post of your bed next to a tiny candle on your nightstand, stained with scorched wax from being burned too low for too long. The scent of it is unmistakable, subtle and tender just like the perfume that always clings to the warmth of your skin.
Everything about your space was comfortable, easily likeable at first glance— Much like you.
He’s caught up in it, completely immune to you leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, mouth curved and eyes locked on him.
“Are you gonna take a look, or what?”
He freezes like he’s done something wrong, eyes wide with slight alarm. “W-what?”
“The tip,” you explain like it’s obvious, tipping your chin to your desk, neat and well-organized. “You don’t need an invitation, you know.”
The knot of anxiety in his throat loosens, chuckling as he scratches the nape of his neck. “Right. Sorry.”
You shake your head softly, laughing under your breath at his innocent apprehension as you cross the room. A damp towel scrunches through your hair, holding up a tattered, electric-orange sticky note like it was a prize rather than a warning sign shooting through his soul.
“Check it out, Parker.”
He shrugs his hood down, slowly dropping to the edge of your bed as he takes the note and studies it. The letters were sharp like a threat in disguise, draining the blood from his face until he feels faint. A lump crawls to his throat, crushing his lungs as he runs his finger over the folded edge, searching.
“Well?” you urge, peeing down at him while you work through your dusty, matted hair. “It’s cool, right?”
He clears his throat, trying to settle his nerves. “You sure it’s real?” Oh, it was real alright.
You grin like you won the lottery instead of a death sentence. “Totally real. He was right in front of me.”
He exhales, carefully putting it down like it was a ticking time bomb. “Wait, you actually went?”
Yeah, and almost plummeted your way to a couple of stitches and a concussion in the process.
“Why wouldn’t I? If I manage to track him down, that’ll, like, guarantee me a job after we graduate.”
Everything slips away as he stares past your elbow at the note, taunting him from your desk. The words were menacing, sinking their teeth into every rational part of his brain trying to sort this.
Was it a bluff? Were you a pawn, just someone to get in the way? Or was it a serious offer from a person who figured out his identity and wanted to destroy him with it again?
But the biggest question was how do they know you.
There were hundreds of reporters always looking for him—desperate to find the edge of his mask, hungry to poison his reputation for attention—but why you? Why an entry level intern— A college student who slings drinks to pay rent?
Someone he cares about more than he should.
He didn’t want to be involved—he wanted to stay far away from you and your work for more reasons than one—but he keeps getting pulled back in.
“So, what happened, then?” he asks, playing into the part of being invisible he hates the most. “He was just swinging around or something?”
“No, there was, like, a full fight,” you gush, dropping the towel on your desk and peeling off your dirty sweatshirt. “Looked like some high-tech stuff that’s always being trafficked. He was chasing a group of guys with these crazy weapons, but I couldn’t get a good look.”
“I don’t know… That sounds intense.” He hesitates, dropping his stare down to his fingers running along the seam of your comforter. “There’s, like, a million things you could write about.”
You blink, brows pulling together. “We literally have the best subject right here in the city.”
He shrugs, weak and unconvincing. “So?”
“You’re telling me you’re not even the least bit curious?”
“He just… stops bad guys.” His voice is laced with evidence of his internal contradiction. “People do that all the time.”
“Yeah, but, like, insane felons.” You toss your sweatshirt into the hamper, thinking. “That vulture guy who was stealing stuff, the Doctor Strange wannabe, the freaking giant lizard thing… I mean, how am I supposed to resist that?”
In any other situation, he’d be obsessed with your passion, hanging on every word like he couldn’t get enough, but with this, his stomach drops. There was no way you were letting this go.
He swallows his pride, nodding slowly. “I get it, I do. I’m just…” He loses the words, fighting what he was too afraid to admit. “I-I just think you should rethink this.”
Your answer is immediate. “No. No way.”
“You said it yourself— These guys are crazy dangerous, same with whoever sent you that.”
You grab your brush on the nightstand, starting to work through the tangles, scanning over him steadily. “Or it’s someone who has a lead they wanna share.”
“Or it’s someone looking to hurt you.”
“Why would anyone want to hurt me? I don’t know Spider-Man, and clearly the person who sent the tip knows that.”
“It’s just a big risk, okay?” He sighs, strained and weighted. “You really shouldn’t go back.”
Your eyes sparkle with a challenge, leaning against your desk and slowing your methodical strokes through your hair. “And what if I don’t listen? Are you gonna stop me?”
Warmth crawls to his cheeks despite himself, glancing out the window for refuge. “C’mon, that’s not fair.”
You tilt your head, eyes flicking down his frame. “Live a little, Parker.”
“Are you always this bossy?” he counters, shifting his weight on your mattress like he could handle your gaze.
“You didn’t seem to mind being told what to do the other night,” you hum, lips curving like a tease. His heart hammers, cheeks on fire under your attention.
“Come on,” you add, putting the brush down. “Just think about it.”
He looks away again, hands raking through his hair, ready to fold, when he catches it.
Your arms crossed over your chest reveal a thin slit of your midriff, soft and swallowed by shadows. It’s faint, barely there, but the thin fabric of your tank top rides up just enough that it’s eyeline with him. Something he wasn’t supposed to see, but does.
The blooming edge of a reddened bruise.
“Woah, woah, hold on,” he says softly, shifting closer as his eyes search yours. “Did you get hurt?”
You follow his stare down to your side, shifting your weight as you try to tug the hem down to cover it.
“It’s nothing,” you dismiss easily. “I’m fine.”
Something wanders across your face despite your words, bearing what you didn’t want him to see. The stress was creeping up on you, thinning adrenaline exposing the dim whisper of exhaustion clinging to your features. Your lips were a little chapped, pressed into a thin line like you could keep your frayed composure buttoned up with them. Hesitant eyes search his, glossy with the reflection of city lights beyond the world you tried to trap yourself in.
And suddenly nothing else mattered.
Slowly, his fingers find the hem ghosting the dip of your waist—tentative, testing—touch barely brushing your skin, warm and familiar under his. You flinch, watching his hand like you weren’t sure if you should let him in like this, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you let him peel it up to reveal an unattended cut.
It was a little swollen, puffy with bitter blooms of purple and red swallowing your bare skin. The gash was still open, starting to crust over with dried, browning blood. It wasn’t the worst, but it certainly wasn’t just a light scratch either.
His throat tightens in its wake, sharp through his soul.
He glances up at you, struck with silence as his finger runs just underneath it, gentle and questioning. He doesn’t know what changed—doesn’t know what passed between when he first felt your skin against his and now—but it was like he never touched you before.
And suddenly the contact felt like it was making you both cross a line together for the first time.
His lungs tighten around the realization, silence between you stretching like the moment lived on an edge it didn’t know which side to take. The splintered world hums around you, still buzzing with blurs of city sounds and faded lights in the hush of midnight.
A different darkness than the night before.
His eyes hold the offer: to turn back, to brush it off, and return to the boxes you drew around yourselves like it could make whatever wanted to burn between you safer.
Because even if this was nothing, it never felt like it.
Not with you.
He whispers your name, soft like the sound was breaking something set in stone. “You’re hurt,” he says carefully.
“It’s okay.” Your eyes flick between his, trying to sense where your denial landed on him. “I’m okay, really.”
Slowly, he rises, body eclipsing yours. “You’re not the only one who gets to tell people what to do, y’know.”
It runs behind your eyes, fast and unreachable— A flicker of something raw you weren’t ready to face.
An edge that softens without knowing why.
Then you cave, sighing as you feebly point to the bathroom behind you. “Top drawer on the left.”
He watches you a beat too long like you might slip away in a moment too delicate for its own good, then nods.
When he comes back, you’re tucked on top of your comforter, legs crossed and bare. Vulnerability clings to you in ways that make his heart rattle. Damp hair brushes your shoulders, fingers tangled around each other in wait. Your eyes are trained on the window, trying to hide what lines them.
Everything slows, narrowing like time has no place between what was and what could be. Stillness threads through every fiber of panic, leaving him frozen in the crest of your doorway like he’s finally seeing you for the first time.
He buries it, nerves simmering despite the jumping pulse beneath his ribs, and he ties himself to what he knows. He moves efficiently through your first aid kit, taking what he needs and setting it aside, but then he pauses like sitting next to you was closer than anything you’ve already shared.
Maybe in the spill of sudden stillness—in the limerence that whispers through his soul, demanding to be reassessed—it was.
He distracts himself, stare locked on his meticulous motions through your supplies as he lowers himself to the spot beside you, mattress dipping under his weight.
When he looks up, you’re already watching him, eyes intentional and honest. It makes his mind stumble, tension tight in his spine. You don’t say a word, just shift closer until your heart brushes his.
Slowly, your fingers slip to the hem of your shirt, cautiously lifting it so the whole cut was visible to him.
Everything goes static—his brain, your history, the lines you set after wrecking them long before they were needed—and suddenly nothing else exists to him besides skin he can finally heal instead of hurt.
So he leans in, eyes flicking up to yours with the offering of another out, breath caught low in his lungs when you don’t take it.
His hands fiddle with the bottle of peroxide, soaking a cotton pad until it drips on his jeans.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, softer than intended. “This might be a little cold.”
You don’t answer, just watch carefully as he presses the cotton pad to your side and slowly soaks the cut clean.
He couldn’t figure it out— Why even the most innocent of touches felt so charged with weight it couldn’t bear. You rendered him speechless, completely at a loss at the way you somehow managed to make his heart a mess without the help of whiskey.
The way you made it worse.
But this time—unlike the consequences he lies awake sorting through, unlike the indulgence he feels no right to, defenseless and blindly devoted—he doesn’t fight it.
He can’t. Not when your exhale thins with a hiss at the antiseptic bubbling through the lingering dirt and debris— The same breathless sound you made when he touched you where your skin bled into shadows.
Not when your eyes fluttered shut at the subtle sting coursing through the cut— The same way they closed when he kissed your neck and whispered into your hair.
Not when you watched him patiently— The same way you looked at him when he showed up with more than coffee in hand, ready to reset the line you both moved.
Something quietly warm in the curve, finally accepting that he was meant to exist in this moment with you.
“You’re good at this,” you say after a moment, voice seeping into the silence. “Taking care of people.”
His heart flips with innocence, careless curls hanging in his eyes that stay glued to your cut finally fresh beneath his touch. The words land somewhere open and aching he didn’t know they could settle in.
He doesn’t respond—he doesn’t know how to—not when the passing time sharpens the lines of your face, tired and bare in late night glow. It clings to you, exposing what burned-through adrenaline could no longer hide once you put your heart in his hands.
The silence settles, thick with something neither of you knew how to face. The raw contempt of reckoning lingers in your expression locked on him, holding back.
“You know,” he says, low and careful. “I already told you I can keep a secret.”
Your brows knit softly, watching as he tosses the stained cloth and searches to find your Bacetracin. He catches your eyes, leaning a fraction closer to apply it.
“You’re allowed to be scared,” he whispers.
It’s free of judgement, completely unassuming. Just the opportunity to exist with what was. To listen.
To allow.
You don’t say a word, but you don’t deny it, either. It’s there—raw and throbbing under your skin, no longer able to hide in the delicate intensity of manhattan midnight—a mask shifted just enough to remind itself of the human part hidden underneath.
After a moment, you lean into his touch— Not enough to notice, just enough to count. Your lungs loosen around a breath, ribs retracting softly under his gentle pressure.
“It just happened so fast,” you confess, voice even like it’s all you know. “One minute I was staring straight at my cover photo of him, the next, I’m falling 15 feet.”
You pause, watching the way he runs his thumb over a fresh bandage, patiently waiting for you to give him what’s been on the tip of your tongue the whole night.
“That’s why I can’t let this go.” You peel the corner for him and place it back in his palm. “So many people act like he’s the problem— Or part of it, at least.”
You sigh, the warmth of a bare soul brushing the edge of his cheek tilted near your lips, body leaning in to press the dressing to your skin.
“He didn’t hesitate,” you whisper. “Even if it meant losing the fight, he didn’t hesitate to catch me.”
The words land into the palm of his wild pulse, waiting to be taken. It crawls from deep inside him, patient and persistent, wrapped around a heart that suddenly forgot it’s purpose wasn’t just to beat for you.
Something he hasn’t felt in years— A sacred truth reserved for those few and far between.
He’d drop anything to catch you. Always.
And worse than that, he’s not scared of the way the realization etches itself into his bones. Not at all. It feels tragically fated, meant for only him to find.
He says the only thing he can think of, eyes steady as he peers up at you in the hush of spring’s final breath.
“Because it’s not a sacrifice to save you.”
Your inhale catches as he smoothes the bandage over your ribs, touch soft and timid like it’s afraid of awakening something finally tired of lying dormant. He can feel your mind moving, familiar rhythm ticking behind your eyes as you study him like it would help both of you make sense of this fragile, foreign thing taking root without permission.
“Still… There’s more to him. I just know it.” You pause, searching his eyes. “I need to see this through.”
It hits him somewhere raw — The honesty in your voice when it comes to the other side of him, lonely and forgotten.
The way you somehow already saw him better than most despite that part of him being stranger to you. The way passion bleeds through every word, your soul on fire with every glance, the spark reaching for him and warming what’s been dead and cold for so long.
The way you see him without seeing him at all.
It didn’t matter if you did or not. He couldn’t let you do this alone. There were risks, there always were, but the reward felt worth it if he got to land in the safety of your eyes.
His fingers still against the soft splay of your skin, lingering along the bandage longer than he should. His eyes find yours, suddenly steady like his voice.
“I guess I’ve got summer plans now.”
continue reading here where part two is posted .ᐟ — i hit block limit (boooo) so this seemed like a good place to stop. i really wanted to avoid posting two separate parts but, alas, i never shut up. i hope you enjoyed this in the meantime ! part two is almost done, so let me know if you’d be interested in that <3 thanks for stopping by xx
edit: omg the love on this already ?? it’s been up for 9 hours and already has 500 likes what ?? my notifs are literally broken lmao. just had to say a quick thank you to who read and made it down here 🤍
synopsis. it's been three years since dr. strange cast the spell—three years peter has spent thinking about you. his final promise to you was to keep you safe. let you go. but peter has never been good at making promises. (6.9k)
contents. canon divergent. light angst. fluff. eventual smut. mentions of drinking and drugs. mentions of a toxic relationship. not proofread.
next part. series masterlist.
note ⋆.𐙚 ̊ . . . hi guys :p this will be a 3 part mini-series. i initially intended this to be a one-shot but i got really inspired and decided to turn this into a longer fic. the content tags are subject to change for future parts. also, there is a character in this that i included that has not been introduced in the mcu :3
The music from inside the party vibrates low in Peter's bones. He's been standing here in front of the door for about ten minutes now, running up and down the porch steps, alternating between hyping himself up and psyching himself out when he's gathered just enough courage to push open the door.
It's silly. Pathetic. He ought to just go in. Twist the door knob and cross the threshold like a normal, functioning member of young adult society would—but Peter is anything but normal. He's clumsy, and awkward, and an over thinker, and prattles on and on about topics that most people don't have the attention span for, but most of all, he's totally… not over you.
A normal person would try to move on with their life. They'd throw themselves into their work, find new hobbies, meet new people—you know, all the things they tell you to do to get over someone. In theory, these are all fine ideas, but in practice? Easier said than done. Peter has failed miserably by all accounts.
The thing is, he hasn't quite learned how to compartmentalize memories away. (And he doesn't think he really wants to. Not when those memories are the only proof that he ever mattered to someone—to you.) Every waking moment since Dr. Strange cast the spell has been a living hell. When he's in between states of consciousness, his lips tremble with the ghost of your name. When he's walking through a crowd, he hears your laugh distantly in the wind. When he lays down at night, your face is the one that visits him in his dreams. When he opens his eyes, you're the first thing on his mind.
He's been chasing a ghost for three years. Seeing you, and hearing you, and looking for you in other people, and all that chasing has led him right here. To this party. He'd initially told himself—promised, actually—that he'd let you go because it was the only way to guarantee your safety. That you deserved to live a normal life. A life without all the worry, and the uncertainty, and the pain that came along with knowing someone like Peter Parker. A final act of love. Of selflessness.
But for all of his good qualities, Peter is a liar. He'd like to think himself selfless, but the truth of it, the raw, nasty truth of it all, is that he is a selfish person—and it scares him. The pretending to move on from you started out fine, at first. He'd tell himself it was right. That leaving you alone was the best decision for you. And for him. But then the want, the ache that resides deep in his marrow, started becoming louder than the voice telling him that his decision was right, clawing and scratching its way up to his throat until he acquiesced to the new voice encouraging him to seek you out.
After years of lightly keeping track on you (well, "lightly" was putting it rather generous. Everything he knew was easily google-able—really, you should start taking internet safety seriously), he knew from browsing through your Instagram (also, easily findable) where you worked, your course schedule, and where you liked to party. Which is how he found out that there was a house party happening tonight, and that you were definitely going to be in attendance.
You'd posted a story of you tipsy, with your arms slung around your college friends, smile easy and eyes half-lidded in a way Peter has never had the luxury of witnessing intimately like the people in the picture probably do. But he's seen the outside of the frat house on more than one occasion because of your story posts, enough to have memorized it and the surrounding structures. (Enough to have found it while patrolling the city on his rather slow nights.)
When he saw the story, his initial reaction was to ignore it. At first glance it just looked like another frat party. Same location, same group of friends. Except, there was one thing, one person, in the picture that didn't quite belong…
There was a guy slung around your arms, an unfamiliar face that Peter had never seen before. His face was turned from the camera, eyes fixed on you, soft and heavy with fascination in the way people's eyes usually looked whenever you walked into a room. (Peter knows the look because he remembers looking at you like that. He practically invented the look.)
Upon further inspection, though, the guy didn't just have an arm slung over your shoulder, but he had an arm wrapped around your waist like it belonged there, with his fingers splayed across your stomach in an almost proprietorial grip, and the other hand holding up a red solo cup like some douche bag.
To anyone else, it'd look like two friends having fun and taking a picture for the camera, but Peter knew what it looked like when a guy was into a girl. And this guy was conventionally attractive, he could admit that—he wasn't blind. The next story after that was even worse. And it was a video. You were playing beer pong with the same guy who, in the video, was stood at your side hyping you up as you focused on lining up your shot. The camera panned to the other side, and then your ball went into one of the opposing team's cups. The crowd watching burst into cheers, and then you turned to your teammate and he pulled you into a celebratory hug, hoisting you off the ground.
That was the final straw before he decided to abandon his nightly patrol. There wasn't much going on tonight anyway, aside from the usual: jaywalking, petty civilian arguments, robberies from the halal street carts—so he didn't feel too guilty.
He swung all the way home to his cramped little apartment in Queens, deliberating the whole way whether or not this was crazy, or if it was selfish, and then convinced himself somewhere in between 65th ave and 63rd ave that it was necessary. After a quick change (like a really quick change—he has all of five outfits, four of which were in the hamper), he swung all the way back to downtown Manhattan.
As soon as he got to the frat house, he regretted it almost instantaneously. What was he going to do, really? Introduce himself to you? Tell you that he's not a creep but actually your ex-boyfriend who you can't remember because Dr. Strange cast a spell that erased not only your memories of him, but his entire existence in the whole world? Oh, yeah, and in revealing all of that, that he's Spider-Man?
He didn't exactly plan that far ahead, and the more his mind ruminated, the more he realized there's no possible scenario in which this ends well. Even if he did get the chance to talk to you tonight, he'd slip up. Say too much. End up ruining everything he's worked tirelessly to protect for three years. Just as he's about to retreat from the porch, a voice emerges from behind him.
"Hey, you alright? Been watching you pace back and forth for about five minutes now."
His heart drops into the pit of his stomach. He closes his eyes, and a shaky breath escapes his lips. All the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on edge, and not because he's sensing a threat, but because the voice is so familiar, so warm, that his body is reacting to it involuntarily. Similar to how the sea reaches for the sand, his body has developed a second instinctual response, and it knows when you are near. Because it was made for you.
Quickly, he inhales a deep breath through his nose to brace himself, and then hesitantly, turns on his heels to face you. When his eyes meet yours, it feels like a punch to the gut that expels all the air from his lungs. You're leaning against one of the porch columns, wearing a curious expression, and there's a joint pinched between your fingers that you bring up to your lips. Smoothly. Practiced. Peter has never seen you smoke before. Unconsciously, his brows furrow in response, and he wants to ask when you took that up, but he catches himself before the words get the chance to leave his mouth and he clears his throat awkwardly. Looks away.
"I, uh," he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, "sorry. I just—I don't really know what I'm doing here." His words come out more high-pitched than intended, and he shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before shifting his gaze to the side.
You look at him curiously, taking another hit of the joint, and then blow the smoke from the side of your mouth. The light on the porch is dim, illuminating only a few feet in front of him and casting shadows that dance across the planes of your face—but you look devastatingly beautiful, he thinks. It makes his chest throb terribly, and he has to make a conscious effort to not make eye contact because he's spent so long not being able to look at you, that he fears his body will betray him if he indulges. So he busies himself with the loose thread on his shirt instead, twirling it around his fingers nervously.
"Yeah, me neither," you sigh wistfully, looking off to the side. Your lips do that twitchy thing they do when you're holding back something, but before Peter has a chance to register it, you're already turning back to him with that easy, cool smile. Whatever is, or was on your mind, dies before you can give them voice. "Which is why I'm out here. Needed some air." You lift the joint (well, a roach now), waving it around in your hand.
Peter gives you a light chuckle. "What, is the party too boring? Should I go?" He jokes, pointing in the direction of the steps. You offer him an amused grin, and then move from leaning against the column to the railing, taking a seat.
"Nah, the brothers actually throw pretty good parties. Just gets repetitive after awhile, you know? Beer pongs, keg stands, body shots, people dry humping on the couch—you know, all the stupid shit intoxicated college kids usually get up to at these kinds of parties."
Peter nods his head slowly, pretends like he knows exactly the kinds of things college kids get up to, as if his community college experience has even been remotely similar to yours. "No. Yeah. Exactly," he blurts, unconvincingly.
Narrowing your eyes, you say, "You don't sound too sure," then, "Can I ask you something?"
Peter nods reluctantly. "Y-yeah." There's a look on your face and a firmness to your voice that Peter can't quite discern. A mix between suspicion and intrigue. He shifts anxiously on his heels, waiting expectantly for whatever it is you're going to ask.
"You don't… know the brothers, do you? A lot of faces come through here, but I've never seen you before." Your question leans less on accusation, and more on sheer curiosity. You tilt your head, waiting for a response, and then lean down to the ground to put out the roach.
Choosing his words carefully, he quickly thinks of something to say. Something passable, and harmless, that you (hopefully, fingers crossed) wouldn't read too much into. "No, I don't know the brothers," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, "a buddy of mine invited me along, said I could just show up. I texted him earlier that I was here but he hasn't responded. So I've been out here… trying to gather the courage to go inside. I don't really go to parties much—ever, really."
When his eyes flit back to yours, you're sporting a knowing grin. "Yeah, I figured as much. You don't really look like the 'party type'," you say matter-of-factly with a shrug of your shoulders.
Peter scoffs, holding his hand over his heart in faux-offense. "What does that mean? I'm the 'party type,'" he crosses his arms, voice cracking on the end of type. His face flushes beet red, and he turns his head in embarrassment, hoping you don't comment on the way his grown-man body just betrayed him. Amused, you laugh, and not just a lighthearted one, but a genuine, full-belly laugh. He turns back to you and just stares, letting the sound ring through his ears, because God, he's missed the sound of your laughter—even if it was at his expense.
"You're right. I'm sorry. You're totally a party person. My mistake—" your words come out quick and breathy from laughing, and you wipe away a tear from the corner of your eye. "No, but when I said you're not the 'party type,' I meant that in a good way. I'd remember someone like you."
"Someone like…" Peter queries, raising a brow because it still sounds like he should be offended. You get up from where you're sat on the railing and step closer towards him, stopping just a few inches away from where he's stood.
"Cute," you say, tone void of teasing. "Like I said, I'd remember." Slowly, you circle him, and you're so close, his body starts reacting again. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing, his palms grow slick with sweat, and his heart is beating viciously behind the confines of his ribcage. Peter swallows thickly, and it feels like there's a ball of cement lodged in the epicenter of his throat. He has to look forward, lest he runs the risk of passing out right here on the spot like some loser.
"O-oh," is all he can say, voice shaky. Your shoulder briefly makes contact with his when you return to your spot in front of him again, and he stiffens.
Then, like nothing just happened, you move past him and head for the door. Peter turns around, and you gesture with your head towards the party, as if to say 'are you coming or what?' Your hand rests patiently on the knob, leg perched on the doorstep, and you're looking at him like you've known him for years. Like the rest of the night hinders solely upon his decision to follow you inside, and judging by the expression on your face, you seem to be more than aware of the effect that you have on him.
"Oh, by the way," you step back down, facing him, "I forgot to ask you for your name. Or should we stick with Mr. Party Type?"
He clears his throat, choking out a rushed, "P-peter. It's Peter."
He watches you mutter it under your breath, like you're trying to let it sit on your tongue. Memorize it. As if after tonight it'll remain one of the many names you keep catalogued up in your head. Hearing you say his name after all these years of basically being dead to everyone he's ever known—loved, does something irreversible to his brain chemistry. Now that he's had a taste, he doesn't think he can go back to a reality where it doesn't live on your lips.
"But, uh, w-what's your name? I also… forgot to ask." He listens intently as you tell him your name, and briefly, he feels silly. Pretending he hasn't said it countless of times before. Like he doesn't know the nickname you prefer to be called, and how you only let the people closest to you use it. As if your name isn't the only thing taking up residence in all of his thoughts.
Still, he pretends it's the first time he's ever heard it, and then says, "That's a pretty name." This time, Peter doesn't choke on his words. He says it with a confident edge, holding eye contact while moving closer to you. It'd been so long since the last time he flirted, especially with you, that he almost forgot what it felt like. But he finds himself falling back into routine, like picking up a bike after years of having not rode one.
Caught off guard, a shy smile replaces your cheeky one, and you stutter out a thank you. "Coming, Pete?" you ask coolly, trying to regain your easy composure, "we can look for your friend inside or you can stick with me. Up to you."
He almost trips over himself trying to get to you. "Y-yeah, we can look." (There's nobody to look for.)
With a final glance, you grab hold of his wrist and lead him inside, and all Peter can think about is how the skin of his wrist blooms with heat where you're touching him, and how the smell of your perfume wafts through the air with every stride. What is that, he wonders. Sandalwood? It's spicy. Musky—unfamiliar. You used to be a vanilla girl. He guesses that's another thing that's changed. His jaw twitches.
Peter's so lost in his thoughts, he doesn't even notice that you've stopped until he collides into your back, and he quickly apologizes. You stumble forward from the impact but quickly regain your balance, and turn to face him, releasing your hold on his wrist. His eyes watch disappointedly as your hand returns to your side, and he shivers from the loss of contact.
"See your friend around? If he's not in here, we can check out back. There's usually people out there just hangin'." You point towards the sliding doors, and he pretends to follow your line of sight, swiveling his head around the room and then through the glass, looking for a person who doesn't exist.
He pulls out his phone, makes like he's pulling up someone's number, then puts the phone to his ear. He waits a beat, gives it a few seconds like it's actually ringing, and then walks a few steps away. Every few seconds, he spares a glance over his shoulder to see you watching him, and he gives a shy smile that you return with a thumbs up as if to ask 'any luck?'
He slips his phone in his pocket and returns to you, "Yeahhh, no answer," a lie, "maybe I'll bump into him later or something, but uh, is that offer to kick it with you still on the table? Unless, you know, you're ready to ditch this loser and go hang out with your cool friends."
There's a teasing lilt to his words, you notice this, and roll your eyes playfully. "Hey, I never called you a loser," you say, a smirk forming on your lips, "you said it not me—but yes, the offer is still on the table. One condition, though." A smile, then wider. Mischievous.
He turns his head slightly, narrows his eyes. "Shoot."
"Since you don't go to parties much," you start slowly, drawing out the anticipation, "it's only right that you get the authentic college experience, right?"
"Right…" not following where you're going with this. He shifts his weight and crosses his arms.
"So, what better way than to start off with a body shot?" you say finally, gesticulating with jazz hands.
Peter's eyes go wide, and now he's thinking about the implication. Who would be doing the body shot? Would it be him doing it to you? Or would it be you doing it to him? Then he starts to think about the where. Like, on your collarbone? Your neck? God, your chest?
His mind runs a mile a minute trying to compute each and every possible scenario, but all he can think about, is how each one is infinitely worse than the last. Not that he doesn't want to—God, of course he wants to—but he'd never planned on getting this far tonight, let alone getting the opportunity to touch you in that way… again. And Peter was weak, so very, very weak. All signs were pointing to this being a bad idea, but then again, Peter never much had a knack for making the right decisions.
With a twisted, unsure but excited smile, he says, "Alright. Sure, let's do it."
"Which one, Vodka or Tequila?"
Neither, is what he wants to say. Instead, he says, "Uh, I g-guess that one?" He points to the bottle in your right hand, and you make an elated noise.
"Tequila, good choice. Ever had it before?" you ask, eyes flickering from him to the knife in your hand as you cut up a lime.
He shakes his head, "Nope. Never really saw the appeal of alcohol. Tastes gross."
"You know, I actually agree with you there. But the appeal is getting drunk and then blaming all your bad decisions on the alcohol," you say, to which he chuckles.
"Yeah, well, I never needed alcohol for that," he admits, looking down shyly, "trust me."
You respond to his admission with a soft laugh and nod your head, "Also fair."
When the conversation dies, the two of you settle into a peaceful silence. Peter watches you slice the lime in half, and then again into two halves. One for him, and… one for you, he presumes. While he observes, he notices the practiced ease with which you set it all up. You line each item on the counter like you do this often, discarding of the knife in the sink, finding the salt from the cabinet, drying your hands on the sink towel.
Briefly, his mind can't help but to wander. Just how close were you with these frat brothers? How many times have you done body shots here? Then, bitterly, he begins to ask himself something that makes the back of his throat slick with bile. He wonders if you've done this with that guy. The one in your story post from earlier.
Before he can ponder on the last question for too long, the sound of your voice pulls him from his thoughts. "Sorry, can you repeat that?"
"Stand up," you say, motioning for him to get up from his seat on the counter. "You go first."
Sliding from the counter, he lands on wobbly feet, the nerves finally catching up to him. He was so busy pouting about hypotheticals that he totally forgot he walked into the kitchen with a knot in his stomach, but it was back now. Twisting with a vengeance.
When there was a reality in which you two were dating, he never had to worry about embarrassing himself in front of you. (Well, in the beginning stages, sure. But when you really started dating, like officially, it was easy. You had found his awkwardness charming then, but now, he finds himself feeling a little insecure. Out of his depth. In your separation, you'd grown, found community, experienced new things—and you did it all without him. And he doesn't know if you're a new person entirely because of the spell, or if this version of you is who you would've grown into regardless.)
His eyes flicker anxiously from the ingredients to you, and you flash him a reassuring smile, brushing his forearm lightly.
"Hey, I'll walk you through it," you say, hoisting yourself onto the counter. Lay flat on your back. You extend an arm and tug him closer by the sleeve of his jacket, and he settles next to your side. "Okay, first, pick where you wanna do it."
"I guess your, uh, stomach," he decides, swallowing thickly. The corner of your mouth twitches with a smirk, and then you continue on.
"Now, you're gonna pour it into my belly button. So lift up my shirt."
With shaky fingers, Peter tugs on the hem of your shirt, then slowly lifts it up until it reaches your ribs. Folds it over neatly so as to not get it wet, and his knuckles brush your skin. Your abdomen flexes in response, once, twice, then his eyes flit up to yours and you're already looking at him. The air feels charged. The hairs on the back of his neck can feel it, and he thinks you feel it, too. You swallow, continue on.
"G-good, now…" you tilt your head to the bottle, watch as he grabs it and begins to pour. Once he's satisfied, he puts the bottle down and then returns his gaze to you like a lost puppy. "Now, take the salt and pour some on my stomach. Salt first, then shot."
He grabs the shaker and sprinkles out a thin line of salt just above the shot. From here, you stop giving instructions, and Peter comes to a silent understanding. Unhurriedly, he lowers his mouth to your stomach, hovering just a few centimeters above, and he exhales through his nose. Eyes fixed on yours, unmoving.
Reflexively, your abdomen caves again, and now you're hyper-aware of what's happening. Your high was quickly starting to wear off, to your dismay, and the reality that you were letting a complete stranger do a body shot off of you was starting to settle in. In any other case, you'd think better on it, but for some reason, the stranger before you didn't really feel like a stranger at all…
Then, his tongue is on you. Warm and wet and gentle. One long, fluid flick. A wave of warmth washes over you, pools low into the pit of your stomach. Your hand grips the edge of the counter as he hovers over your navel, and you watch with bated breath as he wraps his lips around the pool of liquid, his dilated eyes never once leaving yours. He hums as he sucks it up, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine, and then in the flash of a second, he's pulling off of you with a satisfied grin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Guess this is the last step," he says, grabbing a lime wedge. He squeezes it into his mouth and makes a face, sticking out his tongue. "Yeah, can't say I'm a fan of that part."
Watching him take a shot off your body had more of an effect on you than you expected. You convince yourself it's just the weed. (Your high already wore off.) Sitting up, you adjust your shirt and try to recompose yourself to the best of your ability, already opening your mouth to shift the focus from you to him.
"Alright, so, you did your first body shot! Now it's my turn." You put extra emphasis on the my, and shoot him a cheeky wink. Peter can only imagine what you're planning to do. He only hopes his body doesn't betray him. And for clarification, he's not a pervert. It's just… been too long, to his misfortune. He only just licked your stomach a minute ago, and now you were going to be licking him.
If he ever got the chance to feel your mouth on him again, he never envisioned it'd be in the kitchen of some frat. In his daydreams, you had your memories back. He'd hold you in his arms, cradle your face in his hands, and kiss you sweetly. Your hands would find their way to the nape of his neck, and you'd pull him closer by the curls, and tease him when he sighs into your mouth. The reality of the situation was that you were still spell you, and spell you had no idea that the boy she had taken under her wing tonight was fantasizing about all the ways he used to kiss her.
He wasn't going to last much longer tonight.
Just as he's about to lay on the counter, you stop him with a tut of your hand, grab him by the shoulders and walk him backwards until his legs hit a chair at the kitchen table.
"Sit," you say, pushing him down. He obliges, takes a seat and watches as you line up all the ingredients again. Then, smoothly, you bend down just enough to slide his jacket off from his shoulders, place it on the back of his chair, eyes focused and unreadable. You're so close that if Peter leaned in a few inches, he'd be able to press a kiss to your neck. The smell of sandalwood floods his senses, makes him dizzy.
"Hold this for me." Not asking. Demanding. You tug on the collar of his shirt and he lifts a hand to replace yours. Lightly, you trace the skin of his collarbone, drag it from one point to the other, then prod the space where you'll be putting the shot. Every inch of skin where your finger touched blooms with heat, he thinks he'll feel it tomorrow morning.
"This too, please." You pick up the lime wedge. Peter opens his hand but you shake your head, point to your mouth. "Open."
Hesitantly, he opens his mouth and you stick it in between his teeth, smiling in satisfaction because of how agreeable he's being. Without delay, you take his free hand and pour a sprinkle of salt on the back, then grab the bottle of tequila and pour it into the hollow of his clavicle.
You don't even know why you were making such an effort to do all of this. Part of you wants to believe it's your twisted way of getting back at him for flustering you, but really, you know it's because another part of you feels weirdly drawn to him. It was strange. You, who had very little patience for people—who was repulsed by most people—found yourself willingly leaning into this stranger. You'd known him for all of an hour, and yet, he has been the single most interesting thing all night.
Bending down, your eyes find his as you lower your mouth to his hand, and then you dart your tongue out, lick the salt off. Long and slow and wet. Peter's breath hitches. Closes his eyes to focus. When you drop his hand, he can hear you shuffling to his other side, then your hands are holding him steady by the shoulders, and he can feel you—hear you—leaning closer to his neck, your breath fanning the shell of his ear.
Slowly, you plant your mouth onto his clavicle and suck the liquor from the hollow, until there's nothing left. Until you've decided you're ready to pull away. And he sighs. He fucking sighs. Something soft and content, it almost sounds too intimate. Like you shouldn't have heard it, but you continue on. Try to ignore it as you cup his face and pluck the lime from in between his teeth.
When Peter decides it's safe, he opens his eyes, blinks. You squeeze the lime juice into your mouth and turn your back towards him abruptly, walk towards the kitchen counter. To take another shot, recompose yourself, put some space between you—you don't know. You just do, and you can feel his gaze burning into your back. Your heart is beating viscously, and you attempt to quell it with a soothing hand over your chest.
Peter watches you with an inquisitive expression. "You alright over there?" Genuine, concerned. He gets up from his seat and rounds the counter, goes to grab your shoulder but you shrug him off.
"I-i'm fine, I just—the juice, too sour," you breathe, unconvincingly.
He goes to open his mouth again but is interrupted by a new voice coming from the kitchen doorway.
"Babe, I've been looking all over for you," the voice shouts. "Where have you been?"
The two of you turn around, and Peter feels an amalgamation of things wash violently over him at once. Dread. Bitterness. Jealousy. It was him. The fucking guy from your story post—the one who was looking at you how he used to. The one who was holding you like he used to. The hairs on the back of his neck begin to raise, and he feels his body vibrate with something too dark to name. It should scare him, he thinks briefly. But that feeling quickly dissolves the second this douche bag opens his mouth.
"You went out for air and then never came back, needed you out there for the second round, wait—" the guy walks closer, finally acknowledging Peter's presence, "Who's this, babe?"
You roll your eyes, drop the lime wedge on the counter and take three big strides across the room to him. "Stop calling me that, we're not together, remember?" You whisper-shout, tugging him by the elbow to the other side of the room. Peter probably shouldn't eavesdrop, but he can't help but to overhear bits and pieces from the conversation.
You make an honest effort to keep your voice low enough but the guy purposely voices his words loud enough for Peter to hear, glaring over your shoulder every now and then when he gestures to Peter.
"So while I was out there waiting for you, you were in here with him? Doing what, exactly? Just talking? I see the limes on the counter, I'm not fucking stupid. I know you like to…" his voice trails, words slurring, and you pinch the space between your brows, visibly annoyed.
"It's none of your business, Harry!" you yell this time, abandoning your effort to keep your conversation at whisper-level. "What I do at parties is none of your concern, we're not together. You broke up with me, remember? You. Broke up. With me."
Peter's knuckles turn white. He had a name now. Harry. And not only did he have a name, but he had confirmation. That the two of you are together—or were, whatever. The semantics don't really matter; he knows now there was history. His only question: why did this asshole think he had any entitlement to your social life?
"That's not…" Harry starts, fumbling backward, suddenly losing his semblance of balance. "That's not fair."
You scoff, fold your arms, tongue in cheek. Peter knows that look; the one you wear when you call bullshit. "Oh, don't talk to me about fair, Harry. You made it pretty clear that I had no place in your life. Can't blame everything on Daddy," you say, tone venomous. "And, God, Harry… You're embarrassing. You missed a little something."
Harry blinks stupidly when you gesture to his face, and he brings a hand up to his nose, wipes it with the sleeve of his shirt. Embarrassment etches onto his face, and he curses under his breath. Just as he's about to speak again, you raise a hand.
"Don't. You're high, Harry—and drunk. Just leave, please. I indulged you earlier by coming and playing nice, but don't mistake that for anything more. Just leave, please. Just go."
Sparing one last glance between you and Peter, Harry scoffs, then stumbles back out into the party. When you finally turn around, Peter doesn't even realize he's been balling his fists at his sides for the entire conversation. His knuckles are blanch white, and there's crescent shaped indents scattered all over the palm of his hand. He shakes his hands loose, puts them behind his back.
You walk back over to him with a sigh, hiding your face behind your hands. "I'm so sorry," you apologize, too embarrassed to look him in the eye. "That was so weird. I promise you I'm not one of those girls who get into dramatic arguments with their boyfriend at parties. Not that he's my boyfriend—I mean you heard it, obviously—but you know what I mean. He's not usually like that, I don't know what got into—actually, I don't know why I'm rambling. Sorry."
"You don't have to do that, you know."
Furrowing your brows, you say, "Do what?"
"Defend him. You don't need to do that. He's an asshole," he added, stating it matter-of-factly. "Sorry if I'm overstepping but, based off of what I heard just now, he gave up on you. He ended things. He has no right to feel entitled to you or to what you do, I'd ne—I mean, the right guy would never treat you the way he's treating you. Like you're disposable. Who treats you like a safety net to come back to when he's bored."
When he's finished, he quickly notices how still you are. Your eyes are wide and you're staring at him with an unreadable expression. His stomach drops to his ass. Shit, he curses himself.
"I m-mean, it's not like I know your situation or anything. I overstepped, didn't I? I'm sorry, it just sounded like—and you kept going on, and I just wanted to reassu—" his voice shakes, hands gesturing wildly.
Unthinking, you take two steps forward and close the distance between you and Peter melts. Slow at first, then all at once. His hands drop to his sides, his shoulders relax, and he sighs into your mouth. Soft and syrupy. You deepen the kiss in response, angle his head how you want it, and then his hands are on you, pulling you flush against him with a hunger that threatens to consume.
This is when the air in the room shifts, becomes charged with something else. Something hungry, and desperate, and familiar. Careful turns messy, a clash of teeth and tongue, wet and breathy and delicious. In the midst of the chaos, he backs you into the wall, slots his thigh between your legs and you let out a noise in between a whine and a moan.
Unceremoniously, Peter breaks the kiss and stumbles backward to the kitchen counter, putting as much distance between the two of you as he can. His chest rises and falls in quick succession and he's profusely apologizing, muttering a string of 'sorry's and 'we can't's. Confused, you push off the wall and make your way to him but he puts out a hand. Leans against the counter and shakes his head while trying to catch his breath.
"W-what's wrong? Are you—did I…" you start, breathless, "did I do something?"
Peter clutches his chest, shakes his head profusely, "What—no. No. You didn't do—no, I just…" he stammers, walking closer but still being cautious of the space between you. "I just…can't."
He internally cringes. It's a lie, of course, and he fucking hates it. Hates lying to you. Hates that you're wearing that expression on your face, like you've just been rejected—denied. And it's his fault.
"I don't understand. I thought you… Did I get the wrong idea?" Your voice gets quieter, smaller. Peter has never known you to retreat into yourself, you've always walked and talked with an air of confidence; he's not sure when this has changed, but he briefly wonders if this has something to do with him. If that guy has done this to you.
Quickly, he takes three long strides across the kitchen and moves to hold you, but decides against it. Drops his hands awkwardly to his sides and cringes.
"You did not get the wrong idea, trust me." His voice comes out strained, as if there's a paperweight on his chest, and he's trying to choose his words carefully. "It was a good kiss—God, a really good kiss, actually. But… I'm not really in the right headspace for anything right now, you know?"
A beat. Before you respond, you mull it over in your head, then, "I'm not asking for a relationship, Peter. It was just a kiss. I figured maybe after, you'd want to come over to mine or something. I mean, you did say the kiss was 'really good' if I recall."
His eyes widen again from the implication, and he huffs out a breath because this conversation was literally going to kill him. "Wow, yeah, that's definitely an incredible offer—" his voice goes up a pitch, "but I think you'd feel differently about what you just suggested in the morning. Besides, you just met me. What if I was some big, bad serial killer?" He folds his arms, makes an attempt to sound intimidating but his voice cracks on the last word, and you laugh.
"That's the second funniest thing you've said tonight. You? A serial killer? Peter I'd no sooner believe you were a boy scout than a serial killer."
"Hey, they can be anyone," he counters, nodding his head.
"Not you," you say, then, "Can I say something crazy, though?"
Peter nods, shifts his stance and braces. "Of course."
Hesitantly, you open your mouth, busy your fingers with the chipped polish on your nails. "Would it be weird if I said you don't feel like a stranger? There's something about you, I don't know how to explain it but… You feel familiar. And that kiss… I don't know. Maybe you're right. Maybe I am drunk, or high, or whatever. I must sound ridiculously crazy. I'm sor—"
Peter interjects. "How about this. We're gonna be friends, okay? How's that sound?"
Thinking, you nod slowly. "Okay. Friends. We can be friends." You repeat it. Let it sit on your tongue. "Well, since we're gonna be friends, can I ask you a favor?"
"Shoot."
"Walk me home? Kinda partied-out. Don't wanna chance running into Harry on the way out and him bothering me. Figured if he sees you, he'll back off."
Peter nods, "Yeah, sure. Let's go."
As you make your way out of the kitchen and through the party, the two of you can only think of one thing.
Peter thinks he's just friend-zoned himself back into your life.
But you? You can't stop thinking about how you're not going to be friends.
What could possibly go wrong with a sexy as fuck roommate?
𑁤 roommate peter parker x reader, smut 18+, TOM HOLLAND IN THAT FUCKING JUICY PANTS AND THAT CROP TOP, oral sex (female reciving), use of aphrodisiac (not on purpose) ((maybe)), unprotected sex, cumming inside, dirty talk, pet name . . .
Moving to New York to live completely on your own at 21 hadn't been your smartest idea.
In short, you couldn't exactly say you were in a bad financial circumstances but you certainly weren't in a position to cover all those expenses and the rent of one apartment alone with your own money.
So there was only one solution, find a roommate.
You started your search intending to find a female roommate, you hated the idea of sharing your personal space with men -especially after the bad experiences you’d had with your brothers at home, but you quickly noticed from the ad that the prices were either too high or the places were practically all already rented out.
You didn't know exactly why, maybe it was just that specific time of year when so many girls were moving to New York and looking for female roommates? You couldn't say for sure, but the fact remained that you simply couldn't find an apartment that was good for you.
Then one evening, while scrolling through some ad of people looking for a roommate, you found the perfect offer.
This guy named 'Peter Parker' was looking for a roommate, he said he was hardly ever home and when he was, he spent all his time in his room. In short, he was telling you that it would be just as if he weren't there.
You didn't waste a single second, you called the number in the ad and immediately struck a deal -plus, the price was incredibly low.
Needless to say, you moved in a week later and by now you had already been living in that house -and with Peter, for four months.
Peter was the typical good boy who smiled at children and helped little old ladies cross the street, so incredibly good that sometimes he made you roll your eyes at just how good he was.
And he had practically lied in his ad, you two had spent almost all your time together over those four months.
Honestly, you didn't mind at all, Peter’s company was welcome -he made you laugh, he always cooked lunch and dinner and for a big part of the day, he would disappear completely at random.
Peter was absolutely perfect, except for one problem.
A fucking huge problem.
Peter was hot as hell, he had an incredible body, broad shoulders, toned thighs and fucking huge biceps.
Not to mention his sculpted abs, you remember perfectly well the day you thought you were home alone and were going to the bathroom to take a shower, only to open the door and see Peter with just a towel wrapped around his waist, having clearly just stepped out of the shower.
His six-pack was on full display with lingering water droplets glistening on his pectorals, his hand - with veins clearly visible, clutched the towel, offering a glimpse of his well defined V-line.
He knew you were practically devouring him with your eyes and after letting your gaze sweep over his body at least thirty times, you finally managed to close the door without a single word being exchanged.
But of course, he couldn't just have that perfect body, he had to have a majestic face too.
And fuck, it drived you crazy just how perfect that guy was even in the minimum detail, it was infuriating when he showed -without even trying, that he didn't make a single mistake and that wasn't the only problem.
You wanted him to touch you like crazy and he certainly didn't help with that. At home, he was always wearing short-sleeved t-shirts that accentuated his huge biceps and every movement of his arm drew your gaze straight to him.
In short, the situation was becoming a real problem.
And that Monday evening had been the final straw, Peter had just returned home after being out for hours, you didn't know what he had been doing but you knew that if you asked him, he would either change the subject or have an excuse.
He would always come back with new bruises, scratches or cuts on his face, you didn't even know who had inflicted them and that made you three times angry.
There was only one way to help him in that situation.
"I'll disinfect them for you after" you said, pointing to the bruise on his right cheek, he turned towards you, having not noticed you before.
He smiled at your words "How thoughtful of you" he said teasingly, you rolled your eyes and didn't reply.
He took off his shoes and removed the backpack he’d brought with him, emptying some of the things he had carried with him onto the kitchen table, "I'm going to take a shower and I'll be right back -afterwards, you can disinfect me wherever you like."
Before he disappeared, walking toward the bathroom, you shouted, "You're the most unfunny person I've ever met" and heard his light laughter from the hallway.
You were sitting on the kitchen counter, scrolling through your phone while waiting for Peter, he had been in the shower for at least ten minutes and you could feel your stomach growling with hunger -after all, it was dinnertime and normal people were eating dinner, unlike Peter, who had decided to take the longest shower of his life.
You turned off your phone and set it on your thigh, completely bored and hungry you hopped lightly down from the counter -if he wasn't going to move, you would go there and make him move.
You took literally just a couple of steps and banged your thigh against the kitchen table -which was positioned right in the middle of the fucking kitchen, but that didn't stop you from hurrying along to get Peter out of that interminable shower of his.
But something immediately caught your eye.
There was a pink, heart-shaped box of chocolates, he had placed it on the table when he emptied his backpack.
You knew it wasn't a good idea to do what you were about to do, but your stomach was growling with hunger.
Besides, Peter didn't have a girlfriend, so they were definitely for you, it made no difference whether you ate them in that moment or later.
You grabbed the box and opened the lid, which was sealed with clear adhesive tape, you didn't know what flavor the chocolates were, as all the writing on the box was in strange languages that were too complicated to bother reading at that moment.
You took just one and popped it into your mouth, chewing it. Your taste buds experienced a mind-blowing sensation, the chocolate you were eating was probably the best you had ever tasted.
It was something you’d never tasted before and without even realizing it, you ate at least four -or was it five? Who even remember…
You were in a state of pure bliss until you heard footsteps in the hallway -fuck, Peter was out of the shower. You closed the lid, acting like nothing was missing and set everything he’d taken out of his backpack onto the kitchen counter so you could at least put out some plates and knife and fork, pretending you was actually doing something in those minutes.
Peter arrived in the kitchen a few minutes later, wearing a simple short-sleeved T-shirt and pajama pants. You had cooked a simple dinner, seeing as ‘the person officially in charge of lunch and dinner’ was Peter, not you.
Everything went fine and as time went on, you became increasingly convinced he would never discover you had devoured five of the chocolates, if the plan would go wrong, your backup story was to claim a mouse had eaten them.
Throughout dinner, you couldn't help but keep glancing at the cut on Peter's cheek as he sat across from you, naturally, he noticed. He hadn't the faintest idea what to do -after all, he couldn't exactly tell you he was Spider-Man.
"Go get some disinfectant and cotton" he said, knowing you were worried about his cheek. As soon as he spoke, you rushed to the bathroom to grab the supplies to treat the cut.
While you were in the bathroom reaching for the bag of cotton you felt an intense, searing heat -an absurd, overwhelming warmth you couldn't explain.
You stepped out with the two things in one hand but as you walked down the hallway, the heat intensified, especially in your lower abdomen right near your intimate area, you didn't understand what was happening to you but you just felt so strange.
When you got back, you found one of the most unexpected sights of your entire life, Peter was sitting on the couch wearing YOUR black Juicy pants and YOUR crop top.
"What the fuck?" you said, confused yet amused as you looked at him, "I was doing the dishes and got my clothes wet, so I grabbed something from the laundry and these were the only pants..." he said embarassed but you didn't hear a word of it.
When he spoke, he rested his arm behind his head and the sight of his bulging biceps -exposed by your crop top, sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.
You snapped out of it slightly, giving your head a small shake, you couldn't afford to daydream while he was right there in front of you. "Mh yeah, whatever" you said, moving toward the sofa.
He spread his legs, making room for you between his toned thighs, you settled into that space and began soaking the cotton with disinfectant.
Caught completely off guard, you felt Peter’s large hand settle on your hip with an iron grip, the heat intensified, especially between your legs and you closed your eyes, swallowing hard as you tried to think of something else.
Think of beaten dogs, think of beaten dogs...
But you only felt Peter's hand moving on your hip, caressing it.
Oh my fucking god.
You felt the disinfectant drip onto your hand and opened your eyes, noticing that you had put a ton of it on the cotton and it was completely soaked.
You placed one hand on his defined jaw to hold him steady while disinfecting the cut with the other, feeling the burn on the cheek, Peter tightened his grip on your hip even more.
Still keeping a firm grip on your hips, he shifted you, placing his thigh between your legs so you could better disinfect that side, Peter then grabbed both your hips and guided you to shift your weight onto his leg, practically making you sit on him.
That hadn't been a good idea, because you could feel your center covered by only a single layer of fabric -you never wore panties under your shorts when you were at at home, so there was nothing to stop it from rubbing against his muscular thigh, and a wave of heat washed over you again as you felt your pussy throbbing.
Peter noticed it immediately, he could feel your wet intimacy against his thigh. You began to move your hips, creating friction, then you stopped disinfecting his cheek.
Resting your head in the crook of his neck, you whispered close to his ear, "Peter, I feel strange" your voice sounding needy, Peter swallowed hard at the feel of your warm breath on his neck and the sensation of your hips -held firmly by his grip, moving slowly against him, he felt your tight juicy pants growing even tighter at the crotch.
"How are you feeling? Did you do something you weren't supposed to?" he asked, temporarily stopping the movement of your hips, you chuckled at his words while trying to continue the friction you were so hungry for.
"I just did something I wasn't supposed to" you admitted with a smile, gently pushing Peter's back against the sofa cushions. "Don't make me worry now, what did you do?" he asked, trying to get a handle on the situation because something was clearly wrong, "I just ate some of the chocolates you brought, but that has nothing to do with this feeling I'm feel-" you continued, but he stopped you.
"Of course it fucking matters" he said seriously, pushing you slightly away from him. "You feel this way because there were aphrodisiacs in there" he revealed and the situation turned serious, even though your pussy was still throbbing, "Holy fucking shit".
"What can we do now, Peter? Because I need to make this feeling go away -please, I’m begging you..." you said, sounding needy and his cock grew even harder, though fortunately, only he knew it... or maybe that’s what he thought, because the bulge in that tight pants were really obvious.
"There’s only one remedy" he said and you knew damn well what it was -honestly, you didn't mind at all. Hell, you’d been hoping for moments like this. "But you can't do it with me, so I wouldn't kno-"
"Why can't I do it with you?" you asked, your brows furrowed.
At your words, he froze completely. "Well, you... I mean, you don't... you don't actually want to fuck me, do you?" he said awkwardly, looking at you.
With a small smile playing on your lips, you leaned closer to him, "And who says so, Peter?" you said before pressing your lips against his. The contact was instantly returned, and the movement of your hips finally resumed.
As the kiss grew increasingly passionate, you took his large hands and moved them from your hips down to your ass, he didn't waste any time and began squeezing it in his hands.
"You couldn't wait, could you? You want to have sex with me and who am I to deny you that baby?" he said as he grabbed youand he positioned you on top of him.
You could feel his cock -hard as marble, through his trousers, rubbing against your needy and throbbing center and at that mere contact, you let out a low moan.
"But first, I want your explicit consent -is that okay, my love? I don't want you to regret it the next day, hmm? Understood?" he said placing one of his large hands on the back of your neck and beginning to plant wet kisses there.
"Please.." you whispered with low voice, "This isn't you consent darling" he said, pulling away before planting more kisses on your neck -warm and wet from his lips.
"Fuck Pete, fuck me please" you said impatiently, he chuckled with satisfaction against your neck, sending light shivers down your spine. "Good, that’s what I wanted to hear. Now take off those shorts for me darling."
You immediatly stood up and slid your shorts down your thighs, Peter immediately noticed your fully exposed pussy. "No underwear, huh?" he said with an aroused smirk, biting lightly at the inside of his cheek.
"I do that a lot when I'm home," you admitted before sitting back down on him again, "Even when I'm around?" he asked, kissing you on the lips, pulling back slightly, you replied with a smirk, "Especially when you're around."
He grabbed the backs of your thighs and hooked your legs around his hips, with a fast movement he stood up and flipped the position, placing you under him, your thighs spread wide and him positioned between your legs. Then he pulled up the crop top he was wearing, revealing his sculpted abs and you could practically feel your mouth watering.
He immediately moved back to you and lowered himself so far that his head came to rest right in front of your center, framed by your thighs. "Peter" you whispered, needy, feeling his warm breath on that deeply intimate area.
He didn't even answer, he simply placed his veiny hands on your thighs, holding them still for what was to come. He practically buried himself in your pussy, licking and savoring you slowly. "So sweet for me, baby" he murmured, sending shivers racing through your spine again as you felt the vibration of his voice right against that sensitive spot, that sensation made you arch your back slightly, craving the pleasure he was giving you with his lips and tongue, deeper inside.
"Peter" you repeated like a prayer as he devoured you like you were his new favorite meal, you felt his pink lips against your labia and his tongue licking upwards, "Please, stop..." you said, sounding almost desperate.
He tilted his head back, leaving a kiss on your lips -his lips glistening with your juices, on your inner thigh, "Is something wrong, sweetheart?" You nodded, feeling like you were losing your mind, "Yes, Peter, please stop... if you keep going like that, I’m going to cum" you admitted bluntly, he chuckled softly, pulling himself up until he was face to face with you, his pink lips practically shining from the wetness he had found between your legs.
"You want me inside you, don't you?" he asked you as he left wet kisses on your neck, even the answer was practically obvious, "Do you want to come on my cock, baby?" and obviously this time too you nodded feeling his hands go down towards his pants pulling them down with his boxers, just enough to let out his hard and raised erection that was already dripping with pre-cum.
"But I can't put it in right away, you know?" he said with a smirk as his hand moved back to your pussy, with two fingers he found your tight opening and -without a second thought, slid them inside, curling and slightly scissoring them. "I mean, just feel how tight you are, if you think I can fit in there, you're seriously underestimating me, you know, baby?"
"Peter please, I don't care if it hurts, I need it right now" you said impatiently, shifting your hips slightly against his moving fingers. "You're so needy" he whispered against your neck, you let a soft 'mhh' escape your lips, too focused on the sensations he was giving you to formulate a reply. "But if you ask me like that, I don't see why I shouldn't satisfy your request" he said as he slid his sticky, wet fingers out.
He aligned the wet tip of his cock with your pulsing opening, placed a firm hand on your hip and with a decisive thrust, slid inside you, he was so huge and you were so tight around him.
You already felt completely full but when you glanced down at where your bodies joined, you saw he was barely halfway in -you were certain he was going to touch your lungs.
You let out a broken moan as you felt him sliding deeper and deeper inside, "Baby, I'm almost all the way in -I know you can take it, right?" he whispered gently, using his free hand to brush a lock of hair from your face and tuck it behind your ear.
He slid that same hand under your shirt, lifting it to expose your bare breasts, while finally sliding all the way inside you, "Tell me when I can move" he whispered close to your ear. And only after a few minutes, you gave him the go-ahead -you couldn't wait any longer.
Well, maybe you could have waited a little longer, because at first Peter’s thrusts were slow and uncoordinated but then they started getting faster and deeper, he began to find a rhythm, making the head of his cock slam against your most sensitive spot inside -needless to say that under him, you were a completely mess, moaning every fucking minute.
And as if that weren't enough, he moved his free hand -which had been resting on your chest, to your breast, he cupped it in his large palm and began teasing the nipple between his fingers.
Every thrust was amplified when you arched your back and as his cock slid in and out of you, it always hit that magic spot, you felt nothing but pure pleasure.
And Peter was enjoying it just as much as you were -being inside you was a goddamn dream. He could feel your warm walls gripping him, your breasts swaying slightly with every thrust and the sweet moans escaping your lips. He knew it wouldn't last much longer, but there was no way he was going to cum before you.
So he really went for it, grabbing your thigh with the hand that had been on your hip and lifting it until it hooked higher up around his waist, he knew damn well that in this position, his cock would repeatedly strike that exact spot inside you, driving you absolutely crazy.
So he wasn't surprised when the words "Peter... I'm about to..." escaped your swollen lips, he smirked as he continued thrusting hard, "Oh yeah? Then do it, baby, come on my cock."
And it all became too much in that moment -his iron grip, his thrusts, his dirty talk, until you couldn't take it anymore and finally let yourself go, riding the wave of orgasm.
He was just about to finish, "I'm cumming too, let me out-" he said, starting to pull away but you used all your strength to grab his wrist, opening your tired eyes.
"Cum inside, please" you said, desperate as you had been for hours, at those words Peter gave in and came inside you.
After that moment, he lay on top of you and -still with his eyes closed and his head resting on your chest, he suggested, "We should do this more often."
"I fully agree" you said relaxed.
// It me a week to make this, so please appreciate it -thanks.
This is the result of being inspired by that absurd scene with Tom wearing those Juicy pants and that crop top.
plot description: in the quiet aftermath of success, all you wanted was one uninterrupted evening with the person you loved most. fortunately, life rarely waits until you’re ready.
content warnings: 18+ content (MDNI!!!! ill snitch on u), smut (p in v), unprotected sex, rough sex, dom!tom, degradation, manhandling, kissing, fingering, oral (f & m receiving), creampies, drinking, possessive tom, domestic at first, cute banters between reader n tom, and fucking on the kitchen counter (a classic) / (let me know if i missed anything!)
notes: been watching burlesque films and ive always wanted to try doing burlesque buttt i dont have the budget nor do i have the talent... so i js indulged myself writing this fic bc its technically better than moping around bc theres a thing i cant do eherehe :,))
the city looked softer from the restaurant terrace.
far below, headlights streamed through london like ribbons of gold, the distant hum of traffic fading beneath the clink of glasses and quiet conversations. fairy lights draped overhead, their warm glow catching in the crystal stem of your wine glass every time you lifted it.
tom leaned back in his chair with the unmistakable expression of someone who had finally exhaled after months of holding his breath.
“to brand new day,” he said, raising his glass.
you smiled, tapping yours against it. “to brand new day.”
the gentle clink echoed between you.
“it’s surreal,” he admitted, shaking his head with a laugh. “all those months trying not to spoil anything, endless press, stunt rehearsals,” he looked at you. “and now everyone’s actually seen it.”
“and they love it.”
“they do.” his smile widened despite himself. “i keep pretending i don’t read the reviews.”
“liar.”
“i’m not lying.”
“tom.”
“…i’m selectively reading the reviews.”
you laughed at your boyfriend, reaching across the table to steal one of the fries from his plate. “that’s somehow worse.”
“hey!”
“thief.” he pointed his fork accusingly.
“finders keepers.”
“that’s not even–”
“shh.” you popped his fry into your mouth. “delicious.”
he stared for exactly two seconds before sighing dramatically. “this relationship is so one-sided.”
“because i stole one fry?”
“that was an emotional support fry.”
“i’ll buy you another potato.”
“you can’t replace him.” he gasped, placing a hand over his chest.
your laughter spilled louder this time, earning a curious glance from another couple seated a few tables away.
“you’re ridiculous.”
“you adore me.”
“unfortunately.”
“see?” he reached across the table, intertwining his fingers with yours without thinking about it.
the motion had become instinct years ago, one that was comfortable, easy, and close to home. you absentmindedly traced your thumb across his knuckles before speaking again.
“actually…”
his brows lifted.
“my manager messaged me earlier.”
“good message or scary message?”
“potentially life-changing message.”
that got his full attention. “oh?”
“apparently i’ve been offered a role.”
“what?” his face immediately lit up.
“i don’t know what it is yet.”
“what do you mean you don’t know?”
“she wouldn’t tell me over text.”
“oh,” he frowned. “that’s evil.”
“she said she’d call after dinner or the agent would.”
“that’s really evil.”
“i know.”
he leaned forward, eyes squinting as if he was solving a mystery, “did she at least tell you if it’s a film?”
“yes.”
“studio?”
you shook your head.
“director?”
another shake.
“genre?”
“nothing.”
tom let out the most offended noise imaginable. “that’s psychological warfare.”
“she likes keeping me on edge.”
“i’ve met your manager.” he took another sip of wine. “she absolutely does.”
“she does.” you grinned.
“well, my beautiful girlfriend,” he squeezed your hand. “whatever it is, congratulations.”
“i don’t even know if i’m taking it, but i’d really want to get a mature role after acting as a teen in high school or university a lot.”
“doesn’t matter.” his smile softened.
“someone saw you and went, ‘yeah. we want her.’”
your heart warmed at his words. he always had a way of making moments feel bigger than they were.
“that’s really sweet.”
“i know.” tom flipped his imaginary long hair, making you laugh.
“humble, too.”
“one of my greatest qualities.”
“top three?”
“top one.”
you rolled your eyes affectionately. “you’re impossible, holland.”
“yet somehow,” he lifted your intertwined hands to press a fleeting kiss against your knuckles. “you keep me around.”
dinner stretched longer than either of you had planned, lingering over the last few sips of wine and desserts neither of you needed but ordered anyway. conversation drifted effortlessly from the film’s reception to childhood memories, embarrassing auditions, and whatever nonsense happened to appear on the table between you.
by the time you stepped outside, the evening had settled into a pleasant coolness. your boyfriend instinctively reached for your hand, your fingers slotting together as naturally as they always had. the streets were quieter now, city lights reflecting off rain-damp pavement as the two of you wandered toward the car at an unhurried pace.
“still thinking about the mystery role?” he asked, unlocking the passenger door for you.
“i’m trying not to.”
“liar.”
“okay, maybe a little.”
he laughed, shutting your door before rounding the front of the car. “whatever it is, they’re lucky if you say yes.”
“you’re biased.” you felt your cheeks warm despite yourself.
“wildly.”
the drive home passed with music playing softly through the speakers, interrupted every so often by half-finished conversations and off-key singing whenever one of your favorite songs came on. at a red light, tom reached over the center console just to intertwine your fingers for a few seconds before the light turned green again.
it wasn’t long before familiar streets welcomed you home, the porch light casting a warm glow across the driveway. the moment the front door clicked shut behind you, the outside world seemed to disappear altogether, replaced by the quiet comfort only home could offer.
your heels had already been abandoned somewhere near the entrance and tom’s blazer was draped over the back of a chair. music played softly from a speaker in the living room while steam from your showers still lingered faintly in the hallway.
by the time you wandered back into the kitchen, your hair damp and wrapped loosely behind your shoulders, you were comfortably tucked into one of your silk robes.
tom looked up from where he’d been sitting in the living room, wearing a faded navy t-shirt and grey sweatpants with his hair still slightly damp. “there she is.”
“there you are.”
you smiled, walking towards the kitchen counter before taking out a wine bottle and two glasses, while he reached behind him and picked up your hairbrush, standing up to approach you behind the counter.
“turn around.”
“yes, sir.”
he laughed. “baby, don’t make it weird.”
“too late.” you shifted until your back rested against his chest as you sipped on your wine glass. without another word, his fingers gathered your damp hair with practiced familiarity.
the brush glided through slowly.
“oh, you’re getting better.”
“excuse me?”
“remember the first time you brushed my hair?”
“let’s not.” he groaned instantly.
you laughed, leaning back into him as he continued brushing. “you got it stuck.”
“i’ve improved.”
“you have.”
“thank you.” he beamed sarcastically, finishing his wine in one go.
you lifted an eyebrow at him, before refilling his glass. “gold star.”
“i’d like that in writing.”
“absolutely not.”
his chin rested briefly against your shoulder. “rude.”
you snorted before unlocking your phone.
“now look at this.”
“what am i looking at?” he glanced over as you opened tiktok.
“a capybara.”
“fair enough.”
the next thirty minutes disappeared in the strange way they always did together and every few seconds, one of you dissolved into laughter while the other questioned why it was funny in the first place.
at one point, tom laughed so hard he accidentally spilled a few drops of wine onto his own shirt. “oh, brilliant.”
“that’s karma.” you wheezed.
and after another few videos, you shifted your weight onto the other leg with a contented sigh. “i hope my manager doesn’t call anytime now.”
tom hummed thoughtfully beside you.
“i hope so.”
“yeah?” you turned to look at him.
he nodded, smiling in that quiet, fond way that always made your chest ache.
“selfishly?”
he brushed a nearly dried strand of hair behind your ear, “i kinda just want tonight.” his thumb absentmindedly traced your cheek.
you smiled so widely it almost hurt. “that’s mushy.”
“i’ve had wine.”
“you’ve had two glasses.”
“exactly.”
you reluctantly pulled away. “wine again?”
“always.”
just as the bottle tilted over the first glass, bzzzt.
your phone vibrated against the marble countertop just as tom’s hands slid beneath the silk of your robe, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip with an almost possessive intent. the moonlight filtered through the house's tall windows, casting streaks across your curtains as you answered, your voice breathless from his touch.
“yes, this is ___.”
the agent’s words poured through the line like warm honey, describing the lead in a bold new burlesque film, a role that demanded raw seduction, corsets unlaced on stage, hips grinding in feather-trimmed costumes that left little to the imagination— which you were signed up for by your manager.
your eyes widened, a flush creeping up your neck as your boyfriend pressed closer, his chest firm against your back, the hard line of his cock already stirring against your ass. he whispers, “you wouldn’t decline, would you?”
what surprised the agent was you accepted on the spot, stuttering as excitement bubbling out in a rush of words that painted the provocative scenes ahead. rehearsals where you’d bare your full breasts with little cover to the lights, choreographed routines that would have your glittery underwear glistening under the stage's heat as you teased invisible audiences. or maybe your boyfriend if they let him on set.
tom’s grip tightened on your waist, his lips grazing your ear in what felt like celebration, “accept the role, baby.” yet beneath the smile, his jaw clenched, a flicker of unease darkening his gaze as he envisioned other men watching you writhe, his fingers dipping lower to part your thighs and stroke the slick heat of your folds in a heated foreplay that masked his growing tension.
you gasped, arching into his hand, your clit throbbing under his circling thumb while you sealed the deal with a final and determined, “i’m in.”
the call ended, and tom spun you to face him, “congratulations, darling.”
before his mouth claimed yours in a kiss that burned with layered hunger.
“open your legs.”
he impatiently lifted you onto the counter, spreading your legs wide with his hands as his cock pressed against your entrance, the thick head nudging your wet pussy lips in teasing strokes that promised more, and at the contact, your nipples hardened against the now open robe, brushing his chest as you whispered your thrill, but his eyes held a storm.
“i get to see my gorgeous girlfriend on the big screen doing burlesque?” supportive words tumbling out even as his free hand pinned your wrist, claiming you with an intensity that hinted at the obsession taking root. “wish it was only f’me.”
the air thickened with your mingled scents, sweat and arousal, as his thrusts began slow and deliberate, building a fire that left you moaning,
“tom, please–”
“yeah, baby?”
“harder, p–please…”
he drove into you harder then, his hips snapping forward with growing urgency as your pussy clenched around his cock, slick walls gripping him in rhythmic pulses that drew guttural groans from his throat.
“fuck, i’m gonna cum.” your legs wrapped tighter around him, the heel of your feet digging into his back as you gasped, urging him deeper with breathless pleas that tangled with the wet sounds of your sex.
“cum with me, baby.”
“cum for me.”
tom buried himself to the hilt and came with a shuddering roar, hot spurts flooding your pussy while your own climax rippled through you, milking every drop from him.
and even while breathless and still trembling, he withdrew and dropped to his knees, his tongue lapping at your swollen folds with hungry strokes that tasted your mixed release, circling your clit until your thighs quaked against his shoulders.
your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as fresh arousal built under his relentless mouth. he rose soon after, guiding you off the counter and onto your knees— to his cock that was still rock hard and glistening with cum, pressing against your lips until you took him in, sucking with eager hollows of your cheeks while his hands guided your rhythm.
by the time tom pulled you up again, he had you bent over the counter’s edge, thrusting again into you from behind in deep, measured strokes that made your breasts jiggle and your moans echo off the walls, the new angle hitting spots that sent sparks racing up your spine.
“are you mine? are you my slut?”
yet as his pace quickened once more, his grip bruising your hips, the unspoken tension in his eyes sharpened, turning each plunge into a claim that promised far more than celebration.
tom drove deeper with each relentless thrust, his cock stretching your slick pussy wide as your moans filled the house, loud and unrestrained from the overstimulation that had you trembling on the edge.
“yes, only yours, tom–”
“fuck, i’m only yours!” you gasped between cries, your walls fluttering around him as he edged you mercilessly, slowing his hips just when your climax threatened to crest, his fingers circling your swollen clit without mercy.
tom whispered to your ear, “you’re a goddess on earth.” which made your body arch in deep ecstasy, breasts pressed to the cool marble, sweat-slicked skin quivering under his bruising grip until he leaned close once again, murmuring soft reassurances against your ear.
“you’re mine, baby, all mine. this pussy belongs to me.” before slamming home one final time and granting you release.
your orgasm crashed through you once again in shattering waves, pussy clenching and pulsing around his cock as you sobbed his name in blissful surrender.
“tom…”
“you did well, baby. you did well.”
he held you through the aftershocks, his own release following in hot, possessive pulses deep inside you, but as he withdrew and spun you gently to face him, he pressed soft kisses on your flushed cheeks, before heading for your lips.
“you’re that gorgeous and hot, they want you on a burlesque film, baby.”
summary: when your upstairs neighbor, spider-man, had begun to experience bizarre side effects to his arachnid DNA taking over, he fought to suppress it. you encouraged the idea of him letting go and seeing what happened, knowing he would always be peter. for months, he didn’t even entertain the thought, not willing to 'become a monster'. today? today he was a bit more susceptible.
written with something’s off with peter parker dynamic written in mind, but by no means a required read before this one
wc: 5.3k
cw: BND SPOILERS!!! nothing monumental to the storyline, and i would argue nothing that wasn’t mentioned in the trailer, but the descriptions of The Spider™️ are very much written and talked about in the context of the film. read at your own discretion for those who have not seen it.
actual cw: !!MDNI!! smut (p in v), vivid spider-like descriptors, dubcon and bdsm elements (absolutely everything is consensual, but in peter’s current state, he is not “himself”, which therefore makes the consent dubious): bondage/restrained by webs, slapping (but you hit peter 🤭), choking, a dash of fear play and a touch of some primal/prey descriptors going on. dacryphilia, mean dirty talk by peter that also has a dubcon vibe, finishing inside, minor subspace mention, Def domdrop mention for peter, and probably more. jesus christ, let me know if i missed anything.
also a gross overuse of italics and bold. title is from 'my strange addiction' by billie eilish
don’t like, don’t read! enjoy my little freaks!
two years ago, your neighbor, you supposed, moved in to the apartment's storage loft right above you. peter parker, he had introduced himself as, was a rather shy, reserved guy for someone who created an entire new list of expectations for the upstairs neighbor archetype.
a year and ten months ago, peter parker was a frequent weekly guest for tuesday dinner and switch tournaments. what had started as a knock on his door and some of your grandmother's brownies had evolved into peter spending hours losing to you on mario kart over bowls of bland spaghetti and spongebob mac and cheese.
a year and eight months ago, spider-man swan-dove through your window instead of his on accident, mask stripped before he knew better.
a year and a half ago, peter parker had managed to become the person you trusted most in this life. and in a measly six months, you had become that for peter in return. he opened up to you about the deaths of his aunt and tony, how he'd lost his friends - fuck, his whole life - to the spell.
and after about a year, though he'd never admit it, you could tell he was happy to have a "guy in the chair" again. to have someone in his headset, someone to patch him up after a rough night with scorpion. suddenly, peter wasn't so alone. he had someone who knew him as well as he knew himself, someone who - while you didn't get it necessarily - was the only one in the world who finally knew he fucking existed again.
which is exactly why you also knew about the headache's peter had been getting more and more over the past few months.
you were the first person he ran to when they started, collapsing on your bedroom floor in tears as he tugged at his curls for relief from the pounding. he was begging you to make it stop, curled in on himself like, well... a spider.
the first time was the worst of them, mostly due to not knowing what was going on. but after decorating your room in a thick layer of web (despite not having his web-shooters), it was clear this was outside your basic first-aid training. that didn't stop you from helping how you could. in that moment, and beyond.
you attended professor banner's lectures with him, taking whatever notes you could understand. you stayed up late into the night with him, acting as his assistant as peter worked up in his loft on getting to the bottom of whatever the fuck was happening with his own DNA. he jokingly called you "Dum-E" once, and was quick to backtrack as he saw bewilderment flash across your face. he apologized and rambled on that it was a good thing, tripping over his words to explain himself, though the hurt in his eyes when telling the story told you it wasn't a time to push.
all of this to say, you knew that something about the arachnid DNA was evolving, and going fucking haywire in the process. which is exactly why, when you heard a thunderous crash and sharp curses from peter in the loft above you, worry immediately flooded your system.
you bolted up the stairs, the obscene noises coming from peter's apartment growing louder as you approached his door. you knocked rapidly, calling out his name as you did.
another loud crash sounded, and you heard peter howl. "uhh, not right now! not a good time!"
you huffed. "yeah it doesn't seem like a good time! let me in, parker!"
peter went to respond, but was cut off by his own pained groan, and a worried whine left your own lips in reply. he deserved his privacy, hell, he deserved his own autonomy, but your concern overrode all ethical dilemma as you heard his knees hit the floor. hard.
thank fuck peter never locked his door.
you crashed into the loft, stopping dead in your tracks as you took in the state of peter's apartment. there was webbing everywhere. it covered the ceiling and his furniture, splattered over the windows which caused the light to scatter in awkwardly. you could only describe the state of his webbed bed as a nest. there was a PC monitor on the ground next to his desk that looked like it had been torn in fucking half. in the left most corner, there were handprints in the exposed brick on the wall from where peter had tried to catch himself before hitting the ground below where you saw him now.
peter was hunched over in a similar position you had seen him in that first time, limbs curled in on himself as he gripped his head, no doubt pounding like a motherfucker. he was facing away from you, but his shirt was ripped off, showing off just how pale he looked. a thin layer of sweat glistened off his skin, droplets forming and almost looking sticky. peter was shaking and breathing heavy as you approached him.
you had seen him like this before. it hadn't been this bad in a while, but you had been there for peter through it before and you could do it again. you had seen him when everything got too loud and he started to shut down, something else fighting to take over. that was the entire point of the inhibitor he had been working on. to suppress whatever the fuck this was.
you had pushed back initially, playing devil's advocate to encourage him to let it happen. to let the spider in. prove to himself that he was still peter parker when spider-man took over. after seeing him in this much pain and discomfort enough times, you stopped entertaining the notion.
because seeing him like this? was heartbreaking. you knew just how much everything was hitting him right now. how every sense was stabbing at him individually, how each breath you took was a knife to his eardrums. so you approached cautiously, keeping a step or two away and knowing not to touch him right now.
you met him with a hushed voice. "peter, hey. it's just me."
he flinched at your whispers and you cringed, feeling nauseated knowing it was your voice that hurt him. "let me help, okay? how can i help right now? do you need me to grab your-"
"no," he rasped out. his voice was deep, in a tone you hadn't heard from him before. "no, i'm not kidding. you need to fucking go."
"pete, i'm not-"
"no!" peter's voice boomed throughout the loft as he screamed your name. "i don't fucking care what you think right now!"
"parker," you went to scold, but he cut you off.
"i cannot get this fucking inhibitor to calibrate, and i-i.. fuck, i'm not myself right now. you need to go." his voice cracked on the last word, like he was trying to hold back tears. a moment ago, his voice literally shook the building. now, it just sounded broken.
you stood your ground. "peter, i'm not leaving you. don't do this alone."
his fist slammed into the floor in front of him, shattering the hardwood. as if it were fucking glass, splinters flew around him like shards of glass snowing in the air. peter held onto the edge of the newfound hole in the ground while trying to recenter himself, his grip on the floorboard literally causing the wood to disintegrate into dust in his hands.
you heard him fucking growl at you, and while you still weren't afraid of him, part of you was a little grateful peter was still facing the other way as you felt your cheeks heat up at the outburst.
"do you not see that i fucking have to?!" peter screamed into the corner, dust and loose grout crumbling from the ceiling at the sheer strength of his voice. you could see his back expanding and inflating as he desperately tried to suck in breaths, his many muscles flexing around his ribcage, and-
okay jesus, maybe not the time.
you sighed, shaking your head and taking another step closer. "peter-"
"fuck, get out of here! i don't want to hurt you!" he pleaded, still trembling and pulling at his hair.
you took a step back to look over at his computer, noticing his vitals freaking out on one monitor as the other was hooked up to some homemade tech he had running sequences on the inhibitor. EVIE was working with the same desperation that peter was oozing, already on trial #392. you looked back to the corner where he was still hunched in pain, and decided with unwavering finality that you were not leaving him alone during this.
walking back over, you crouched down to brush his shoulder with your fingertips, hoping to ground him with a singular sensation. he caught your wrist before you could even bother.
"i said. don't."
peter finally looked up at you for the first time, and your heart dropped to your stomach.
a lot about peter had begun to change during his "molting process" (as you referred to it). his strength had grown expotentially -- so had his spidey-sense. even the organic webbing, which was brand fucking new.
you hadn't seen his eyes go black like that before.
you stared into his fully darkened eyes, hoping the shock wasn't as evident in your own as you knew it was. hoping the tinge of something else in your eyes wasn't as evident as you thought it was. you flicked between his deep glare and his hand on your wrist as you regained your composure.
"peter. i'm not leaving you. i'm not scared of you."
he laughed. peter parker honest to god laughed at you, as he kept a firm grasp on your wrist and held your gaze.
"you fucking should be."
before you could blink, peter launched upwards, fucking jumping from his spot on the ground as shoved you against the wall. hard. despite the aggressive action and your back slamming against the brick, his hand landed behind your head to cushion the impact. the rest of you still hit with enough force that the wall cracked behind you, dust from the concrete swirling in the air.
you coughed hard, though, whether that was a result of the dust or the grip of peter's hand on the base of your fucking neck, it was hard to tell. he stared at you for a moment, black eyes darting up and down your body as he tracked your every movement. every rise of your chest, every twitch of your lip as you wheezed through his grip.
peter looked at you like you were his prey. like you were a fly that had been caught in his fucking web. you tried not to be as turned on as you were.
his eyes flickered slightly towards his hand on your neck and he loosened the grip, though still not letting you go. he regained a bit more of himself, a bit more of peter, as his shaking hand kept you pined to the wall. his voice betrayed the stone cold look on his face, trembling as he told you: "clearly, you should be".
peter didn't miss how your eyes jut down to his lips before hitting him with a rattled but firm: "well, i'm fucking not."
he smirked at you and let you go fully, stepping back to analyze as you took a moment to catch your breath. he drank you in, sizing you up before letting out a deep chuckle. before you could look up at him, both of your wrists were webbed to the wall behind you, pinned over your head as your back was once again pressed against the hard brick. peter closed in on you, boxing your frame in against his own. he pressed against you, getting in your face. literally breathing down your neck.
"no, you are. just a little," he growled in your ear. "but i think you like it."
you felt how fucking hard peter was through his juicy sweatpants, felt just how fucking big he was pressed against your hip. this was not a side effect of the arachnid DNA that either of you had seen in the last few months. or at least, nothing that peter had mentioned. come to think of it, why would he? it's not like he felt the same way.
you were snapped out of your thoughts as peter fucked sniffed you. you shook off the self-doubt as you took stock of the man in front of you, restricting himself to the point of physical pain right now as he caught whiff of your arousal. consequences to the friendship be damned, you were determined to stay at his side through this as his inhibitor kept running sequences on the computer, red flashing from the screen every few minutes to signal yet another failed attempt.
and, well. he exactly wasn't wrong.
you fought to hold contact with his deep, piercing eyes. "maybe i do, spider-man. what are you going to do about it?"
those were the magic words.
he ripped you off the wall, webbing still hanging from your wrists as he picked you up like you were nothing. a scream escaped your lips as you were airborne suddenly, flying through the air shortly before your back hit peter's bed.
his bed. oh fuck, you hadn't expected that to work so easily.
it was starting to become crystal clear that you were in fact going to have whiplash and possibly even a concussion tomorrow, but you were too fucking wet to care. you'd analyze what that meant about your psyche later. for now? you were simply too excited to see what the fuck he was going to do to you.
you watched as he stalked, taking in your frame as you laid hopelessly in his bed. his bed, which, was covered in webbing that extended down to the floor where peter was standing. you shifted with hesitation and watched peter's head flick towards you, almost like...
almost like he could feel your fucking vibrations against the webbing. like a fucking prey caught in his web, writhing for help and sending vibrations up this silk to signal the spider.
the spider, who was watching you through his black-hooded eyes, like he was fucking hungry.
peter started to squat down, and you sat up in turn, instantly worried his headache was consuming him again.
you didn't even get to meet his eyes.
peter pounced forward, a hydraulic explosion coming from his legs as he fucking jumped you on the bed, using his limbs to pin your own underneath him. your breath had initially hitched, but all air was taken from you as peter's hands were on your clothes, tearing the garments from your body like you'd only been in a paper fucking bag. shreds of cotton stuck to the webs around you as peter stared down at your mostly naked body.
he straddled you properly, using his hands to hold down your own again as he leaned close, breathing you in heavy. no doubt catching the pheromones in your sweat, a downright villainous smirk creeping on his lips as he got confirmation of just how turned on you were.
peter pulled back to see your eyes, and was taken aback to see the fear in them. regardless of every other emotion you were feeling right now, you were also scared.
and fuck, he did that.
he sat up straight, the black around his sclera retreating slightly as his breathing picked back up. you could feel him start to tremble over you again as peter buried his face in his hands for a moment.
"fuck, i don't- that's not," he choked out. "fuck, i'm so sorry. you need to get out of here, i fucking meant it earlier."
you could tell the headache was back as his grip tightened in his curls, a pained groan escaping from deep in his chest. he was fighting himself, trying to use the strength he had just minutes ago to lift himself off of your lap. you grabbed his hips to hold him down.
"peter, listen to me."
"please, i-i can't, i shouldn't have-"
"peter." he shook his head, refusing to look at you.
"i can't believe i put you in this position, oh my god. i-i, fuck i can't even begin to apologize..." he rambled. you tried to fight back, to tell him that it was okay, to let it happen.
you had been a firm supporter this entire time of the notion that peter just needed to let the spider in and see what the fuck happened. obviously, he had never wanted to do that. too afraid of what would happen. at this point, you were afraid of what would happen to him if he didn't submit to what was desperately trying to crawl out of him. this had seemed like as good time as any to test your theory, as peter's monitor still continued to flash red, the trial number now surpassing five hundred.
besides, if you died because spider-man ripped you in half from fucking you too hard? that was a fine way to go out, in your opinion.
so you antagonized him. just... a little.
"spider-man!" you yelled in his face, and your voice rang out alongside the CRACK! of your palm across his cheek.
peter looked back at you, slight shock on his flashing on face before his eyes went fully black again. he locked sight on you, eyes twitching as he analyzed each minute movement your body made. and there was that fucking smirk again.
"oh i see. you want this, don't you?" peter rasped in your ear as he leaned back down, his breath hot against your skin. "fine. but don't be mad at me when it gets to be too much."
in a split second, your hands were whipped high above your head, warm and sticky webs encasing your wrists once again. this time, attached to peter parker's headboard. fuck.
you squirmed in his grasp, fighting the webbing even though you knew it was no use. you were there when he discovered just how fucking strong his organic web was in comparison to the lab-designed. you couldn't move, and you knew it. he knew it too.
peter's hands were on you in a frenzy, ripping your bra clean from your body in a single motion. you gasped as he stared down at your chest, vibrating with restraint. restraint that peter didn't have right now.
perfect.
his hands weren't off your body for long, quickly lunging to wrap around your exposed breast. he squeezed the soft tissue, hard enough to elicit a scream that ripped straight from your throat. he growled at your response, loosening his grip and focusing on pinching your erect nipples instead. he leaned down to bite one, earning another piercing scream.
peter pulled back to admire his work, and you looked down to see the instant handprint that was bruising over your left tit. it made you dizzy, seeing peter spider-man mark you with such a primal fucking desire. blood rushed back to comfort the sore area, leaving your chest feeling warm and fuzzy. you weren't allowed much of a reprieve, however.
peter manhandled you exactly how he wanted you, crawling out of his hold on you to spread your legs and raise your knees. once he had you positioned, you felt the warm rush of webbing cover your feet as well. oh, you were so fucked.
his fingers trailed up your legs, starting at your feet and working their way towards your aching core. you shivered against his touch, and noticed how he relished in the way it caused his webbing around you to vibrate. you were but a bug in his web, caught and waiting to be eaten.
you let out a moan as he grabbed at your inner thighs, no doubt leaving matching handprints to the one on your chest. peter just snarled in response.
"so fucking desperate for it. is this why you've been helping me all along? just waiting to get fucked by spider-man?"
he stared up at you from where he was in between your legs, hot breath teasing against your damp underwear. "so desperate i bet you don't even need any prep, am i right?"
peter reached his hand towards your core, fingertips trembling with constraint as he could feel just how wet you were for him. he hissed, retracting his hand as though he had been burnt. within seconds, your underwear had been ripped off your body like the rest of your clothes, leaving you fully naked in front of peter parker.
in front of spider-man.
you stared into the black void of his eyes as he repeated the same action to himself, shredding the infamous juicy sweatpants in the process. you were pretty sure your eyes were as dark as his were, pupils blown to shit as you stared at the fucking greek statue in front of you.
did spiders have insanely large dicks, or was that just a peter thing?
not now, jesus.
as he promised, there was no goddamn prep. no easing into it. peter climbed back on top of you, his limbs stalking over yours as his webbing held you firmly in place. you tried to struggle against it, even if just for the show of it. definitely for the show of it.
"just a dumb. fucking. bug. aren't you? landed right where i fucking wanted you to."
peter gave no warning as he thrust all of himself inside you, a sharp cry punching from your chest as he bottomed out in one go. the line between pain and pleasure was a fine one as he set a disgustingly rough pace, pistoning in and out of you like it would literally kill him to go any slower.
maybe it would. you weren't here to find out.
you squirmed against him on a particularly heavy thrust, only to be met with a hand at the base of your throat again.
"no, hold still. you fucking wanted this."
oh, you were so gone. you weren't even sure you were going to remember enough of this to be able to psychoanalyze these newfound kinks, you were too fucking cock-drunk off peter. he was still relentlessly forcing his way into you, but you seemed almost distant from your body now. as though the pleasure was so good, you had started floating.
peter noticed and it only drove him crazier, watching your limp body move in time with his thrusts as he milked you dry, a creamy ring around his cock each time he pulled out.
"is this why you've been so against the fucking inhibitor? been wanting me to lose my goddamn mind like this?"
you weren't sure when you had started crying, but warm tears were now flooding down your rosy cheeks. peter mock cooed at the sight.
"don't cry now, baby. this is exactly what you wanted, isn't it? this is exactly what you fucking asked for."
you moaned at his words, too lost to form your own. peter only held you tighter. "such a pretty fucking crier. taking me so well."
peter dropped his head in the crook of your neck as he kept going, reaching new levels of overstimulation. and for the first time, the overstimulation wasn't destroying him. it was consuming, driving his every movement and decision -- but it didn't hurt anymore. it almost felt... good. natural.
he had never had sex like this before. sure, in the past, the physical intimacy of it all had been overwhelming, feeling each sensation of the other person as if it were also his own. but something about this was different. peter could feel your heartbeat inside of his own body, each time you pulsed around him sent an electrical current through his system that was, well... electrifying.
peter could feel you getting close, the constrictions of your muscles changing every so slightly to signal to him that you were on the edge. not only that, but he could fucking smell the hormonal change in your body before you even knew it yourself, soft moans falling from your lips in a desperate attempt to let him know.
like he didn't already fucking know.
"i know, that's it. come for me, baby. i want you to feel me for weeks. i want you to hurt so bad that no one else can fuck you. only me. you're fucking mine," peter snarled possessively in your ear.
that was all it took for you to fall over the edge, weightless as you screamed through the orgasm. the feeling of your cunt tightening around him, your juices slicking his cock even more, the sounds of it all: it was beyond lewd. peter was immediately behind you, the sensations coming from you enough to reset his entire system. it was a sensory overload in the best way possible, his vision going white as he came the hardest he ever had.
peter flooded you with his warmth, and you had come back to earth just enough to notice how similar his cum inside of you felt like his webs against your wrists. he gave one final thrust before collapsing on top of you, using his remaining strength to rip the webbing from your hands and feet. his breathing was heavy again as he pulled his head up to look at you, and you noticed that his eyes had returned to the soft brown rings of peter parker.
he flickered his gaze around you and where you both were, confusion flashing across his face as he fought everything in his body telling him to sleep.
"what... oh my god, what happened?"
peter barely slurred it out before he passed out on top of you. still inside of you.
you fought against your own haze, still on cloud nine as you caught a green glow from the corner of your eyes. thank god for his loft set up -- his desk being tucked next to his bed, allowing you to close access to his tech in this moment. sometime in the last god knew how long, EVIE had run a successful trial, signified by the incandescent green radiating from his monitor.
you reached out as far as peter's weight over you had allowed, just barely catching the inhibitor in your fingertips. you guided the small machine around his sleeping frame, connecting it to the spot on the back of his neck. you were already out of breath, fucked dumb and on the verge of passing out, but this was about peter. it had been since the beginning.
with the inhibitor finally latched and active with a soft chrip!, you let out a sigh of relief watching peter's vitals and DNA level back out on the computer monitor. you could feel peter further relax on top of you, and it was enough to give you a final sense of accomplishment before you let the lull wash over you too, pulling you under with peter into a blissful slumber.
you woke up hours later, tucked into the covers, still on peter's stiff mattress. the webbing around his bed was gone, leaving you to wake up on fresh sheets. the scent was overwhelming peter, causing a smile to graze your lips before you even opened your eyes. he must've moved you in your sleep, as both the bedding and you were cleaned off.
you opened your eyes slowly, a dull headache settling behind your eyes and confirming your whiplash/concussion hypothesis from earlier. you saw the evening light coming through the loft windows, which had also been cleared of the previous webbing, and noted that it had in fact been hours that you'd been sleeping. it was now that you also noticed you were still naked while wrapped in peter's comforter, and a blush settled over your cheeks.
you went to sit up, but your entire body screamed protest as you moved. only a soft grunt left your lips, but it was enough to alert peter that you were awake again. he was at your side in an instant.
"oh my god, you're awake. thank fucking god, i was so worried that-"
you cut off his rambling with a hand to his chest, grateful to feel his heart beat almost at a normal rate again. normal for anxious peter, at least.
"pete, i'm okay." you gave him a soft smile, but it was the comfort that sent him over the edge. he quivered next to you as tears fought to fall from his eyes, physical proof of just how sorry he was.
there was your peter parker.
"no, listen. i'm so fucking sorry. i can't actually describe to you how sorry i am, there's no words for it. i-i'm a fucking monster, i can't believe that i... fuck, oh my god- i'm going to fucking throw up. i-i have the cops on speed dial, you know that, right? i'll call them. i swear to god, i will turn myself in right fucking now-"
"peter," you tried again, sitting up to meet his eye level more. to stop his spiraling.
the opposite happened as the blanket fell slightly in your adjustment, revealing a bit of your chest where he had left a handprint. peter's eyes locked onto the bruise, and he looked moments away from throwing himself off the building. his nervous shaking had turned to violent, full body tremors as tears finally slipped down his cheeks. he opened his mouth, surely to apologize more, but you weren't having it.
you pulled him in for a kiss, ignoring how tender your wrists were as you grabbed onto his sweatshirt. peter was hesitant at first, but soon melted into the kiss, feeling something deep and primal within him relax.
you broke the kiss to look at him again, and peter was beyond confused. "but i-"
"peter, i wanted it. all of it." you held his gaze firmly, one hand holding his comforter over your bare chest, the other tightly holding his own trembling palm. "i wanted to push you and see what would happen. to help you prove to yourself that you aren't a fucking monster, even if you don't know what the fuck is taking over. you're still my peter parker. you're still good."
peter let out a relieved huff of air, pulling you in for a gentle and cautious hug as happy tears landed against your bare back. he held you, thanking you profusely for trusting him. for helping him trust himself.
"do you feel better, pete?" you mumbled into the crook of his neck.
he choked on a laugh, and you felt a soft nod against your cheek. "yeah. yeah, fuck, i guess i do."
peter pulled back, concern laced in his eyebrows once again. "but you-"
"but i nothing, parker. i'm okay, really. think i can't handle a good fucking? being hurt a little?"
peter's cheeks lit on fire, a red flush extending down under the collar of his shirt. he laughed nervously, absentmindedly reaching up to graze his fingertips over the bruise blooming over your breasts. "good, huh? you're not too hurt?"
"oh i'm definitely hurt," you smirked at how quickly his face fell, your hand cupping his over your chest. "dare i say, hurt so bad that no one but you can fuck me?"
maybe it wasn't so bad if peter let the spider take over every now and then.
Everyone forgot who spiderman is—including his girlfriend Y/N. But her body remembers something her head can't. She wakes up in the middle of the night craving something she never knew she had. Peter ensures they find their way back to each other (very smutty)
WC: 16.4k, unprotected sex, restrained by Spiderman's webs during sex, dirty talk, kinda Dom!Peter, sex dreams (memories), reader is horny af, casual mentions of sex throughout the entire story, this is the same as my NCT Donghyuck story, this is a MCU ver! Part 1, part 2 at the end
----------------
Spiderman slips onto the fire escape outside Ned's apartment, the city humming below him like a heartbeat he can't quite feel anymore. He's not here to spy—he tells himself that. He's just checking. Making sure she's safe. That's what he does now: patrols her life like a ghost, invisible and aching.
But then he hears Ned's voice through the cracked window, and Y/N's laugh—that soft, familiar sound that used to be for him—and he can't tear himself away.
He crouches low, listening.
"So you're telling me you haven't gotten laid in, what, three months?" Ned's voice is teasing, light. He's sprawled on his couch, a beer in hand, grinning at Y/N like they're having the most casual conversation in the world.
She's curled on the other end, legs tucked under her, a throw pillow hugged to her chest. "That's not what I said."
"That's exactly what you said. You said you're 'too wound up, stressed, can't sleep.' That's textbook horny, babe."
"Ned!"
"What? I'm just saying." He takes a lazy sip of beer. "You're way too tense these days. You need to hook up with someone. Let off some steam."
She gasps, swatting at his leg. "I absolutely am not."
He grins, eyes glinting. "Yes you are. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem so restless lately. Like you're crawling out of your skin."
"It's just stress over work." She pulls the pillow tighter. "Writing for the New York Chronicles is a lot of work. Deadlines, interviews, fact-checking—"
"Uh-huh. And when's the last time you got properly fucked?"
"Ned!"
He laughs, full and unbothered. "I'm serious. Maybe some good dick will help you. Relax those shoulders, clear that head of yours. You're practically vibrating."
On the fire escape, Peter's hands tighten into fists.
She's mine.
The thought crashes through him, possessive and raw. His jaw aches from clenching. He watches her through the window—her flustered expression, the way she hides her face in the pillow, the way she doesn't deny it. She's restless. He knows. He's seen her pace her apartment at 2 a.m., seen her press her thighs together in the bathtub, heard the soft, frustrated moans she thinks no one can hear.
And he knows Ned is right. She needs release. But the idea of her finding that release in someone else—some stranger's hands, some stranger's mouth, some stranger's cock inside her—makes his stomach twist with something dark and violent.
"You're impossible," she mutters, throwing the pillow at Ned.
He catches it easily. "And you're in denial. But okay. Keep telling yourself it's deadlines."
She stands, smoothing her shirt. "I'm leaving before you say something even more embarrassing."
"Text me if you change your mind! I know a guy—"
"Goodnight, Ned!"
The door clicks shut. Ned chuckles to himself, shaking his head.
Peter stays frozen on the fire escape long after she's gone, her scent still lingering in the air, her laugh still ringing in his ears.
He knows what he has to do.
He has to reintroduce himself. Casually, carefully. Slide back into her life before she finds someone else to release those frustrations on. Before some other man touches what's his.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he watches her walk home from a rooftop three blocks away, her silhouette moving under the amber streetlights. He watches her pause at her door, glance over her shoulder like she feels something watching her. She hugs herself, shivers, and disappears inside.
Soon, he tells himself, pressing a hand over his chest where his heart used to belong to her. Soon I'll make you remember. Or I'll make you want me again.
But for now, he waits.
Peter stands outside the coffee shop, his reflection staring back at him from the glass door. He checks his hair three times—runs his fingers through it, smooths the front, tucks a stray strand behind his ear. The black shirt hugs his shoulders just right, and the glasses frame his face in a way that used to make Y/N bite her lip and look at him twice.
She loved these glasses, he thinks, adjusting them once more. She used to say I looked like a secret librarian. A hot one.
He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks in with a confidence he's been practicing for weeks.
The bell above the door chimes. Y/N looks up from the counter where she's been scribbling in a notebook—probably working on another article for the New York Chronicles. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a simple apron over a cream sweater, and when she sees him, she smiles.
It's polite. Professional. The same smile she gives every customer working at her parent's cafe.
But it's still her smile, and his heart stumbles.
"Hi," she says, setting down her pen. "What can I get started for you?"
He steps up to the counter, leaning an elbow on the polished wood. "Hey. I'll take an iced americano and a chocolate donut."
She nods, writing it down. "Anything else?"
"No, thanks. That's perfect."
She turns to prepare the coffee, and he watches her movements—efficient, practiced. The way she scoops ice, pours the espresso, reaches for the donut with a tissue. When she turns back and hands him the cup, their fingers brush.
It's barely a second. Just a whisper of contact.
But she pauses, her eyes lifting to his face. A flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?—passes through her gaze before she blinks it away.
"Here you go," she says softly.
He takes the cup, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks."
She smiles again, a little different this time—warmer, a hint of confusion. Then she turns back to the sink where a few dishes are waiting, rolling up her sleeves.
Peter takes a seat by the window, sipping his americano, watching her from behind his glasses. She's humming softly, something he doesn't recognize. From the back room, he hears Ned's voice, humming some pop song, the clatter of boxes being moved.
Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.
He comes in every other day, sometimes every day. Always orders the same thing—iced americano, chocolate donut. Sometimes he grabs a table and pretends to work on his laptop, but really he's watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she bites her lip while reading. The way she laughs at something Ned says, bright and easy.
Their interactions are casual. Limited.
"Morning Peter." She learns his name.
"The usual?" She asks.
"You know it."
A smile. A quick exchange. Then she's busy, and he's left with the ghost of her attention.
It's not enough.
So one afternoon, when the shop is empty and Ned is in the back, he makes his move.
He walks up to the counter, coffee in hand, and as he reaches to pay, he lets his wrist go slack. The cup tips. The lid pops off. Brown liquid splashes across the floor, a puddle spreading near his feet.
"Shit," he mutters, a little too loud.
Y/N spins around from the espresso machine. "Oh no! Don't worry, I'll get it—"
She grabs a roll of paper towels from under the counter and moves to crouch down, but he's already there. He takes the roll from her hands, his fingers closing over hers for a brief, deliberate second.
"It was my fault," he says, meeting her eyes. "Don't worry about it."
"Really, I can—"
"Nope. I got it." He kneels, wiping up the mess quickly, ignoring her protests. "You have enough to do. Let me take care of this."
She stands there, hands on her hips, watching him clean up her floor with an expression caught between amused and impressed.
"You're not going to let me help, are you?" she asks.
"Nope." He finishes, tosses the wet paper towels in the trash, and straightens up. "See? All good."
She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're stubborn."
"I prefer determined."
"A determined mess-maker."
He laughs—a real laugh, not the careful one he's been using.
They stand there, the air between them easier now, the tension cracked open. She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, studying him with fresh eyes.
"You come here a lot," she says.
"I do. Good coffee. Good donuts." He pauses, letting his voice drop just a fraction. "Good company."
Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then back up, a spark in her gaze. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Born and raised. Just... been away for a while."
"Ah. A returning native."
"Something like that."
She tilts her head. "What do you do, Peter? Besides cleaning up your own messes?"
"I'm a freelance photographer. I take pictures of the city, the people. Try to capture moments that don't last."
Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."
"It has its moments." He holds her gaze. "Maybe I could show you sometime. If you're interested."
The offer hangs in the air, soft and deliberate. She bites her lower lip, considering, and he feels his pulse quicken.
"I'd like that," she says quietly.
A bell rings from the back—Ned calling something about a shipment. The moment breaks, but it doesn't shatter. It settles into something warm, something potential.
"I should let you get back to work," Peter says, stepping back. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"
"Same time," she confirms, her smile lingering.
He walks out of the coffee shop, heart hammering, a grin threatening to break across his face. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't need to.
He knows he has her attention now.
Ned slides up beside Y/N the moment the door swings shut behind Peter. He nudges her shoulder with his, a knowing grin already spreading across his face.
"Okay, so that guy? Exactly your type."
Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can feel the heat creeping up her neck. "Peter?"
"Obviously Peter." Ned leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Like, I get it. He's attractive in that nonchalant way. The whole I just rolled out of bed but I'm still hotter than you vibe. And that confidence? It's practically dripping off him." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Makes you horny, doesn't it?"
"Ned!" She smacks his shoulder, but she's laughing. "Shut up. He's just a nice guy."
"A nice guy who you've been staring at for three weeks straight."
"I have not—"
"You literally watched him walk to the door just now. Like a sad puppy."
She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. She did watch him. She always watches him.
Ned groans, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "When you two finally hook up, I'm going to be right there to say I told you so."
"He's just a customer, Injun."
"Mhmm. Sure." He pats her shoulder and heads toward the back room, already humming again, leaving her standing there with her thoughts.
She bites her lip.
He's just a customer, she tells herself. But her mind drifts anyway, unbidden.
His voice—low and warm, with a teasing edge that makes her stomach flip. The way he carries himself, relaxed but aware, like he knows exactly what he's doing at all times. His baggy clothes, the way they hang off his frame, hiding and revealing at the same time. The silver rings on his fingers. That little smirk he gives her sometimes, like he's in on a joke she hasn't heard yet.
Her exes were... fine. Nice. Respectful. Boring.
They held doors open and said please and thank you. They kissed her forehead and asked if she was comfortable. They never made her pulse race. They never made her wonder what it would feel like to be pushed against a wall and taken.
Peter does.
He gives her mystery. Maybe even a little danger. The way he looks at her sometimes, like he's holding something back—something intense.
She shakes her head, physically trying to dislodge the thought. Crazy. You don't even know him.
But the thought lingers, hot and stubborn, all the way through the rest of her shift. It follows her home, past the subway, up the stairs to her apartment. It settles in her bones the moment she closes her door.
---
She's restless.
The apartment is quiet, dark except for the lamp by her bed. She changes into a tank top and shorts, lies down, tosses, turns. Her body feels tight—a coil wound too tight, needing release.
She gives in.
From the nightstand drawer, she pulls out her vibrator—a sleek pink thing she's had for years. She lies back, spreads her legs, and lets the hum of the motor fill the silence.
Her mind drifts to him.
To Peter. To his hands. Those rings. What they'd feel like gripping her thighs. His voice, low in her ear, telling her exactly what he's going to do to her.
She presses the vibrator harder against her clit, her breath hitching. She thinks about his smirk, his confidence, the way he holds her gaze a second too long. She chases the image, lets it build—
And then she comes.
A sharp, quick release. A gasp. The tension snaps, but it doesn't dissolve. It just... scatters. Falls apart unsatisfyingly.
She sighs, letting the vibrator drop onto the mattress. Her body feels hollow. Empty. Like the orgasm barely scratched the surface of what she actually needs.
"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.
She lies there, staring at the dark, her skin still buzzing with unresolved heat. She wants more. She wants him. But he's a stranger. A customer. Nothing.
She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and tries to sleep.
---
Outside her window, perched on a fire escape three buildings over, Peter watches the dark shape of her bedroom through the gap in her curtains.
He didn't look. Not directly. He swung toward her building on instinct, drawn by the familiar pull of her presence, and he landed on the adjacent rooftop just in time to hear it.
The buzz of the vibrator. Her soft, breathy moans.
His name. She whispered his name—Peter—on a desperate exhale.
And then the sigh. That disappointed, hollow sigh at the end.
He heard it all.
His fingers curl into a fist against the brick wall beside him. A smirk spreads across his face, slow and predatory, mixing with the ache in his chest.
You're not satisfied, are you, baby?
He knows the feeling. He's been unsatisfied too—in a different way. Hungry for her touch, her voice, her warmth. But that hunger is about to be fed.
He pushes off the ledge, letting the night air rush past him as he swings into the darkness.
Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.
Below him, the city blurs. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Another night of crime waits for him—thugs to stop, civilians to save. The usual.
But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.
———
It starts slowly.
A whisper of warmth against her skin. The weight of a body behind her, pressed close, solid and familiar. She can't see his face, but she knows him—or rather, her body knows him. Her back arches into his chest instinctively, seeking more contact.
His hands. God, his hands. Calloused palms sliding up her thighs, fingers digging into her hips with just enough pressure to bruise. She feels the cool bite of metal rings against her overheated skin. A low chuckle rumbles against her ear.
"You've been so good for me, baby. But I'm gonna take what's mine now."
She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already rolling her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up, positioning her on her knees. The sheets are soft beneath her palms. She can feel his cock—thick, hard, pressing against her soaked entrance—and she whimpers, pushing back against him.
"Please," she breathes. "Please, I need—"
He cuts her off with a sharp thrust. He slams into her to the hilt, and she screams, her body clenching around him immediately. He doesn't stop. He fucks her like he owns her, like he's been waiting for this, each stroke deep and punishing, hitting a spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.
"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."
His voice is low, rough, almost unrecognizable through the fog of lust. She can't think. She can only feel—the stretch, the burn, the relentless pounding. He wraps a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding, tilting her head back so he can whisper directly into her ear.
"You missed me, didn't you? Your tight little pussy missed me. Say it."
"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"
He groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through her bones. His pace quickens, his grip on her hip bruising. She feels the coil building, tighter and tighter, her moans turning into desperate sobs—
And then she wakes up.
---
Gasping.
Y/N bolts upright in bed, her tank top soaked with sweat, her thighs sticky with arousal. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, so empty it almost hurts.
She blinks at the ceiling, panting.
What the fuck was that?
The dream is already fading, slipping through her fingers like water. She remembers heat. A deep voice. Being pinned down and fucked senseless. But the face—she can't remember the face. Just a blur of dark hair, broad shoulders, a cruel smirk.
She presses her palm against her cunt, gasping at the sensitivity. She's soaked. Her thighs are slick. Her hole flutters, desperate to be filled.
"Fucking hell," she mutters, flopping back onto the pillows.
It's been like this for almost a week now. Every night, another dream. Some nights she's on her knees, sucking a thick cock while a hand tangles in her hair. Some nights she's tied to a bed, spread open, being fucked so slowly she can feel every inch drag against her walls. Some nights it's just a voice—a low, possessive voice—calling her filthy, desperate, mine.
She always wakes up the same way: wet, aching, unsatisfied.
She reaches for her vibrator on the nightstand, but even as she presses it against her clit, she knows it won't be enough. It never is anymore. She comes—hard, fast, grinding into the plastic—but the release is hollow. An echo of what her body actually craves.
She doesn't know what that is.
Her exes were boring. They never made her feel claimed. They never made her scream.
But her body wants something more, something she's never experienced. Or so she thinks.
She sighs, tossing the vibrator aside. Her cunt still throbs, still clenches, still weeps for something she can't name.
Why does this feel like grief?
---
Across the city, perched on a water tower overlooking her block, Peter watches the distant glow of her window with a dark, hungry expression.
He knows.
He's been watching her sleep through the gap in her curtains. He's heard her moans, her whimpers, the desperate sounds she makes when she's lost in a dream he put there—not consciously, but through the lingering threads of the spell that binds them. She can't remember him, but her body can. Her body is a traitor, whispering his name in the language of her muscles, her slick, her trembling thighs.
He clenches his fists, his cock hardening painfully in his suit.
He lets out a slow, shaky breath.
I'll give you what you're craving soon.
He pushes off the water tower, swinging into the night, leaving his mark on the rooftops like a promise.
But he doesn't go far. He lands on the fire escape just outside her window—close enough to hear her frustrated sigh, the rustle of sheets as she rolls over, the quiet, desperate whisper she thinks no one hears:
"What do I need? What's wrong with me?"
He presses a hand to the glass, his rings glinting in the moonlight.
Nothing's wrong with you, love. You just need me.
————
The morning rush at the coffee shop had been mercifully slow, leaving Y/N and Ned with nothing better to do than wipe down the already-clean countertops in a lazy, synchronized rhythm. The TV mounted in the corner murmured in the background—some local news broadcast about a bank robbery in Midtown. The anchor's voice was tinny, almost an afterthought.
"...and witnesses report that Spider-Man intervened just moments after the robbers entered. No casualties reported. The web-slinger made a quick escape as usual—"
Y/N didn't look up. Neither did Ned. It was New York. Spider-Man stopping a robbery was as routine as a subway delay. They'd both heard the name so many times it barely registered anymore—a ghost in red and blue, flickering across screens, saving lives, disappearing.
Ned hummed a tune under his breath, rubbing a smudge off the granite with his thumb. Y/N's mind was elsewhere. Still half-lost in the hazy aftertaste of another dream from last night—the echo of a deep voice, the phantom weight of hands on her hips, the ache between her legs that hadn't fully faded even after she'd come twice this morning.
She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.
Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.
The little bell above the door jingled.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Peter stepped inside, and she felt the air shift. He was breathing hard, his black t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, dark patches of sweat spreading across his chest and under his arms. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in messy waves, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened over his neck and collarbones.
He looked exhausted. But also... good. Really good.
"Hey," Y/N said, her voice coming out a little too breathy. She cleared her throat. "You okay?"
He offered a tired smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just tired. Killed it at the gym today." He let out a huff of laughter, rolling one shoulder like it ached. "Didn't realize I pushed myself that hard."
She nodded, already moving to make his usual ice americano. Her body went through the motions automatically while her eyes trailed down his frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the tanned skin. The sweat highlighted every contour—the arch of his biceps, the column of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.
Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.
Her gaze dropped lower, catching a glint of silver at his wrist. A bracelet—woven black cord with a small metallic charm, a roughly shaped star. It looked handmade, well-worn, the edges smooth like it had been touched a thousand times.
She slid the cup across the counter toward him. "That's pretty," she said, nodding at the bracelet.
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. A flash of emotion too fast to name—hope? Pain? He opened his mouth, and she could've sworn she saw him about to say something, his throat bobbing with a swallow.
Do you remember that you gave this to me?
But the words didn't come. He just watched her as she pulled away from the counter, already turning back to the rag in her hand.
Of course she didn't remember.
"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already distracted, moving toward the back to restock napkins.
Peter stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The star charm. She'd made it for him on their six-month anniversary, clumsily braiding the cord while sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing about how she'd never made jewelry before. "So you don't forget me," she'd said, pressing it into his palm. "Wear it even when you're being Spider-Man. I want to be with you, always."
He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache down his throat.
She doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't. You knew that.
Ned slid off his stool and walked over, holding out a napkin. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "Your forehead's bleeding a bit."
Peter blinked, reaching up. His fingers came away with a smear of red. Shit. Must've caught a stray piece of debris during the takedown. He'd been too focused on getting there fast—on changing out of the suit in that alley, on making it to the shop before she closed—that he hadn't bothered to check for damage.
"Ah, that." He took the napkin with a casual shrug, pressing it to the cut. "Tripped on the way here. Almost ate pavement. Stupid, I know."
Ned's eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a quiet skepticism behind his gentle gaze. He didn't say anything, but Peter could feel the weight of his unspoken question.
That's a weird place to trip. And you're too banged up for just a fall. And you showed up right after Spider-Man was seen.
But Ned just nodded, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Be careful," he said simply, and walked back to the counter.
Peter exhaled slowly, pressing the napkin harder against his temple. He watched Y/N move behind the counter, her hair tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was his. And she didn't even know it.
He took a long sip of the coffee she'd made him, letting the bitterness ground him.
He smiled against the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the curve of her back as she bent down to grab more cups from the low shelf.
The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.
The morning air in Manhattan carried the usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, pretzel cart steam, and distant sirens. Y/N walked with her messenger bag slung across her body, earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats keeping her grounded. The New York Chronicle skyscraper loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the pale winter sun. She was running a little early today, which meant she could grab a decent coffee from the lobby cart before heading up to her desk.
She was two blocks away when the screaming started.
At first, it was distant—a ripple through the crowd ahead. Then it grew, a wave of panic rolling toward her. People began sprinting in her direction, faces twisted with fear, elbows knocking pamphlets and coffee cups out of the way. A woman clutching a toddler nearly collided with her.
"What—" Y/N pulled out her earbuds, heart lurching. "What's happening?"
No one stopped to answer. The tide of bodies pushed past her, and she stumbled sideways, grabbing a lamppost to steady herself. Then she saw it: a column of smoke rising from the base of the Chronicle building. Orange flames licked at a collapsed awning. Glass littered the street like crushed diamonds.
Oh god. That's the lobby.
Her feet started moving before her brain caught up. She had to get in there. Had to see if her coworkers—her editor, the layout team, Maria from HR who always gave her extra granola bars—were okay. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.
"HEY!"
A blur of red and blue dropped from above, landing in front of her with a soft thud that cracked the asphalt. She yelped, skidding to a halt.
Spider-Man.
His lenses narrowed, body angled like he was about to grab her.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was modulated, sharp with urgency. "There's a gas leak—could blow again any second. Get back."
"I have to see if the people in that building are okay!" She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, a wall of spandex and muscle.
"I'll check. You stay here." He pointed a gloved finger at the sidewalk behind her. "Don't move."
She barely registered that she'd just been ordered around by a superhero. Her heart was hammering. The smoke stung her nostrils. "I'm not just going to—"
He was already turning, preparing to leap. She took a step forward, following him.
A sharp thwip sliced through the air.
Something snapped around her right wrist—a rope of white webbing, sticky and warm, yanking her arm sideways. She stumbled, grunting, and found herself anchored to the handle of a police cruiser parked at the curb. The web held fast, elastic but unyielding.
"What the hell?!" She yanked at her wrist, but the webbing stretched and held. "Are you serious right now?!"
Spider-Man paused, tilting his head. She could almost hear the smirk behind the mask. "Nope. Wait here. I'll free you after I'm sure it's safe."
And then he was gone, a red streak disappearing into the smoke-filled doorway.
Y/N stood there, arm stretched awkwardly toward the cop car, jaw hanging open. People were still running past her, but the immediate panic was thinning. She looked at her wrist, at the white strands wrapped snugly around it, and felt a jolt—not of anger, but of something else.
The texture. The pressure. The slight give when she pulled.
Her breath caught.
She was in her bedroom. The lights were dim. Her wrist was bound to the bedpost with...not a rope...not a scarf...something else entirely. Her arms stretched above her head and a dark figure hovered over her. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his weight, his heat, the deep rumble of his voice against her ear.
"Stay still, baby. I'm not done with you yet."
The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping on the sidewalk, knees weak.
What the fuck?
She shook her head violently, pressing her free hand to her flushed cheek. "I'm starting to feel like a fucking sex addict," she muttered under her breath. Of all the things to think about right now—tied to a car by Spider-Man—her brain was conjuring erotic flashbacks? With...Spider-Man? For all she knew, the guy was a forty-year-old accountant underneath that suit. He could be balding.
But he didn't move like a forty-year-old. And his voice, even through the modulator, had a certain quality—young, confident, teasing.
She shook her head again, harder. Stop it. Focus. The building.
A few minutes passed. The fire trucks arrived. EMTs started setting up a triage zone. Y/N strained her neck, trying to see if anyone was being carried out. She pulled at the web again, frustrated, but it held true.
Then Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, walking casually now, hands on his hips. He jogged over to her.
"Building's clear. No casualties. Gas leak was contained before it got worse. Minor injuries, but everyone's out." He reached for the web on her wrist and gave it a sharp tug setting her free.
She rubbed her wrist, red and slightly raw. "That wasn't cool. You could have just asked me to stay."
"I did. You didn't listen." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the suit's padding. "You should be more careful. People get hurt when they run toward explosions."
"I work there." She glared at him. "I was worried about my friends."
He was quiet for a second, his head tilted. She could feel his gaze through the white lenses, studying her. There was something familiar about the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.
Then he straightened. "Bye."
And with a single leap, he was gone, swinging between buildings, disappearing into the Manhattan skyline before she could even respond.
Y/N stood there, mouth half-open, hand still rubbing her wrist. The phantom sensation of the web lingered—soft, taut, possessive. Her skin tingled where it had been wrapped.
Why does that feel like a memory I can't reach?
She stared up at the empty sky, the smoke still curling into the gray clouds.
And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.
Get a grip, Y/N. He's a stranger in a mask.
But her body didn't believe that. Not for a second.
The evening air did nothing to cool the heat lingering beneath Y/N's skin. After the chaos at the Chronicle building, after being webbed to a police car like some disobedient puppy, after the shredded remains of her dignity scattered across Sixth Avenue—she'd gone through the motions. Talked to her editor. Confirmed everyone was safe. Filed a preliminary report on the gas leak. Smiled at Maria's thanks.
But all the way home, her wrist tingled. The ghost of that webbing refused to fade.
Now she stood in her apartment, shoes kicked off, coat thrown over the armchair. The city lights bled through her window, painting amber stripes across her wooden floor. She should shower. Eat something. Answer the three texts Ned had sent asking if she was okay.
Instead, she grabbed her laptop and collapsed onto her bed, flipping it open.
YouTube.
Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it. She typed in the search bar: Spider-Man New York 2024.
The results flooded the screen. News clips. Fan edits. Compilations titled "Spider-Man's Top 10 Saves" and "Spider-Man Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight." She clicked the first one—a news report from two months ago, shaky cell phone footage of Spider-Man webbing a falling construction beam before it crushed a bus.
She watched it twice. Then a third time.
The comments section was a battlefield.
"whoever is under that suit is DEFINITELY packing i'm not taking questions"
"imagine getting railed by spider-man... the grip?? the stamina???"
"he literally fights crime every night and still has time to help old ladies cross the street... husband material"
"plot twist: he's actually a 50 year old dude with a beer belly and we're all just simping for spandex"
"even if he is 50 i'd still let him web me to the bed 🥴"
Y/N snorted despite herself, scrolling deeper. The thirst was real, embarrassingly real. These women were out there, posting paragraphs about what they'd let Spider-Man do to them. What they'd do to him. She felt a pang of something—not judgment, because who was she to judge—but recognition.
She'd felt that web around her wrist. She'd felt the possessiveness in that single thwip.
And God help her, she wanted to feel it again.
She clicked on another video. This one was different—a street interview, low-budget, filmed by someone's phone. The camera focused on Spider-Man, standing casually beside a hot dog cart, and standing next to him was a little boy—maybe eight years old, holding a notebook.
The interviewer says, "We've got a special guest today—this is Liam, and he wanted to ask Spider-Man a few questions."
Spider-Man crouched down to the boy's level. His lenses softened, tilted—the body language of someone genuinely engaged. He reached out and patted the kid's head, a casual, affectionate gesture.
"Go ahead, Liam. I'm all ears."
And he laughed—a low, warm chuckle that cut through the modulator like a blade through silk.
Y/N's breath hitched.
That laugh. She knew that laugh. It tickled something deep in her chest, a phantom sensation, like a voice calling from underwater. Her fingers tightened on the laptop. She replayed it. Once. Twice. Three times.
"I'm all ears."
The way he said it—teasing, gentle, familiar.
She shook her head, hard. You're projecting. Every guy laughs. It's not him. You don't even know who "him" is.
But her skin was prickling. Her thighs pressed together under the laptop.
She kept scrolling.
There was a Reddit link. r/SpiderManFantasies (NSFW). Her thumb hovered over it for a full ten seconds before she clicked.
The forum was a treasure trove of desperation. Women (and some men) posting photos they'd taken of Spider-Man mid-swing, or perched on a rooftop, or standing in the middle of a street after a rescue. The photos weren't explicit—they couldn't be, he was fully suited—but the captions were anything but.
"If I ever meet him I'm dropping to my knees immediately. That suit does NOT hide what he's working with."
"Imagine him pinning you down after a fight, all that adrenaline still pumping... you'd feel the bass in his chest."
"I don't even care what he looks like. I just want one night. ONE. NIGHT. With whoever is under that mask."
One post showed a blurry shot of Spider-Man crouched on a fire escape, his legs spread, the suit stretching taut across his thighs. The caption read: "I want to sit on his face and never get up."
Y/N closed the laptop so fast the screen clicked shut.
Her heart was hammering. Her cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning.
"I'm not above this," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm so far below this it's embarrassing."
She threw the laptop aside and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside—distant sirens, a neighbor's TV, the low bass of a car passing by. Her skin felt too tight. Her cunt ached, a dull, persistent throb that had been living in her bones for weeks now.
The clock on her nightstand read 11:47 PM when Y/N finally collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her jeans and a thin camisole.
Sleep came heavy and reluctant.
---
She woke with a gasp, thighs pressed together, a dull throb between her legs.
The clock read 2:47 AM.
Her skin was damp with sweat. Her nipples were hard, rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. She'd been dreaming again—fragments of a body above her, weight pressing her into the mattress, a warm mouth trailing down her stomach. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his hands. Strong, calloused, knowing exactly where to touch.
"I've got you, baby. I've always got you."
She threw an arm over her eyes, breathing hard. She was wet, aching, clenching around nothing. She slid a hand down her belly, into her underwear, her fingers finding her clit swollen and desperate.
She rubbed herself slowly, trying to chase a release that never came. She imagined the web wrapped around her wrist again. Spider-Man's lenses staring down at her. The low laugh from the video.
"Fuck," she whimpered, fingers moving faster. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She could feel a shape just out of reach.
Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.
She pressed her palm harder, hips bucking, but the orgasm hovered like a mirage, untouchable. She let out a frustrated sob, pulling her hand away, her chest heaving.
Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.
Peter pressed his back against the brick wall, his own breathing uneven. He'd heard her whimper through the glass. Heard the wet sound of her fingers working. The whine of her frustration when she couldn't finish.
His cock was hard, straining against the suit. He'd come here to check on her after the explosion—to make sure she was safe, to watch her sleep like he did most nights. He hadn't expected this.
But he couldn't leave. Not while she was aching.
Not when he was the only one who could fix it.
He pressed a palm against the cold glass of her window, the mask hiding the anguish on his face. Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll find a way.
But for now, he just listened to her breathe, and hated the spell that kept them apart.
———
The knock that rattled Ned's door at 11 PM was frantic—three sharp, pounding hits, then a pause, then another. He barely had time to unlatch the lock before Y/N pushed past him into his apartment, her eyes wild, her hair a mess, her chest heaving like she'd run the whole way.
"Okay," she said, hands on her hips, pacing his narrow living room. "You were right. You were fucking right."
Ned closed the door slowly, crossing his arms. He was in sweatpants and an old band tee, clearly winding down for the night. "Right about what, exactly? Because I'm right about a lot of things."
She whirled on him, jaw tight. "The sex thing. The needing-to-get-laid thing. The I'm crawling out of my skin thing." She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots. "It's not just being horny, Ned. It's like—" She stopped, struggling for words. "It's like my body is craving something specific. A specific touch. A specific rhythm. A specific person. But I don't know who or what. I don't remember. I just feel this ache that nothing fills."
Ned's teasing demeanor softened. He gestured to the couch, and she collapsed onto it, head in her hands.
He sat beside her, voice careful. "An ex? Someone you dated before? Maybe your brain locked away a breakup that hit you harder than you think."
She looked up, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "No. It's not an ex. I don't have any traumatic breakup memory. It's—" She groaned, frustrated. "I don't know. It feels like a ghost. A phantom limb."
Ned was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe you don't need to find that specific person. Maybe you just need to try someone new."
She blinked at him. The idea hung in the air, fresh and foreign.
"Someone new," she repeated, tasting the words.
"Someone who doesn't come with baggage or memories. Someone who can just—" He made a vague gesture. "Fuck you into forgetting whatever's haunting you. A clean slate. A hot body. A night of no strings."
She stared at him. Then, slowly, a nod. "Maybe you're right."
His grin spread wide. "I am right. And I know exactly how to start." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "There's that new nightclub in midtown. Opened last week. 'Velvet Underground.' It's got black lights, VIP booths, and supposedly a very attractive bartender who does body shots. I've been dying to go."
"A club," she said flatly.
"A club where you can find a guy—or girl, no judgment—who will take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. That kind of club."
She chewed her lip. The idea terrified her. Thrilled her. She thought of her empty bed, the wet sheets, the incomplete orgasms. She thought of the phantom hands in her dreams.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Let's do it."
Ned clapped his hands together. "Yes. I'll text you the details. Wear something slutty. I'm talking a dress that says 'I'm here to get railed.'"
She laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "You're such a bad influence."
"Someone has to be."
They spent the next hour planning. What time to arrive. Which drinks to order. An exit strategy if the guy was a creep. Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, a fragile hope blooming in her chest.
---
Outside, pressed against the brick wall of the adjacent building, a figure in red and blue watched through the sliver of curtain left uncovered.
Peter's hands curled into fists.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
Someone new.
The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a knife twist. She was going to let some stranger touch her. Some random guy from a club. He'd put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat...
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled by the mask.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
He pushed off the wall, landing silently on the fire escape below. His mind raced. He couldn't stop her—not directly. He couldn't reveal himself, couldn't break the spell. But he could intercept. He could follow. He could make sure that no one—no one—got close enough to touch what was his.
Even if she didn't remember it.
He swung into the night, a plan already forming. The club. He'd be there. Not as Spider-Man—too obvious. He'd ditch the suit, put on something tight, something that would make her look. He'd find her on the dance floor, buy her a drink, let the night unfold.
The hunt was on.
The strapless bodycon dress was a weapon, and Y/N knew it.
Black velvet hugged every curve from her collarbone to mid-thigh, the hem riding up just enough to make men's eyes glaze over. She'd paired it with strappy heels that made her legs look miles long and a thin silver necklace that caught the light. Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup smoky and deliberate.
Ned let out a low whistle when she stepped out of her bedroom. "Holy shit."
"Too much?" She tugged at the neckline nervously.
"Not enough. You're going to break necks tonight. Possibly some hearts too, but who's counting." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
She took it, laughing. "Let's get me laid."
---
The Velvet Underground lived up to its name. The interior was all dark burgundy and dim gold lighting, with a massive dance floor pulsing under black lights that made white fabrics glow. Bodies moved together in a haze of sweat and bass, the air thick with perfume and alcohol.
They claimed a spot at the bar, and Ned ordered them both shots of tequila. "Warm-up," he shouted over the music.
Y/N downed hers, grimacing at the burn. A second followed. Then a third.
By the fourth, the edges of her anxiety had blurred into a pleasant haze. The bass thrummed through her bones, and she found herself swaying, scanning the crowd. Potential candidates everywhere—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders, confident grins.
None of them made her stomach flip.
But then the door opened.
And he walked in.
Peter had planned this.
Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.
Her favorite outfit.
He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."
And she had. For hours.
He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.
There she was.
Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.
He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.
Then Ned spotted him.
"Hey! Peter!"
Peter turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."
Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."
Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.
Ned gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."
"A mission?" Peter raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."
She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."
Ned sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."
Peter smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.
"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."
Ned looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."
They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—
Right into Peter's arms.
Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."
His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.
He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"
She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."
If only you knew.
Ned was already heading for the door, waving them along. Peter kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.
The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.
"You smell... familiar."
His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"
"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."
Ned shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Peter just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.
They reached her building. Ned held the door while Peter helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.
When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.
"Thank you," she mumbled into Ned's shoulder. "You're the best."
She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Peter.
Her eyes met his.
The air between them thickened.
"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."
The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.
Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.
But not yet.
Not yet.
He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."
She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.
The lock turned.
Peter stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.
"She say something?" Ned asked from behind.
"Just saying goodnight."
Ned hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."
Peter turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."
"Uh huh." Ned didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Peter."
"Yeah. See you."
When Ned disappeared down the stairwell, Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.
But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.
That was enough.
For now.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.
Peter stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.
But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.
And he was out here. Alone. Again.
He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.
It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.
He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.
"Fuck."
He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Peter saved no one. Not even himself.
He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.
But Peter deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.
He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.
"You're so good, Peter. Fuck—don't stop—"
His hand curled into a fist.
Then his spider-sense flared.
Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.
He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.
---
The city was cruel tonight.
He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.
Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.
A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.
A break-in at a convenience store.
A fire on the Lower East Side.
He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.
But it didn't.
Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Peter. One day you won't come back."
And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.
Now she didn't even know to wait.
---
He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.
The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.
He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.
"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.
He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.
He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.
Soon.
Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.
Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.
But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.
For her. Always for her.
The bell above the door chimed, and Peter walked in like he owned the place.
Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Ned had convinced her to take.
She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.
"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.
He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."
"Someone regrets everything."
He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."
She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.
Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.
A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Peter had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Peter's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.
"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.
Peter just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.
Y/N froze.
The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.
She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.
But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.
Peter straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"
She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."
She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.
She needed to get this over with.
"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Ned was being an ass, and—"
"Cute."
She stopped. "What?"
"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."
Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.
He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."
He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.
She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.
Fuck.
She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."
She shook her head, turning back to the register.
But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Peter. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.
Maybe I have a crush on him.
She bit her lip.
Or maybe I'm just that desperate.
But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.
And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Peter smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.
Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.
The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Peter—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.
She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.
A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"
Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.
"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.
Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.
She followed without hesitation.
The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—
And then he was gone.
No. Not gone. Pinned.
A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.
"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.
Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.
She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—
A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.
She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.
"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"
"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.
Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.
She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.
He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.
"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."
She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"
She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"
She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—
And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.
She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.
Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.
And something clicked.
The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.
She looked up.
The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.
Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.
I know you. I've felt you before.
She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—
He stepped back.
Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.
"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."
And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.
She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.
Why does he feel so familiar?
She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.
And yet, he's a stranger.
She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.
Who are you?
The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Peter watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.
——————————
The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.
Peter walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.
"Morning, Y/N."
She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.
Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."
He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."
She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.
She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.
"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.
She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.
The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Ned was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Peter settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.
He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.
After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.
"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.
The moment the door clicked shut, Ned emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Okay. Now's my chance."
Y/N frowned. "What chance?"
Ned didn't answer. He darted to Peter's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.
"Ned, what the hell—"
"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."
Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"
"Relax, I'm just looking." Ned's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"
"Ned, I swear to God—"
He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."
He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.
It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.
Ned held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."
But Y/N wasn't listening.
She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.
The same texture.
Her blood ran cold.
She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.
This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—
She looked up. Ned was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
She was holding Spider-Man's mask.
Peter's mask.
Peter is Spider-Man.
The realization hit her like a freight train, knocking the air from her lungs. She stood there, frozen, the fabric clutched in her hands, the truth burning through her.
He's the one who saved me. He's the one who webs me to walls. He's the one who watches me from the shadows.
He's the one I've been dreaming about.
She thought of the dreams—the vivid, explicit dreams where Spider-Man's voice had whispered filthy things in her ear, where his hands had pinned her down, where his body had moved inside hers like he knew every inch of her. The dreams where she had arched into him, moaning, pleading, coming undone.
Her face flushed, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.
Oh God.
She had been dreaming about him. About the man who had been coming into her café, smiling at her, teasing her, touching her—and she hadn't known.
But her body had.
Her body had remembered.
"Y/N?" Ned's voice was sharper now. "Put it back. He'll be out any second."
She forced her hands to move, folding the mask roughly and shoving it back into the bag. She zipped it closed just as the bathroom door creaked open.
Peter emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. He glanced at them—Ned standing awkwardly by the table, Y/N frozen behind the counter—and his brow furrowed.
"Everything okay?"
"Fine!" Ned said, too quickly. "Great. Just—telling Y/N about a thing. A thing I saw. Bye."
He scurried back to the stockroom, leaving Y/N alone with Peter.
He walked to the counter, picking up his coffee, his eyes studying her. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off today."
She couldn't look at him. She stared at the counter, at the espresso machine, at anything but his face.
"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just tired."
He didn't push. He just nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Alright. I'll see you later, then."
He turned and walked out, the bell chiming behind him.
Y/N stood there, her heart pounding, her mind racing.
Peter is Spider-Man.
And she had been dreaming of him fucking her senseless.
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something hot and hungry—coiled in her stomach.
She had questions. So many questions.
But more than that, she had a need.
A need to find out if the dreams were somehow real.
----------
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Synopsis: On the brink of graduating in Law, you are torn between the expectations of a life planned by your family and the desire for freedom that begins to emerge. When you meet Tom, a young man with a dark past and an unexpected connection to your father, what starts as a forbidden attraction turns into something deeper. But the weight of family secrets and tough choices threaten to tear you apart, forcing you to fight for your own identity while challenging the rules that have always controlled you.
W/C: 20K+
The loud music vibrates through the concrete floor as if the entire building is about to collapse. The smell of beer, cigarettes, and sweat clings to your expensive skin and to the fabric of the dress, which clearly wasn’t made for this kind of place. An abandoned warehouse in East London, converted into an improvised "dance floor," full of faces that don’t know you and, honestly, would rather keep it that way.
You don’t belong here — and that’s exactly why you’re here. You’re tired of elegant ballrooms and dull conversations. You’re tired of waiting for your graduation as if counting the days of a sentence. Tonight, you wanted to disappear from your world and appear in another.
And that’s when you see him.
Tom.
In worn-out jeans, a tight black t-shirt clinging to his chest, and a plastic cup in hand. His usual messy hair, his pale eyes scanning the room as if looking for something... or someone.
He sees you.
For a second, everything around you seems to stop — the beat of the music, the flashing lights, even the air trapped in your lungs. And, for the first time since you’ve known him, his gaze isn’t calm, evasive, or cold. It’s worried.
As if your presence here isn’t just out of place. It’s dangerous. You smile, almost instinctively. But he doesn’t return it. He simply turns his face, takes a sip of his drink, and walks in the opposite direction. And you, of course, follow.
You make your way through the crowd with determined steps, the sound of your heels sharp against the stained floor. Some people glance at you, perhaps because your dress stands out, or maybe because your posture doesn’t fit in with this place. But you don’t care. All you see is him.
Tom stops near a metal staircase, in a darker corner where the music seems to vibrate less and the air feels heavier. He feels you approach before you even say anything. But he waits. As if giving you the chance to leave. You’re not going to.
"Do you usually come to places like this?" Your voice is firm, slightly provocative.
He slowly turns around, his eyes travelling from your heels to your eyes. The concern is still there, but now there’s something else. Something between suppressed anger and... curiosity.
"You shouldn’t be here," he replies, simple, direct. "What are you doing here?"
"Someone told me about the party. I decided to come." You shrug, as if it’s no big deal. But it is. He knows it. And you know he knows it.
"Does it bother you?"
He runs a hand through his hair, fingers coated with old grease that even soap doesn’t fully remove.
"It’s not a place for you," he says, jaw clenched. "If your dad finds out you’re here, it’s going to cause trouble."
You cross your arms, smiling with that touch of irony you’ve learned to use when people want you to leave a place.
"My dad doesn’t control me. And, with all due respect, Tom, neither do you."
His eyes narrow slightly. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t give any indication that he’s going to cave to your presence like so many others.
"There are people here who won’t think twice before causing trouble with someone like you," he says, taking a step closer to you. "You don’t understand this kind of environment. Or these people."
You raise your chin, provoking:
"And you’re one of these people?"
The silence between you two weighs heavily.
Finally, he answers, quietly:
"I try not to be. But sometimes blood pulls you in."
You don’t understand what he means — not yet — but the tension between you two is so thick it almost feels physical.
"I can take care of myself, Tom."
He leans in just slightly, his eyes on yours with raw intensity.
"I hope so. Because if anyone touches you here, it won’t be you who suffers. It’ll be me."
You’re still staring at Tom when you feel a presence stop beside you. Some random guy, wearing a loose jacket and a crooked smile, seems to have noticed the conversation.
"Look at this, Tom. I thought the rich family didn’t leave the castle." He laughs mockingly, eyeing you up and down.
Tom tightens his expression but doesn’t respond.
"And you, princess?" the guy goes on, stepping a bit too close. "Do you even know who you’re messing with?"
You frown — his tone isn’t just unsettling, it’s suggestive. Almost venomous.
"And do you know who you’re talking to?" you shoot back, dryly. He chuckles, but before he can say anything else, a girl — redhead, smudged makeup, a beer bottle in hand — walks over and steps between the two of you.
"Leave it, Jay," she says. "There’ll be enough shit when they find out he brought the posh girl into the den." She turns to you. Her eyes are sharp. "You do know who his brother is, right?" Your eyes widen for a moment.
Tom steps in before anyone can say more, his hand firm on the girl’s shoulder.
"Go home, Riley. Now."
She smiles — but not kindly. It's laced with venom.
"Just warning her. Before she finds out the hard way."
She walks off, swinging the bottle. Jay follows soon after, still chuckling under his breath.
You look at Tom.
"What the hell was that?" He doesn’t answer. Not yet.
His expression is more closed off than ever, jaw tight, eyes distant. But you know — there’s something. A secret hanging between you.
"Tom," you press. "Who’s your brother?"
"Not here," he replies, voice lower. "Come with me."
Without arguing, you follow him through a side door that leads out the back of the warehouse — a narrow corridor lit by old, flickering bulbs. The noise of the party is muffled now. The brick walls, dirty floor, smell of smoke — everything feels quieter. More private. He stops, leans against the wall, runs his hands over his face. You don’t speak. You just wait.
"Ezra," he starts, after a long silence. "He... made mistakes. But that’s none of your business."
You step closer, unafraid.
"Maybe not. But you are."
His eyes meet yours. There’s something between anger and desire in them. Like he’s been fighting this — fighting you — all along.
"You shouldn’t be here," he repeats, but his voice falters slightly. "You don’t know what I am. What I carry."
"Then show me."
You move in, slowly. The tension between you hums like electricity. He hesitates. For a moment, it looks like he might pull away.
But he doesn’t.
His hand moves to your waist. The touch is firm, warm. His breath brushes your skin when he speaks, almost a whisper:
"You’ve no idea what you’re doing." You smile, your lips nearly brushing his.
"Oh, I do."
And then he kisses you.
It’s intense. Heated. Like everything you’ve both been holding back has finally broken loose. The rough wall at your back, his hand at your waist, the urgency of his lips — it all says you’re crossing a line that can’t be uncrossed.
The kiss deepens. There’s no space for words now — only for hands reaching with urgency, for bodies fitting together as if they’ve known each other forever, even without ever having touched.
He presses you into the wall with his body, and his hand runs up your back, sliding over the fabric of your dress as if he’s trying to memorise the feel of you. You breathe him in — grease, tobacco, and something that’s only him — and everything else falls away.
There’s no party, no voices, no hesitation.
The urgency is shared. The kisses grow more desperate, more consuming — as if you’re both trying to outrun the world waiting outside that corridor.
You’re not thinking — and neither is he.
There’s no time for promises. Only desire. Only need.
And when it’s over — bodies still close, breaths still ragged — the silence returns. But it’s no longer comforting like before.
Tom pulls away first. Slowly. As though regret is dripping from his shoulders.
He avoids your gaze, tugs his T-shirt back into place and runs a hand through his hair with force, like he’s trying to erase what just happened.
"That was a mistake," he says. His voice is low, but firm.
Your heart tightens. You straighten up, adjusting your dress, clinging to whatever dignity you can while the anger starts to simmer beneath your skin.
"Is that all you’ve got to say after everything?"
He finally looks at you. His eyes are full of conflict.
"You don’t understand, love. I’m a bloke just trying to keep my head above water. And you… you’re everything that could drag me under."
You let out a short, bitter laugh.
"And yet you’re the one who came after me. Who kissed me. Who pinned me against the wall."
He shuts his eyes for a beat, as if every word from you hits him square in the gut.
"I shouldn’t have. But I wanted to. God, I wanted to…"
You feel the ground shift again — but this time, it’s not the music. He shakes his head.
"We shouldn’t do this again. We shouldn’t keep pretending there could ever be something between us."
You fold your arms, looking him dead in the eye.
"Bit late for that, Tom."
He hesitates. For a moment, it seems like he might apologise. Or say you’re right. But instead, he just turns and walks away.
Leaving you there — alone, surrounded by cold concrete and the scent of tobacco and iron, with the taste of him still lingering on your lips.
You’re still trying to steady your breath when you hear footsteps approaching down the corridor.
Quick steps. Purposeful.
Tom had already gone — leaving you alone in the cold concrete and the heavy silence — when she appeared.
A girl with her hair thrown up in a messy bun, smudged makeup, and a beer bottle in her hand. Leather jacket unzipped, worn-out boots, and a nose ring catching the light.
She stopped just a few steps from you, eyes far too sharp for someone merely “passing through”.
“He does that,” she said, before you even asked. “He touches, sparks something, then disappears like it never happened.”
You frowned, surprised.
“You know him?”
She took a sip of her beer, leaning her shoulder against the wall like she had all the time in the world.
“Known him since he was just ‘Ezra’s kid brother’. Now he acts like he doesn’t remember who he is. But no one round here forgets.”
She looked at you — really looked — like she could see right through the expensive dress and carefully held composure.
“You’re not from here.”
“Sharp one.” She smirked.
“Olivia. And you are?”
You hesitated. You weren’t used to this kind of person. The kind who doesn’t care what you’re wearing or who your father is. But there was something about her… real.
“Y/N.”
She nodded.
“Want a fag or some advice?”
You gave her a half-smile.
“Surprise me.”
She laughed — a rough, worn-out kind of laugh, like someone who’s seen far too much.
“So here it is: if you’re going to get burned by Tom Holland, at least know where you’re stepping. Because one thing I can promise you — he’s not just a bad boy with a tragic past. There’s real darkness in him. And it pulls under anyone who tries to save him.”
You hold her gaze for a moment. And there it is — the first warning.
But you already know you’re not going to listen.
“And how do you know Tom?”
A chill climbs the back of your neck. The question was blunt, no sugar-coating. Like she was trying to piece together a puzzle where none of the pieces fit.
“He works for my dad,” you reply, keeping your voice as even as possible. “Comes by the house sometimes. Fixing things. That sort of thing.”
Olivia lets out a low, almost sarcastic laugh.
“So that’s it. The posh girl giving the lad from the grease-stained overalls a bit of attention.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I’m not as predictable as I look.”
She watches you for a second longer, then gives a half-smile. But it’s the kind of smile that carries weight.
“Didn’t say you were predictable. Just said you might get hurt.”
You feel a tightening in your chest. Because in that moment, you’re still warm from his kiss, dizzy from his touch, thinking this might actually be the start of something. But her words come like a warning. The kind that only makes sense later.
“He doesn’t talk much about himself,” you say, maybe more to yourself than to her.
“No, he doesn’t. But he doesn’t have to. Where we grew up, silence carries more history than any small talk ever could.”
She takes another swig, and her eyes soften a little.
“Seriously, Y/N. Be careful. Tom’s the kind of bloke who tries to protect everyone — except himself. And sometimes, when you get too close… he’ll shove you away with the rest.”
You swallow hard. But you don’t say anything.
You just file away her name. And that far-too-perceptive look.
Olivia.
The only person at that party who seemed to see all of you.
......
The day breaks overcast — typical London. The sky is grey, but inside you, everything is chaos.
You spend the morning with your head spinning. Every detail from the night before plays on a loop — his touch, the words, the silence that followed. The bitter taste of “that was a mistake” still clings to your throat. You’re not even sure it really happened.
Your father’s voice echoes through the house, coming from the garage.
“Tom, see if you can have a look at the brakes. They're acting up again.”
Your body freezes. You close the book you weren’t really reading and stand, walking to your bedroom window with your heart lodged somewhere in your throat.
There he is. Tom.
Flannel shirt hanging open over a dark tee, sleeves rolled up, hands already stained with grease. He’s crouched by the car, focused — like last night never happened. Like he hadn’t touched you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.
You watch him for a few seconds, trying to understand how he can look so... unaffected.
And then, as if he can feel your eyes on him, he lifts his head.
And sees you.
For a second, your eyes lock.
It’s quick.
He looks back down like it meant nothing. Like you weren’t there. Like it was all a bad dream — or too good to be true.
But you’re not having that.
You head downstairs.
The sound of your footsteps on the marble floor, the cold morning air drifting through the side door of the house, the familiar smell of oil coming from the garage. He’s still there when you appear in the doorway, arms crossed and expression carefully held.
“Hi,” you say.
Tom doesn’t answer immediately. He finishes tightening a bolt, wipes his hands on an old rag, and only then looks up.
“Hi.”
Simple. Enough to make you angry.
“So that’s how it’s going to be now? You act like nothing happened?”
He sighs, getting up slowly, eyes on yours.
“I’m here to work, Y/N. Not to relive something we shouldn’t have done.”
You let out a short, bitter laugh.
“Funny. Didn’t feel so wrong last night.”
He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to leave you breathless.
“It wasn’t wrong because I didn’t want it. It was wrong because I can’t.”
“Do you always hide behind this ‘can’t’? Or is that just an excuse not to deal with how you feel?”
He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s fighting his own words.
“I’m not a clean guy, Y/N. My name carries weight. So does my past. If you get involved with me, you’re going to get hurt.”
You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to look away.
“I’m already hurt.”
The silence between you thickens again. But now, there’s something else. An open wound.
Before he can say anything else, your father’s voice echoes from the other side of the garage:
“Everything alright out there, Tom?”
He pulls back from you, his eyes avoiding yours again.
“Yes, sir. Just finishing up here.”
And then, just like last time, he turns his back. But now, you can tell he’s fighting just as hard as you not to come back.
…...
You didn’t expect a message from her. But there it was on your screen, eleven in the morning:
Olivia (Warehouse Party)
“Was sober enough last night to catch the tension. If you want coffee and some truth, meet me at Neptune at 1pm. My neighbourhood. If you’ve got the guts.”
You hesitate. On one hand, she seems like the kind of girl who could steal your wallet without you noticing. On the other… she saw everything. And maybe she knows more than you’ll ever find out on your own.
The place is small, with the strong smell of burnt coffee and frying grease. Everything creaks — the chairs, the floor, even the waiter sounds like he’s cracking his joints as he walks past. But it’s alive. Full of chatter, loud laughter, and soft music coming from a broken jukebox in the corner.
Olivia’s already there. One boot on the bench, denim jacket covered in old band patches, and a wine-coloured lipstick smudged like she can’t be bothered to touch it up.
She gives you a once-over.
“Well, well. Princess left her castle.”
You smirk, taking the seat across from her.
“Just curious what the commoners are saying about me.”
She lets out a genuine laugh and tosses a sugar packet into your cup.
“I like you. There’s poison behind all that silk skin.”
You tilt your head, intrigued.
“How long have you known Tom?”
“Since he couldn’t tighten a bolt without busting his fingers.” She stirs her coffee. “His mum used to watch the street kids. She was sweet. He was always the quiet one. The kind who explodes silently.”
You lean your elbow on the table.
“And his brother?”
She pauses. The spoon keeps turning in the coffee longer than it should.
“Ezra’s… different. Always was. The type who made noise wherever he went. Yelled, punched, threatened. People were afraid of him. Some still are.”
You swallow hard.
“What did he do?”
Olivia leans her arms on the table, tilting toward you.
“Ezra was arrested for theft, assault, and… attempted murder. But the streets talk more than the papers. And the name ‘Holland’ — their surname — doesn’t wash away easily.”
Your heart starts to race.
“And Tom?”
“Tom’s always been his brother’s shadow. Always tried to clear his own name. But the blood’s the same, right?” She looks at you with narrowed eyes. “You think you’re stepping into a forbidden, dangerous romance? This isn’t a movie, princess. It’s real life. And here, the good guys sometimes have dirty hands too.”
You swallow hard.
“He’s not his brother.”
“No.” She leans back in her chair. “But he’s been beaten, he’s run, he’s hit back. He’s had to do shit to survive. And that leaves a mark.”
The waiter arrives with your coffee. You don’t drink it. You just hold the hot cup in your hands, trying to take it all in.
Olivia watches your silence, and before she stands, she says:
“Just don’t cry when he pushes you away. He always does that when he starts to care.”
You look at her.
“Why?”
“Because Tom believes anyone he loves always ends up getting screwed over. And maybe… he’s not wrong.”
She throws some coins on the table and walks off.
You sit there. The smell of coffee rising, her words spinning in your head, and his name caught on your lips.
Tom.
The days after the party were long.
You went back to your bubble. The house with hallways too white, where silence is only interrupted by the sound of fine cutlery against porcelain during dinner. Your mother asking about university with that passive-aggressive tone, as if every answer was some sort of test.
If your life were a grade on an invisible report card. Your father focused on his papers, always waiting for you to “keep up the posture.”
Graduation is near. The dress has already been bought. The invitations printed. Everyone expects you to smile and shine. After all, you’re the perfect daughter. The promise fulfilled.
But no one asks if you sleep well. If you’re breathing properly. If your heart still races when you think of someone with the scent of oil and dirt.
You spend your days going from the library to home, answering empty messages from coursemates, and ignoring your phone whenever it vibrates with a number that isn’t his.
Tom disappeared.
And you don’t know if that’s more annoying or predictable.
Sometimes, you pick up your phone and almost message Olivia. But you always delete it. You don’t know exactly what you’d say. And you’re afraid of what she’d reply.
So you pretend nothing happened.
You go back to studying. You go back to smiling in the right places. You go back to having lunch in silence with your family, pretending you don’t miss the hoarse voice of someone saying that all of this was too dangerous.
But at night, when you lie down, your eyes don’t close easily.
Your body still remembers his.
And the worst part is knowing he must be out there, somewhere. In the same neighborhood, perhaps walking through streets you’ve never stepped on. Fixing cars. Taking care of his mother. And avoiding you.
Because that’s what he chose.
And yet… part of you still waits.
You were sitting on a bench in the park near the university, book open on your lap, but your eyes lost somewhere between the sky and your own thoughts, when you heard the familiar voice:
“Are you studying or just pretending so no one comes near?”
You look up. Olivia.
A faded Joy Division t-shirt, a cigarette stub between her fingers, and a chewing gum on the corner of her mouth. She throws herself on the bench beside you as if you were old friends — and maybe, in some strange way, you really are.
“A little of both,” you reply, closing the book.
"I thought so" she clicks her tongue, looking around. "You’ve got that look, the one of someone about to scream but still worrying if it’ll seem improper."
You let out a low laugh, lacking humour.
"Is it that obvious?"
"To someone who's gotten used to swallowing their own scream, yes." She leans back on the bench, her eyes on the grey sky. "I know you’re trying to move on. Or pretending you’re not waiting for him to come back. But look… sometimes the problem isn’t the guy. It’s the world they’ve created for you to fit into."
You turn your face to her, surprised.
"And you think you know me that well?"
Olivia smiles, a bit sad, a bit knowing.
"I think you’re tired of being perfect. And maybe you’re ready to throw yourself into a place where no one cares if your hair’s in place or if your parents would approve of your choices." She looks at you sideways.
"There’s a party tomorrow. Nothing fancy. Just the folks from the neighbourhood, only the ones who matter. Loud music, cheap beer, and no one judging anyone. If you want… show up." You hesitate.
"A party like the last one?" She shrugs.
"Better. Smaller. No idiots hitting others for giving them the wrong look. Just broken people trying to laugh before the next punch life throws. You should try it. Who knows, maybe you’ll find yourself in someone else." You bite your lip, thoughtful. For some reason, you trust her. And you’re tired of denying what you feel just to stay within a display case.
"Send me the address." Olivia smiles, satisfied.
"I knew there was a crack in that porcelain. It’ll be good for you. I promise." She stands up, already leaving, and throws over her shoulder:
"Ah, and bring a jacket. It’s freezing in there with the windows open."
……
The clock on the wall reads 7:30 p.m. when you start getting ready. The dress you bought for graduation is tucked away at the back of your wardrobe, and you can’t even remember the last time you felt excited about it. Not today.
Today, the mirror reflects a more relaxed version of you, someone who doesn’t need approval, someone who just wants to be herself. The choice of dress is simple — black, without many details, but comfortable. Nothing that demands perfection. And, above all, nothing that demands control.
Your phone vibrates on the bed, a message from Olivia:
"Come later. No need to be on time. Just come with an open mind. And if anyone asks what you’re doing, pretend you don’t have an answer, because no one will ask."
You smile to yourself, slipping the phone into your bag, trying to hide the growing nervousness. It’ll be just one night. A night where you don’t have to be anyone, where no one will look at you as the heir to the perfect family. You can just breathe.
Then, you hear the sound of your bedroom door opening. Your mother appears in the doorway, the familiar expression of someone with a formed opinion before you even speak.
"Where do you think you’re going dressed like that?" She asks, her eyes fixed on the dress, but with that reproachful tone you know so well.
You turn to face her, forcing a smile.
"I’m just going out with some friends. It’s nothing major, mum." She raises an eyebrow, clearly not believing you.
"Friends? Really? You’re calling them 'friends' to go out looking like that? Don’t you know what kind of people are out there, Y/N? Or do you think it’s just some innocent fun?"
You swallow hard, avoiding her gaze. You know if you try to explain, the conversation will drag on to places you don’t want to go. You’d rather say nothing. Just… leave. No more explanations.
"It’s nothing like that, mum. I’m just going to hang out, I need a break from university. Get away from this routine for a while. I’m almost done with my degree, remember? I need to breathe." She steps a little closer, her voice firmer, sharper.
"And don’t you think you’re old enough to understand that sometimes 'breathing' can have consequences? I’ve seen this before, Y/N. Do you really think you can just go around doing whatever you want without thinking about the repercussions?"
You feel a tightness in your chest. Old enough? You're 23. Almost graduating. And yet, you still have to answer the same questions, the same accusations from those who treat you like a child.
You swallow the anger rising and respond, trying to keep calm.
"I know exactly what I'm doing, mum. I just want to have a different night. It won't be the end of the world."
Your mother still watches you for a moment, but says nothing. She simply crosses her arms and sighs, as if forcing herself to accept something she cannot change.
"Just be careful, Y/N. I don't know where you think you're going, but I can't feel at ease knowing you're just disappearing like this, without giving the slightest explanation."
You turn the key in your bag and approach the door, already knowing what you need to do, even without words.
"Don't worry." Your voice comes out calmer than you'd like, trying to show a confidence that isn’t genuine. "Goodnight, mum." She stands there, watching you leave, but says nothing more. The sound of your footsteps on the stairs is the only noise that echoes through the house.
You feel, deep down, the weight of being treated like a child, of having to ask permission just to be who you are. But, when you open the door and step out into the cold night, a part of you finally allows yourself to feel the sensation of freedom. Freedom. Even if it’s only temporary.
The street is deserted, except for a few parked cars and the soft light coming from a house at the end of the road. As you get closer, you hear the sound of soft music and muffled laughter, indicating that there’s more going on there than just a casual gathering. It’s a laid-back meet-up — nothing like the noisy party your mind had imagined, but something more inviting. Something... unexpected.
You stop at the door, hesitating for a moment before gently pushing it open. Inside, the atmosphere is simple: dim lighting, worn sofas, and walls covered in band posters, with more of an improvised, unpretentious décor. It’s not the kind of place your mum would ever approve of, but somehow, it feels like exactly what you needed.
Olivia is standing by the table, talking to a few people you don’t know. She waves when she sees you, and you feel a wave of relief. As you approach, she introduces you to a small group, all more relaxed, with genuine smiles on their faces, not in a hurry to pretend to be something they’re not.
"Guys, this is Y/N," she says with an almost mysterious smile. "The girl you're going to love, I promise."
The group smiles, a little more shy than Olivia, but welcoming. One of the boys, with messy hair and a leather jacket, extends his hand.
"Hey, I’m Jake. You can call me J if you prefer." You smile back, shaking his hand.
"Y/N. Nice to meet you."
They quickly start including you in the conversation, a mix of discussions about movies, music, and even philosophy — nothing too shallow, but also nothing too deep. It’s pleasant. Natural. There are no judging looks. No one is expecting you to fit in perfectly, but rather to enjoy yourself as you are.
As you approach the table, Olivia pulls you into a chair by the window, where the group begins to settle in. You observe, and the faces around you are calm, not the pressure of “important” conversations or the perfection you were used to. They just exist. And somehow, that’s comforting.
You stay for a while, talking about what seems to be everyone’s real life, where mistakes are natural, where the future isn’t a requirement but a consequence. The group doesn’t care if you’re lost or not. They’re just there, in the same position as you. Living the moment.
The conversation flows, and, as Olivia laughs a little more, you begin to feel like you’re actually in the right place. No one is pressuring you to fit in, no one is trying to make you be something you’re not. And there, in that small space, with cheap beer and calm music in the background, you begin to feel… lighter.
But, when your eyes drift away from the group, they automatically find Tom. He’s further back, sitting on a sofa near the window, with a bottle in his hand. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him in this space, but it’s the first time he seems so present, even in silence. He watches you for a moment, almost as if he’d been waiting for your arrival. But it’s not an invasive gaze. It’s… more like he’s measuring his words before speaking or the moment before getting closer.
Olivia seems to notice your distraction and gives you a wink.
"Don’t worry, he’ll give you time," she says, with an amused smile.
You let out a light smile, but still don’t know what to make of the idea of Tom being there, in a space where you can be who you are without worries.
The environment around you keeps flowing, the conversations intertwining, and for a moment, you feel distant from the life you were living up until then. But, as strange as it was, a part of you was starting to like this feeling.
The conversation continues to flow with laughs and relaxed stories. The atmosphere, although light, is far from tense. The people around you seem genuine, and even the music, which before seemed a little intrusive, now feels comfortable, as if it’s just there to accompany the rhythm of the conversations.
Olivia is by your side, laughing at a joke Jake made about an obscure 80s movie, but you’re more distracted, watching the party around you. Each person has something different: carefree laughs, relaxed expressions, freedom in its simplest forms. You take a deep breath, almost feeling that, for the first time, you’re free — and the thought gives you a slight sense of lightness.
That’s when someone approaches you, breaking your train of thought. A girl with red hair and eyebrow piercings offers you a cigarette with a mischievous smile.
"Hey, want to relax a bit?" she asks, holding the cigarette between her fingers, the sweet and strong smell of marijuana emanating from her hand. "I promise it’ll make you feel lighter."
You look at the cigarette, feeling the tension rise in the back of your throat. It’s not something you’ve done before. In fact, this is the first time you’ve found yourself in a situation like this, surrounded by people who clearly don’t care about what you decide. The thought of your mother, of what she would say, quickly invades your mind. Are you really willing to let go that much?
Olivia, noticing your hesitation, gives you a look and, with a quiet laugh, moves a little closer.
"Relax, Y/N. No one here’s going to judge you. It’s just a cigarette, a moment. If you don’t want to, that’s fine too. But if it’s your vibe, enjoy it. There’s nothing better than breaking the rigidity of a normal day." She takes a sip from her drink and tilts her head, as if inviting you to let go, to give the unknown a chance.
You feel the weight of Olivia’s gaze, waiting for an answer, but also the weight of the options opening up in front of you. The girl with the cigarette, still smiling calmly, doesn’t seem to pressure you. She’s just offering a possibility. The possibility of breaking something inside yourself.
You look at the cigarette again, observe the people around you, and for a moment, wonder how it would feel, what it would be like if you didn’t care. What would happen if you stopped worrying about standards and expectations, even your own self-imposed limits?
In the end, your curiosity wins, and you accept.
"Just for today," you say to yourself, with a light nervous laugh.
The girl with the red hair lights the cigarette and hands it to you, her smile wider now, almost as if she knows something has changed in you at that moment.
You take the first drag. The smoke enters and exits easily, but the warmth seems to spread quickly, hitting your head in a soft, light way. It’s not exactly what you imagined, but there’s something relaxing in the effect, something that starts to loosen your muscles, releasing the tension.
Olivia watches you with a mischievous smile.
"Now you’re in, Y/N. Welcome to the lighter side of life."
You laugh, not entirely sure of what you’re doing, but at the same time, feeling the effect begin to take hold of your body, as if the walls of your own mind start to crumble. She’s right: you never imagined you’d be here, with a cigarette in your hand, laughing and talking about simple things.
But something inside you feels a shift. Something you never had the chance to experience.
You feel Tom’s gaze again, distant, but now, somehow, different. He’s closer than before, more noticeable, as if he’s waiting for something. His gaze, somewhat curious, is on you, but says nothing. You, on the other hand, feel something new, a strange sense of understanding in the air, as if, somehow, he’s going through something too, though not quite sure what.
You smile, a little dizzy, but you don’t mind.
The music keeps pulsing, but now it feels more distant, as if it’s coming from somewhere beyond where you are. The effect of the marijuana spreads, smooth but inescapable. The colors seem more vibrant, the faces of the people friendlier, and the feeling of being here, in this space, starts to envelop you in a way you hadn’t expected.
Olivia, beside you, continues talking to the others, but her gaze stays on you, almost cautiously. She notices the shift in your posture, the way you’re letting go, carried by the lightness of the moment.
"See?" she says, with a wink. "Nothing like a little freedom to make you feel at home."
You laugh lightly, feeling the weight of her words but also the softness of the situation. The discomfort of your former life begins to seem far away. The pressure of being “the perfect daughter,” of always being in control, dissolves, and a side of you that you never allowed to show starts to loosen up, in tune with the music and the vibe of the room.
But Tom’s gaze never leaves your mind.
He’s still there, sitting in the corner of the room, watching everything. You notice him again, but this time, something in the air seems to change. It’s no longer just curiosity. There’s something more, something that makes you realize that, even with the alcohol and the marijuana flowing, he remains a distant, mysterious figure… and maybe, untouchable.
He has never come too close, never spoken to you, but now, each time your eyes meet, there seems to be a growing tension, something you can’t quite define.
You feel an urge to go to him, to approach him, but the fear of seeming strange, of being too forward, stops you from acting. But the feeling of being so close yet so far away is unsettling. You don’t fully understand what is happening, but his presence is everywhere.
''Hey, are you alright?'' Olivia asks, noticing your distraction. She also follows your gaze towards Tom, then back to you.
You don’t know how to respond. You’re not completely sure of what you’re feeling. It’s a mixture of excitement and insecurity, curiosity and fear. So, on impulse, you decide you don’t want to hide anymore. Maybe you don’t understand what’s happening between you and Tom, but at least you want to find out.
''I’m going to go talk to him."You say, more decisively than you feel. Olivia, with an approving smile, gives you a gentle push.
"Go on, Y/N. It’ll be fun to see what happens when you stop being who they think you are.''
You take a deep breath, and, despite still feeling that flutter in your stomach, you walk towards Tom, who watches you approach, his eyes fixed on you. He seems surprised, maybe even uncomfortable with your sudden move, but doesn’t look away. On the contrary, it’s as if he’s waiting for something.
When you reach him, the silence is brief, but heavy. The music in the background continues, but now it feels as though you both are in a small universe, separate from the rest of the party.
''Are you alright?'' Tom asks, his voice low, almost imperceptible, but with a softness you weren’t expecting.
You let out a nervous laugh, unsure of what exactly to say. His simple question makes you realise how much he has been watching you, how he is always there, even when he doesn’t speak. Like a constant presence in your line of sight, waiting for the right moment to reveal himself.
''I think... I’m fine'' you reply, not sure if you’re being honest or just trying to hide your nerves.
He nods slowly, still watching you. What seemed like a casual conversation suddenly becomes more intense, as if there’s something unsaid between you two. Something you may not be ready to understand.
"You… never told me what brought you here," Tom says, breaking the silence. He still holds his gaze on you, but his posture is more relaxed now, as if the distance between you is less oppressive.
You hesitate, looking at him for a moment, feeling that this conversation could be a turning point. And at the same time, you feel like you're about to do something that could change everything between you.
"I… just wanted something different. Something that wasn't… the same old thing," you say, your voice softer now. The honesty seems to push you out of a safe place, but at the same time, it relieves you.
Tom remains silent, but his gaze is now softer. He knows you're opening up in a way you never have before.
"You don't have to be what they want anymore, Y/N," he says, his voice calm but with a weight that makes you think. He seems to understand, in some way, what you're feeling.
You hold his gaze now, with more intensity, as if trying to understand who he really is, behind the facade of silence and mystery.
The conversation flows slowly, but with a growing tension, as if the words were waiting for the right moment to explode. And, in that moment, you know that, somehow, the night has changed.
Something was about to happen, something that could finally break the chains of your controlled life. The silence between you and Tom grows as he watches you, his gaze attentive, but distant enough to make you wonder what he is really thinking. The atmosphere of the party continues to flow around you both — laughter, conversations, and the music that seems to never stop. But somehow, everything feels like distant noise. In this moment, it’s just you and him.
Tom leans forward slightly, as if he's about to speak, but hesitates, watching the reaction on your face. The tension is palpable, as if the words he's about to say could change something important between you.
"Have you… always been like this, Y/N?" he asks, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Always done what others expected of you?"
You feel a slight surprise. He's not just questioning your life, but something deeper. It's not about what you do, but how you feel about all of it. Your gaze meets his, and for the first time that night, you feel exposed, without the safety shield you've always had.
You don't answer right away. The weight of the question hangs in the air, and you feel the urge to protect yourself, to retreat, but something inside you won't let that happen. His gaze, so sincere and direct, challenges you to be honest. Maybe for the first time, you're being challenged to face your own life and choices in their rawest form.
"No…" you begin, your voice faltering for a moment. "Not exactly. I've always done what they wanted, or what I thought they wanted. Like… like there was no other option. It's not that I was forced, but… I always had to be the perfect daughter, the good student, the future successful lawyer. No one ever asked if that's what I wanted."
You take a deep breath, feeling the frustration build up. And in that moment, you realise something you’ve never thought about before. You've always been in control, but the control wasn’t yours.
Tom doesn’t look away. He simply listens, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. There’s no judgement, no expectation for a quick answer. He’s just there, listening to you, and it makes you feel something new. Something you don’t feel with anyone else.
He then gives a slight smile, which, instead of easing the tension, only intensifies it. He seems to have understood more about you than you can understand about yourself.
"Everyone has their own burden, Y/N," he says, his voice calm but with a weight of experience that makes you feel like he knows what he’s talking about. "No one ever asked me what I wanted. But sometimes life makes you follow a path that isn’t yours. And you stay trapped, until you decide to break those chains."
Tom's words echo in your mind. Break those chains. What does that really mean for you? What would breaking the chains mean in your life?
Before you can fully process what he said, Tom slowly and almost imperceptibly gets up, and you feel the urge to ask something, but the words don’t come. He simply moves away a little, looking around the party, and you’re left there, alone with your thoughts, trying to make sense of what just happened.
For a moment, you don’t know if he was just being polite or if there’s more to it, something you don’t yet understand. But what you feel now is a need to act, to do something to break the barrier between you two.
Olivia approaches you, her gaze curiously attentive, as if she knows what’s going on.
"He left you thinking, didn’t he?" she asks, almost conspiratorially. "Tom doesn’t give many explanations. But when he speaks, there’s always a reason."
You nod, still dazed from the conversation. But instead of retreating, something inside you wants more. Something inside you wants to understand what Tom means with those words, wants to understand what he is.
The music at the party seems more distant now, the laughter less noticeable. You’re more aware of your own body, the energy you’re consuming, and the way, suddenly, everything feels possible. And maybe, for the first time, you truly realise you can break the chains.
The people were dancing, laughing, completely carefree, as if they were far from any responsibility or obligation. You felt like a distant observer, someone who was there but didn’t belong.
In the background, a growing sense of anxiety began to consume you. You had never allowed yourself to live like this, never been someone who surrendered to such… freedom. The pressure of always having to maintain appearances, of being perfect, always controlled, always under the expectations of your parents, had left you in a state of mental exhaustion that now seemed to manifest physically. The contrast between what you saw around you and what you had always known was too much. These people were so free, so at ease, and here you were, trapped by your own thoughts and responsibilities.
As the rhythm of the party intensified, you felt a wave of heat spread through your body. Your heart started to race, your breath became uneven, and you began to feel the weight of being there, the pressure of being watched. Something inside you screamed to escape, but your legs didn’t respond the way you wanted them to. The discomfort grew with every passing second, and the feeling of suffocation took over.
You slowly pulled away, trying to get out of the circle you found yourself in, searching for a quiet corner, away from curious stares, from laughter, from people who seemed too free. The tension inside you was unbearable, and your body no longer obeyed. Your mind spun, everything seemed to blur. The walls of the house seemed to close in, and you felt smaller and smaller, as if you were losing control. The heat increased, and before you could react, your vision started to blur.
And then it came. The sensation you feared, the one you never liked to admit existed. The lack of air, the desperation, the trembling hands. A panic attack. The people around you didn’t seem to notice, or maybe they didn’t care, but for you, the world was spinning too fast.
You stumbled further, trying to find some relief, but the feeling of being completely alone was overwhelming. As if, in the middle of all that freedom, you were more trapped than ever.
That’s when you heard a familiar voice, a presence approaching quickly. Your vision was still blurry, but it wasn’t hard to identify who it was. Tom.
He was there, suddenly, in front of you. His expression was one of genuine concern, but there was something else as well. Discomfort. He clearly didn’t know how to handle the situation, and that surprised you a little. Tom, who always seemed so sure, so grounded, now looked completely unsettled.
"Y/N…" he calls, his voice softer, almost as if he feared scaring you even more. "What happened? I… I told Olivia this wasn’t a good idea."
You try to breathe deeply, but the lack of air only worsens. Every time you try to speak, the words get stuck. And in that moment, all you feel is the panic growing, as if the house was crumbling around you. His hands approach, but you can’t tell if he wants to help you or if he’s just lost, trying to understand what’s happening.
"I don't…" you try to say, but your voice comes out almost inaudible. You feel your chest tighten, and you can no longer keep control. Tom’s eyes, though trying to convey calmness, are filled with visible frustration.
He seems unsure of what to do, his discomfort clear in his movements. He takes a step back, hesitates, and then appears to make a decision. He extends his hand to help you stay on your feet, but at the same time, he doesn’t seem to want to invade your space.
"Stay calm, okay?" he says softly, but seriously, clearly worried. "Just breathe, Y/N. I didn’t… I didn’t think it would be like this, but it’s okay, alright? Let’s get out of here, it’ll be better."
Despite his attempt to reassure you, the fact that he’s so out of his element makes you realise how different things are now. Before, he was always someone who seemed to have everything under control, someone who watched you with curious eyes. But now, he seems as lost as you. The difference is, unlike you, he’s there trying to help in some way.
You take a deep breath, trying to pull yourself together, but the words are still hard to find. Deep down, you feel like you shouldn’t be here, but somehow, Tom’s presence brings you a faint sense of security. It’s not complete, it’s not comfortable, but it’s something.
"I… I need to go home," you finally manage to say, almost in a whisper, your mind still clouded by the anxiety.
Tom hesitates for a moment, evaluating the situation, and then, without saying anything more, he positions himself to guide you to the exit. What he doesn’t realise is how much his protective behaviour confuses you even more. That gesture of concern, of care, blends with the vulnerability you’re feeling. You don’t know what to expect from Tom, but somehow, his presence makes you feel a little less alone.
…...
Tom’s car was silent, except for the soft sound of the engine and the low, almost imperceptible music. You sat in the passenger seat, your body still tense, your hands nervously intertwining. The discomfort hadn’t completely faded, and the view of the night outside the window seemed blurred, as if the world was still fogged by the anxiety that had consumed you at the party.
You glanced briefly at Tom, who was driving with his hands firmly on the steering wheel, his gaze focused on the road. The tension in the air was palpable, but at the same time, his presence felt unexpectedly comforting. Something inside you wanted to break the silence, to understand what was happening between you two, but at the same time, you felt too fragile to start any conversation.
Tom, in turn, was clearly uncomfortable. He kept his eyes on the road for a moment, but every now and then, he furtively glanced at you with an expression hard to decipher. There was clear concern, but also a hint of frustration, as if he was trying to understand why things had taken this turn.
"I didn't think it would be like this..." His voice finally cut through the silence, soft and cautious, as though he was trying not to scare you further. He hesitated slightly before continuing. "I told Olivia that this party wasn't a good idea, you know. I... I thought it might be too much for you."
His tone was serious, but also laced with a gentleness you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t a reprimand, but rather a statement, something he wanted you to know, perhaps as a way of apologising for the situation.
You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the disorientation still lingering in your chest. His words were kind, but you couldn’t help but feel... different. Vulnerable. As if, in some way, he was watching and silently judging you, even though his intention was to help.
"I..." you began, but your voice faltered slightly. "I didn’t know what to expect, Tom. I’ve always been... controlled. Everything always seemed to have its place, you know? I... I never felt free to just, I don’t know, do something for myself. And being there, in that environment... it was strange. I don’t know if I was ready for it."
The words came out in a quiet thread of voice, lacking strength, as if you were admitting something you’d never said to anyone. The truth was, at that moment, you didn’t know how to deal with your own feelings, and the confusion overwhelmed you.
Tom, upon hearing this, kept his eyes on the road for a moment, but it seemed he understood what you were trying to say. The way he breathed out eased some of the tension, as if he knew you were just trying to make sense of what happened, just like he was.
"I didn’t know it was that difficult for you," he said, his voice carrying a sincerity you hadn’t heard from him before. "I just thought, somehow, you’d feel okay there. But if I’d known, I would’ve tried a different way."
You let out a deep sigh, and despite all the confusion inside you, you felt a small wave of gratitude for him saying that. He wasn’t there to pressure or judge you. He was simply trying to understand.
The road seemed long, and the silence stretched for a few more minutes, with Tom focused on the road and you still trying to sort your thoughts. Finally, you broke the silence again, hesitant but feeling the need to be honest.
"I..." you began, calmer now, although the vulnerability was still there beneath the surface. "I’m grateful you helped me. I just... don’t know what I’m doing with my life, Tom. Everything is so... controlled, you know? Since I was little, everything had its place. And now, with graduation coming up, with the idea of moving out of my parents' house... I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to be... myself."
Tom, who had been quiet until that moment, seemed to reflect on the words you had spoken. He didn’t look directly at you, but his expression subtly shifted, something between understanding and contemplation, as if he were really listening.
"Sometimes, we get stuck in all of this," he said, his voice a little softer now. "In doing things the 'right' way. But nobody has the slightest idea of what they’re doing. No one has everything figured out, you know. Me, for example… I never imagined my life would be like this. And if someone had told me it would be, I never would’ve believed them."
You watched him briefly, unsure how to interpret the sincerity of his words. He spoke with a raw clarity, like someone who had been through many ups and downs, and somehow, that made you feel like maybe he had more in common with you than you’d imagined. Both of you, in some way, trapped by the expectations others had for you.
The car finally slowed as he neared your house, and the tension between the two of you was still there, like a thin thread that somehow connected you. The silence was heavy but comfortable. You could feel the rapid beat of your heart, the growing desire to understand what was happening between you. The world outside seemed distant, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped inside the car. There was only the two of you.
Tom made a motion to stop the car and, for a moment, didn’t move. His gaze was still fixed on the road, but something about the way he sat was different. He seemed a little more tense, a little more distant, like he was trying to protect himself from something. But inside, you felt a restlessness, something that pulled you toward him in a way you couldn’t control.
You looked at him, his face illuminated by the soft light of the dashboard, and for a second, the two of you stayed there in silence.
He was so close, and you felt the growing impulse, something you weren’t sure was fear or desire. But at the same time, it felt like nothing else mattered. What you wanted, what you felt, seemed more important than anything that had ever happened between you.
Before he could say anything else, you leaned toward him. Your breath was uneven, but your movement was decisive. Your lips met his in an intense kiss, a hot, urgent impulse. He seemed surprised at first, but quickly let himself be swept up in the intensity of the moment. One hand stretched toward the steering wheel, and with the other, he touched your waist, as if trying to keep you close, near him.
The chemistry was palpable. The kiss was full of urgency, a release of repressed desire, something the two of you had kept hidden for so long. But then, in the midst of it, Tom stopped. His hand slowly pulled away from your waist, and with a soft sigh, he drew back from you, his eyes meeting yours, now filled with a kind of confusion you didn’t know how to interpret.
"Y/N..." His voice came out hoarse, almost like a warning. He seemed to be trying to catch his breath, but there was something more. An invisible line he didn’t want to cross.
You stayed there, feeling the heat in the car still lingering, but now heavy with growing discomfort. What was happening? Why had he stopped? You knew he wasn’t the kind of person to give in easily, but a sharp wave of frustration hit you. You were so vulnerable, so exposed, and even he — despite everything — seemed hesitant.
"I don’t..." Tom began, his expression confused. "I can’t do this, Y/N. It won’t work, you know it. I... I’m not who you think I am."
The air inside the car felt thicker. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to react. For a moment, the outside world seemed to vanish completely. But reality soon began to creep back in.
You took a deep breath and, without looking at him, opened the car door. The sound of metal closing echoed into the night’s silence. The cold breeze hit your face as you walked away from the car, not looking back. Tom remained there, unmoving, silent, as if he knew this was an inner battle he couldn’t win.
......
The street was quiet when Tom parked the truck in front of the house. The nearest lamppost flickered, casting uneven shadows over the cracked pavement. He sat there for a while, hands still on the steering wheel, as if letting go would make it all real.
You had kissed him.
He closed his eyes. The memory came back sharp: the warmth of your skin, the sweet taste of the kiss, the expensive perfume still clinging to his shirt. He had wanted it. Craved every second of it. And yet… he’d stopped. Because it was wrong. Because it made no sense. Because someone like him had no place in your world — and vice versa.
Tom let out a sigh, opened the door and stepped inside the house. His mum was already asleep, as usual. The kitchen lights still on cast a soft, tired glow across the worn floor. He grabbed a beer and dropped himself into the plastic chair out back — the same old one. The London sky hung dull, smothered by clouds.
He leaned back, staring into the dark. He knew he’d dream about you— the way youlooked at him, yourlost eyes at the party, the way you left the car without saying a word. He shouldn’t have let it happen. But a part of him, the most dangerous part, wanted it to happen again.
His eyes fell on an old photo frame propped by the door. Him and Ezra, years ago. Two brothers, two grease-stained smiles. Now it was just him out there, trying to hold the world on his back.
"You’d have laughed in my face, mate," he muttered, taking another sip. "A girl like her? Never."
But there was no laughter in him.
Only a knot.
And that ridiculous urge to get even closer than he should.
The engine gave a strained groan as Tom pulled up outside that house — too big, too guarded, too clean. The kind of place that always seemed to belong to another world. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight in his shoulders. He didn’t know if he’d see you, but something in his chest was already bracing itself — whether to confront or to run.
The front gate was ajar, as usual. Your dad was tinkering with some machine in the garden and shouted something about a belt. Tom gave a small wave and went straight to work. He tried to keep his mind on the job, but the scent of the house, the glow from the garden lights — everything screamed yourname.
And then, he felt it.
He didn’t need to look up to know you were there. But he looked anyway.
You were standing at the doorway, holding a cup you didn’t seem to be drinking from. Your eyes met his with a quiet force. There was no smile. No expression at all. Just a thick, brutal tension that needed no words.
For a moment, nothing else existed.
Tom had had his head buried in the engine long enough to almost forget what had happened the night before. His hands were dirty, shirt stained with oil, and he was doing his best to focus. But ever since you'd appeared at the doorway, silently watching, something inside him had been restless.
Your father emerged behind him, his steps heavy and deliberate — the kind that always meant he wanted to be noticed. He stopped by the car and crossed his arms, studying Tom with intent. A few seconds of silence passed.
"You’re acting odd, Tom." His voice was low but firm. "Something happen?"
Tom didn’t reply right away. He grabbed a rag, slowly wiped his hands, avoiding the man’s eyes.
"Just tired. It was a long night."
"Hm." Your dad clicked his tongue, stepping closer. "Funny. My daughter’s acting strange today too. Quiet. Distracted. Makes me wonder if the two of you had the same long night."
Tom stopped. He gripped the rag tighter than he should have. Her father was staring straight at him now — the kind of stare that didn’t ask questions, only made statements.
"She’s a good girl, Tom," he went on. "Smart. She’s graduating in a few months. Her life’s just beginning."
Tom raised his eyes, and for a moment, met the man’s gaze. Not with anger. With the weight of someone who already knew what was coming.
"I know."
"Then know this too — there are places that don’t mix." The man’s voice was low, like he was speaking some old, unshakable truth. "I respect you. You work well. But don’t mistake kindness for permission."
Tom nodded. Just once. He didn’t say a word. And went back to the engine.
But inside, the anger burned slow. Not because he’d been confronted. But because deep down, he knew — in that world, he would always be the bloke with dirty hands who ought to know his place.
And no matter how hard he tried, some part of him… didn’t want to know.
The days dragged on, as if time had lost its rhythm.
You woke up, got ready, went to uni, came back home, smiled politely at dinner — everything just as it had always been. But something inside you had cracked that night. A silent fracture no one else could see. Your parents kept talking about graduation, mentioning internship opportunities at prestigious firms, making plans for a future that had always seemed like yours. Only now… it didn’t feel like it anymore.
You tried to focus, but everything felt muffled. Boredom turned into anxiety. The silence in your room weighed like concrete. Sometimes, you walked past the window just to glance at the gate, wondering if he would come. But Tom didn’t show up. Not for days.
Until he did.
Your dad mentioned it casually over dinner — Tom had turned down two jobs in a row. Said he was ill, then that he was busy. Now he wasn’t even picking up the phone. He muttered something about "people who can’t separate personal life from work" and went back to talking about the new pool pump. But you felt it — that twist in your stomach.
That night, the insomnia hit harder. You lay in bed, head spinning with doubts, images, the taste of him still lingering on your lips. The world felt smaller, as if all the walls were closing in around you.
And then… a sound.
You sat up slowly. A soft creak coming from the veranda. For a second, your heart leapt — until a silhouette appeared under the faint light outside.
Tom. He’s standing there, hands in his pockets and an expression that seems to apologise before he’s even said a word. His beard is unshaven, hair messy. Nothing about him looks deliberate, yet everything about him feels urgent.
You open the veranda door, heart in your throat.
"I should’ve walked away," he says, before you can even ask what he’s doing there. "I tried."
You don’t say anything. You just look at him.
"But... I couldn’t stop thinking about you."
The silence between you hums like a dull heartbeat. He glances around, uncertain, and asks quietly:
"Can I come in?"
You step aside, making space. And as he walks past you, the air in the room changes completely.
Tom moves slowly towards the centre of your room, eyes scanning everything as if unsure where to land. You close the door gently behind you, as if the sound might wake not just the house, but the reality beyond it.
"Are you alright?" he asks, not quite meeting your eyes. His voice is low, rough, as if each word is weighed before it’s spoken.
You pause. You want to say yes. That you’re fine. That everything is perfectly under control. But the truth is different.
So you simply say, "No."
He finally looks at you, and there’s something in his gaze that burns — a mix of guilt, longing, and something barely contained.
"That night..." you begin, stepping closer. "You left like you’d done something wrong."
"Didn’t I?"
You frown. "Wrong for who?"
He looks away. Walks over to the window, where the streetlight casts shadows across the floor. He seems to be fighting something within himself.
"This..." he gestures vaguely between the two of you, "This shouldn’t be happening."
"But it is happening."
He lets out a heavy sigh, like he’s tired of denying the obvious. Yet still, he avoids touching you. Avoids the impulse.
"You’re from a different world. Literally. Your dad nearly ripped my soul out the other day just with a look."
You sit at the edge of the bed, watching him calmly.
"And what exactly do you think I am? Fragile? Spoilt? That I’ve never done anything because I wanted to?"
Tom opens his mouth, but you cut him off.
"I know where you live, Tom. I know about your brother."
Silence.
The words hang in the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. He turns suddenly, jaw tight.
"Don’t talk about Ezra."
You didn’t expect that reaction. But you don’t step back.
"I’m not judging."
"Everyone judges." He runs a hand down his face, weary. "And if they don’t, they use. This isn’t a conversation for now."
You realise you’ve touched a wound still raw — maybe one that never healed. So you stand, take a step closer to him.
"Alright. Not now."
His eyes soften for a moment, as if thanking you for not pushing. There’s a space between you that still pulses with tension, but now it’s more heat than conflict.
"Why did you come here, Tom?"
He meets your eyes, finally unafraid.
"Because not being able to forget you was worse than anything I thought might happen if I came back."
Your heart skips. The whole room seems smaller now, crushed by everything left unsaid.
And he’s still there.
And for the first time, it feels like he wants to stay.
He’s still there.
Standing still, as if every second spent looking at you is an internal battle. As if moving closer would mean giving in to something he’s spent days trying to bury. But you’ve come too far to back down now.
With slow steps, you close the space between you. His eyes follow yours, intense, like they’re begging you not to come any closer — while every inch of his body begs for the opposite.
When your hand touches his chest, the air seems to vanish for a moment. Your fingers trail slowly over the rough fabric of his grease-stained shirt, until they find skin at the open collar. His chest rises and falls steadily, like he’s holding something back.
"Tell me to stop," you whisper.
Tom closes his eyes for a second. His hand comes to rest on your hip, firm but restrained. He’s trembling slightly. You feel it.
"I should," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "But I won’t."
And when he kisses you, there’s no more restraint. Only need.
His mouth meets yours with hunger and urgency, yet with a desperate care, as if he’s trying to memorise every movement. His hands travel up your back, pulling you closer, your bodies fitting together like there’s no other place in the world you belong.
You cling to him like someone clinging to a dangerous secret — and maybe it is.
Clothes begin to give way under slow, careful touches, as if every layer falling between you is another wall crumbling. The world outside ceases to exist. The pressure of the perfect house, the family name, the expectations... all of it melts away in the heat of your bodies entwined.
In the dim light of the room, where only shadows move, what’s forbidden stops being a sin. It becomes relief. It becomes truth.
And for a while, nothing else matters.
This time, he didn’t vanish.
The next morning, when you wake with the taste of the night still on your lips, you find a message on your phone:
"Are you up?"
Simple. Brief. But enough to make your heart race.
You reply. And he shows up.
Not through the balcony. Through the side of the house, as if he already knew the paths the world should never allow — but you do. The unlocked gate, the slightly open window in the living room. No one notices. He enters the silence of your routine like an offbeat. And you get used to it far too quickly.
In the following days, he shows up whenever he can. A visit in the late afternoon, a glance exchanged in the garage when he comes to deliver tools for your father, a stolen kiss in the laundry room of the house. All hidden, but growing more intense each time. As if the urgency of before had turned into a necessity.
The atmosphere between you two shifts. It's no longer doubt. It's surrender. And strangely, it feels more dangerous now that you're trying to make it work.
"You know this isn't going to end well, right?" he whispers against your skin one night, with you sitting on his lap, hidden behind your father's workshop.
"I know." And you kiss his lips before any more rational thought can interfere.
You begin to lie better. Go out more. Invent commitments. And at the same time, you feel a freedom you’ve never experienced before. Being with Tom is like breathing after years of holding your breath.
He changes too. He speaks little, but observes more. He listens to you attentively, holds your hand when you're nervous, and smiles that crooked smile when you tease him.
But there's something in his eyes — a certain weariness, a tension that's yet to be named. And although you’ve both surrendered… the risks still lurk.
The sun had already started to set when Tom sent the message.
"I'm going to pick up some parts in Wembley. Want to come?"
You didn't think much about it. You shot off some excuse to your mother and left before she had time to ask more. Ten minutes later, his car stopped at the corner, and you got in with the same natural ease of someone who has always belonged there.
Now, you’re in an abandoned parking lot behind a scrapyard — a place ugly, quiet, but strangely peaceful. Tom laid a blanket over the car’s bonnet, opened a beer, passed you one. The soundtrack is the radio crackling with something old, maybe blues.
You lie down beside him, the sky starting to darken, the stars timidly appearing through the clouds over London.
"Have you ever thought about leaving here?" you ask, turning your face towards him.
Tom takes a moment to reply. He looks at the sky, the beer in his hand.
"Every day."
"And why won’t you leave?"
"Because not everyone can just… leave. Someone has to stay and take the crap." He looks at you, serious. "But you… you will."
You smile, a little bitter. "I’m not so sure."
He leans in, his hand slowly caressing your waist, as if he knows he can’t have everything, but will take what he can while he can.
"You’ve got too much fire to stay trapped."
The kiss comes after the silence. Calm at first, but it quickly transforms. As if the world is suspended there. Hands fit together, bodies recognise each other. You sit on top of him, the cold metallic bonnet contrasting with the heat between you.
This time, it’s not about urgency. It’s about wanting. About choosing.
You undress slowly, with the care of two people who have finally found some kind of home in each other. It doesn’t matter where you are. Or what will happen next. In that moment, there’s only you and him.
Breathing together. Losing yourselves together. And, for a few hours, being just that.
......
The muffled sound of voices echoes from the study as you enter the house. The door is slightly ajar, the smell of expensive whisky and polished wood wafts down the hall as a reminder of the place you grew up — elegant, calculated, impeccable.
Your father is inside. In a suit, even at home, as if he didn’t know how to exist any other way.
He gestures calmly, but every word he says carries the weight of a sentence. Sitting across from him, a man you vaguely recognise from the papers — a businessman or politician, hard to tell. The two of them talk about strategy as if they’re playing a game of chess, not discussing someone’s life who may or may not be guilty of a serious crime.
"The press will come down hard," your father says, swirling his whisky glass. "But if we act first, we can control the narrative. The judge has a history of accepting deals when pressured with inconsistent evidence."
It’s always been this way. Manipulate. Anticipate. Win.
You step back before he notices you’re there, but you’ve heard enough: the same tightness in your chest, the feeling of living under a roof where everything is image, everything is control. Where feelings don’t fit — only results.
And as you climb the stairs, only one image comes to mind: Tom, leaning over the bonnet of a car, grease on his hands and truth in his eyes. The complete opposite of everything that office represents. But also, the very thing your father would never accept.
Dinner is set up as always: cutlery neatly arranged, white plates, glasses perfectly in place. Your mother sits beside you, silent, her face impeccably neutral. Your father sits across from you, reading something on his phone before finally lifting his eyes and locking them with yours.
"I received a call from the college counsellor this afternoon." You freeze in the middle of bringing your fork to your mouth. "About your absences. And your grades. They’re… dropping. Considerably, over the last two months."
The silence is heavy. Your mother continues eating as though she’s not even there.
"I just… had a tough few weeks," you reply, trying to keep your tone controlled.
"Tough?" he repeats with a dry laugh. "Tough why? Why have you been going out so much? Why don’t you sleep at home some nights during the week? Why have you been hanging out with people we don’t even know?"
You lower your eyes. But the blood boils.
"I’m 23."
"And you still live in this house. You still use our name. You’re still under our responsibility. So tell me, you, what’s going on?"
The way he says "you," almost as if he doesn’t recognise you, hits like a slap. He doesn’t want to know. He wants control. And he feels like he’s losing it.
"Nothing you’d really care about," you snap, without thinking, and the tension explodes right there, between the barely cooked meat and the expensive crystal.
He slams his napkin down on the table.
"I built all of this to give you the best. And you throw it away? Why? For someone?" You stand up, your heart pounding.
"For me."
And you leave. Without asking permission. Without looking back.
You don’t exactly remember how you left. If you grabbed the keys. If you said anything. You just know that the door slammed behind you, and for the first time, the air felt lighter on the outside. You walked without thinking much. Ordered a car. Didn’t respond to your mother’s messages. Didn’t even want to open the group chat for university.
You just wanted a place where you didn’t have to pretend. The car stopped on a dark, narrow street, with flickering streetlights and houses all looking the same: old bricks, low gates, an odd silence. You got out, looked around, hesitated for a moment. But your feet already knew the way.
Tom opened the door with a furrowed brow, as if he’d been expecting it to be you — yet surprised that it was you.
“Olivia called me,” he said, softly. “She said you sent a message. That you were exhausted. That you seemed... at your limit.”
You didn’t answer. You just stood there, frozen. A little trembling, a little dazed. Until he stepped back.
“Come in.”
The place was small, messy. An old sofa, tools scattered in a corner, the smell of old coffee and grease in the air. And yet, it felt safer than your entire house.
You sat on the sofa as if you didn’t know how to exist standing anymore. He kneeled in front of you.
“What’s wrong?” Tom asked. “What happened?”
You tried to speak. Your throat closed. For a moment, you just shook your head. Then the rest came — slowly. Your voice was thick, your face hot, your eyes burning.
“He thinks I’m his property. That I have to be perfect. That my life is an extension of his career. He doesn’t even see me.”
Tom stayed silent. His hands were on your knees, firm, but gentle. As if holding something too precious to squeeze.
“You don’t belong to anyone,” he said. “And no one has the right to erase who you are.”
It was there. In that simple sentence. That’s when you broke. The crying came, raw, ugly, painful. But for the first time, someone held you without asking for explanations. Tom didn’t try to fix anything. He just stayed. With you, for you.
When the silence returned, he pulled you closer. You let him. You stayed there, lying on the narrow sofa, your back against his chest, your legs intertwined, the world outside far away.
And for the first time, you slept deeply. Because for the first time, you felt free.
When you wake up, the smell of coffee is in the air. Tom is in the kitchen, making something simple, maybe coffee with milk and bread. The place is still in chaos, but there’s something comforting about the way he moves from one corner to another.
You stretch on the sofa, still with the feeling that the world outside doesn’t have access to this refuge. The small, but peaceful place has become a safe haven for you, away from the demands of your house and the pressure of a life that doesn’t understand you.
Tom looks at you, and a soft smile forms on his lips, as if, for a moment, you had left the weight of the days behind.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, in a gentle tone.
You just nod, still processing the night. The conversation you had with him, the security you felt being there.
But before the comfortable silence between you can linger, Tom’s phone rings. He furrows his brow, grabs the phone from the counter, and quickly glances at the screen.
“I need to take this, sorry,” he says, his voice tense.
You watch as he steps away to take the call, and you feel a slight unease in the air. It’s not like he’s someone with many friends, and suddenly his serious tone seems to pull him away from you a little, even if unintentionally.
The conversation is short, but what you hear leaves you unsettled. He talks to someone about a client, but there’s something in his voice that sounds different. Heavier. When he hangs up, he stands there for a moment, looking at the phone with a distant expression.
You feel the tension in the room grow, as if the refuge of the previous night had disappeared for a moment. Tom looks at you, but he seems to hesitate. He walks over to the sofa, stands up, hands in his pockets, looking… uncomfortable.
“That was about my brother,” he finally speaks. “He… my brother Ezra, he’s involved with legal problems again. I didn’t want to tell you about it now, but… it’s complicated.”
You sit up straight, your heart beginning to race.
“Legal problems?” you ask, trying to understand, but also feeling that he’s not entirely comfortable sharing.
He shakes his head, stepping back slightly.
“I don’t want you getting involved with this,” he says. “I… I’m not good at dealing with it, or with him.”
The silence between you stretches on. The tension builds, and you feel a mix of anger and confusion. Not about what he said, but about what he’s not saying.
“It’s not just that, is it?” you ask, standing up. Your tone is soft, but you realise you’re starting to lose control over the calm you tried to maintain.
He seems to shrink, his gaze avoiding yours.
“I… I really didn’t want to involve you in all of this. I…” He stops, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what to do, you know? The situation with my brother is just getting worse, and I’m here not knowing what to do with my own life.”
You watch him, trying to understand what’s going on inside him. Then, there’s that silent moment. You don’t know whether to step away or to pull him closer. But you know something has changed.
He looks at you, his face a little tired, as if expecting you to say something.
“Tom…” you begin, your voice sounding softer than you expected. “I’m not going to run away from you. Or from what you carry.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes glisten, maybe with a mix of relief and frustration.
You step forward, but something prevents both of you from getting closer. A silent space forms between you, something that still needs to be broken. Something that goes beyond words.
The conversation between you lingers in the air, but it’s not resolved. The silence that follows is heavy with tension, hard to ignore. Tom is still standing, his hands in his pockets, trying to digest the words you just spoke. His gaze is distant, as if preparing to pull back. He doesn’t know how to handle the intensity of the moment.
You also feel the distance growing between you, stronger than before. What had seemed like such a simple bond begins to unravel as the conversation unfolds. You notice the subtle change in his posture, in the way he looks at you — not with the same closeness, but with an unspoken concern.
You can’t take the silence anymore. You need an answer. But instead of pressing him further, you decide to pull away.
“I need some time, Tom,” you say, your voice quieter than you’d like, but determination still showing through. “I don’t know what I’m doing with all of this. And I think you don’t know either.”
He stays there, quiet, unsure how to react. His eyes meet yours, but instead of coming closer, he takes a step back.
“I…” He seems to hesitate, then shakes his head with an exhausted sigh. “I don’t want to hurt you. But… I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t give you everything you deserve right now. I can’t.”
You feel a knot tightening in your chest, but you stay focused. Something inside you wants to react, shout, demand answers, but at the same time, you know this conversation can’t be forced. The insecurity between you both is palpable.
“I’m not asking you for anything but the truth, Tom. I just want to know what you want, because I can’t stay on the fence much longer. I need more than this,” you say with a firmer tone, but inside, you’re confused, trying to understand where all of this is going.
The silence between you stretches on, heavier than before, and the distance seems to increase.
“I know I’m being an idiot,” he says, finally breaking the silence, but his voice is heavy with frustration. “I just don’t want this to end badly. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
But you don’t believe his words anymore. You feel overwhelmed, not just by his insecurities, but by your own. It’s as if, after everything that’s happened between you, it’s now hard to go back.
“I think I’m going to leave,” you say, feeling the need to step away to clear your thoughts. You don’t want to argue anymore, don’t want to feel pressured. You need space.
Tom doesn’t try to stop you. He says nothing. He just watches as you head towards the door, his expression dark.
“I’m not the right person for you, Y/N,” he says in a low voice. “I’m not what you need.”
You look at him one last time before leaving, feeling the pain of a possible ending forming. But at the same time, you know you need this time. To understand yourself, to see where you both can go. And, who knows, maybe to realise if your choices are truly compatible.
…...
The room is almost immersed in twilight, the soft light of the afternoon entering through the windows, touching the walls and creating a cosy yet tense atmosphere. Olivia is sitting on the bed, scrolling through her phone, while you look at yourself in the mirror, adjusting your hair and trying to decide what to wear. The brief calm before the night contrasts with the storm of thoughts that seem to have taken over your mind.
Olivia, as always, seems carefree. She’s excited for the night, for the fun to come. But you know that, as much as she tries to hide it, there’s a freedom in her that you often long for. A freedom that, in a way, you’ve never had, surrounded by your family’s expectations and rules.
"So, what's the plan?" Olivia asks, smiling at you in the mirror. "I know you're trying to decide between being the good girl or letting loose a bit, but for today, fun should be the priority, right?"
You give a half-hearted smile, finishing getting ready. The desire to go to this party seems to have faded a bit with everything that’s happened in your life. But at the same time, the promise of something new and different pulls you out of your comfort zone.
"Yeah, sure," you reply with a more distant tone. "I just hope today is quieter than last time."
Olivia laughs, a carefree and easy laugh, and she gets up, heading to the wardrobe to grab her bag.
"Let’s go. What happened at that party can't be the best of London, right?" she says, giving you a playful wink.
You laugh a little, but soon your expression turns serious. It’s not just the party that’s bothering you, but what happened with Tom, the feelings that arose, and the confusion he brought. You try to mask it, but Olivia, always attentive, notices.
"Hey, what happened between you and Tom?" Olivia asks, her tone softer now, as if she already knows the answer won’t be easy.
You sigh, collapsing onto the bed next to her. The frustration and exhaustion you felt earlier return with full force.
"I don’t know, Oli. I’m exhausted. All this... confusion. He doesn’t know what he wants. It feels like there’s something between us, but when things start to get real, he pulls away, and then I’m left here, hoping he’ll finally make up his mind."
Olivia remains silent for a moment, absorbing your words, and you realise that, somehow, she understands more than you expected.
"So, you want him, but you don’t know if he really wants you," Olivia says, finishing your thought. "That’s... complicated. It seems like he only wants you when it’s convenient, doesn’t it?"
You nod, still staring at the ceiling. Frustration mixes with doubt, and you’re no longer sure what to think about him.
"I don’t know what he wants, Olivia. He has this way of making me feel special, but then he acts like it’s all a mistake. Sometimes, I think he just... wants to run away from this. From me. I don’t get it anymore."
Olivia looks at you with an expression that mixes understanding with a hint of reproach.
"Maybe you need someone who isn’t so afraid of their own feelings. Someone who doesn’t make you feel like you’re constantly walking a tightrope, Y/N. You deserve more than that. You don’t need to lose yourself because of him."
You feel a lump forming in your throat. Her words make sense, but at the same time, you can't ignore what there is between you and Tom. Something that, even confusing, isn’t that easy to forget.
" I know. I just... I don’t know how to deal with it. I’ve always lived with so many expectations, so many rules. Now, I don’t know what it’s like to live without them, you know? And suddenly someone like Tom shows up, with all his own complications, and everything gets tangled."
Olivia sits beside you on the bed, her expression softening, more empathetic than ever.
"I get it. My life’s never had many rules, but I always saw that as a kind of freedom, you know? Not having to worry about expectations or what people think. Maybe you need to start thinking about what you really want, without caring what anyone else will say. What do you want for your future, for yourself?"
You stay silent, reflecting on her words. Was that even possible? Could you really be free from all the ties, all the expectations? Could you be true to yourself without fear of messing it up?
Before you can answer, Olivia flashes a playful smile and grabs your hand, pulling you to your feet.
" Right, that’s enough thinking. Let’s go out and have some fun. Stop worrying so much about the future, Y/N. What matters is now. And right now, what matters is you having a good time. That’s all."
You smile faintly, but you feel a growing lightness, as if, at least for a moment, you could let go of that constant pressure. Deep down, you know there’s a lot to think about, but for now, the future can wait.
The clock shows it’s nearly time for you and Olivia to leave, just as you’d planned. The relaxed mood you’d built with laughter and jokes in the bedroom is shattered when the door suddenly swings open. Your mother stands there in the doorway, wearing the unforgiving expression you know all too well.
She doesn’t speak straight away, but her stare alone seems to crush the air in the room. Olivia stops fiddling with her bag and throws you a quick glance, sensing the tension instantly. Your mother watches the two of you, face set, almost as if she’s waiting for you to confess to something you haven’t even said yet.
"You’re not seriously going out like this in the middle of the week, are you?" your mother begins, her sharp voice slicing through what little ease was left in the air. " I thought you were in the middle of exams, Y/N. Not that it seems to bother you much, does it?"
You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Deep down, you know this is just another one of those moments where she tries to corner you. But the pressure of her presence, the criticism disguised as "concern", starts to wear on you.
"I’m only going out for a few hours, Mum. I already told you." Your voice comes out firmer than you expected. "I need some time for myself – something you’ve clearly never really understood."
Your mother doesn’t flinch at your response. She crosses her arms, her gaze sharpening, and then looks directly at Olivia, as if searching for something in her to criticise as well.
"Oh, of course. You need time... as always. What would you be without these little escapes, hmm? And this one" – she gestures towards Olivia with a sarcastic smile – "clearly isn’t going to help you learn anything about responsibility. Being around people like her is only going to drag you further away from your goals."
The jab lands hard, and you feel the sting of her words like a blade. Olivia, however, doesn’t seem intimidated. She simply meets your mother’s stare, calmer than you imagined she’d be.
"I didn’t realise you were so interested in my life, ma’am," Olivia says, her voice laced with sarcasm but perfectly composed. "But thanks for the concern."
You try to push aside the growing discomfort, but it’s hard when her presence becomes so suffocating. Your mother turns her eyes back to you, narrowed, her expression making it clear she won’t let you leave without one final comment.
"You’re going out again, filling your head with more of this nonsense, and then you come to me with that lost look, wondering why you feel so aimless. I raised you to be better than this, Y/N. You’re wasting your life on these shallow friendships."
Her words are sharp, cutting deep, and you feel the weight of her judgement pressing heavier on your shoulders. You glance at Olivia, who remains neutral on the outside, but you know this is no longer about her – it’s about you and the expectations your mother has always held over you.
For a moment, the air between the three of you grows unbearably tense, and you can’t stay silent any longer.
"I don’t need your approval to be who I am, Mum," you say, your voice quieter now, but firm. "I know what I’m doing, and one day you’re going to have to accept that. I’m not the little girl you keep trying to control."
Your mother steps closer, her eyes still full of fury, but you don’t back down.
"I don’t know who you think you are, but you’ll learn the hard way," she snaps, before turning on her heel and leaving the room, the tension still thick in the air.
Olivia, who had been watching everything closely, moves toward you with a small, knowing smile on her face.
"I think you handled that well. And look, Y/N, you know your life is yours, right? You don’t have to carry all that weight. I know it’s hard, but you don’t have to let her control you. Your future is yours."
You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the suffocating feeling your mother’s presence left behind. You know it won’t be easy, but at least for today, you’re determined not to let anything stop you from being who you want to be.
With one last glance at the closed door and a sigh, you grab your bag.
"Shall we?" you ask, trying to ease the tension in your shoulders, though the weight of the conversation still lingers.
Olivia smiles, and the two of you leave the room together. The tension doesn’t completely fade, but you feel like you’ve taken a step forward. A small but important one.
You and Olivia arrive at the party, and soon the energy of the place pulls you in. The loud music, the laughter, and the sense of freedom in the air make you feel like you’re experiencing something entirely new—far removed from all your responsibilities and everyday pressures. You see Olivia laughing, having a good time, and you feel a lightness growing inside you, something you hadn’t felt in ages.
The night promises to be fun, and with every passing minute, you feel more at ease. People are dancing to the music, and you don’t take long to join in the fun, letting yourself get carried away by the rhythm and the crowd’s energy.
After a while, Olivia drifts off to chat with some people, and not wanting to be left alone, you decide to head to the makeshift bar to grab a drink. When you get there, you pick up a cup and linger for a bit, observing the party, still adjusting to the buzzing atmosphere. Things are lively, and for a moment, you almost feel like you could be someone entirely different—free from the chains of your day-to-day life.
That’s when you notice someone approaching.
The guy steps up beside you, relaxed, looking at you with an expression that holds a trace of familiarity. He smiles—enigmatic, as if he knows something you don’t.
"Can I ask you something?" he begins, his voice calm and smooth, laced with a tone that sparks your curiosity. "You don’t seem like a stranger. I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before."
You glance at him, confused, trying to find any connection, but nothing clicks. He doesn’t seem like someone who goes to the same places or who’s crossed paths with you before.
"Erm... do we know each other?" you ask, hesitant, studying his face for any clues.
He shakes his head, still wearing that same mysterious smile.
"No. I think it's just a feeling." He leaned slightly against the bar, not making any sudden movements, but still keeping his eyes fixed on you. "Maybe you've just got one of those faces that look familiar, you know? But I swear, we've never met before."
A silence settled between the two of you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The atmosphere was light and easy, like a casual exchange between two people just getting to know each other.
You tried to gather your thoughts, feeling an odd sense that there was something more behind this interaction—something you couldn’t quite name. His smile grew increasingly enigmatic, which left you slightly intrigued. He looked at you with an interest that was subtle but noticeable, making you wonder what exactly he wanted.
Still, nothing else was said about it. He didn’t bother to introduce himself or ask your name, and strangely, you didn’t feel the need to ask his either. The conversation drifted into more trivial topics—like the setting, the party, even the music. But something about him still didn’t quite add up.
Before you could dwell on it further, Olivia appeared out of nowhere, almost as if she’d materialised from a place you hadn’t seen. Her face was tense, and she seemed more rushed than ever.
"Oi, you!" she called, practically grabbing your hand. "Come on, we need to go. Now. There's no time, let’s go!"
You tried to react, but Olivia’s urgent tone left no room for debate. She tugged at you without waiting for a response, forcing you to step back, still unsure of what was happening.
"Olivia, what’s going on?" you asked, a stab of confusion hitting you. "What happened? Why do we have to leave now?"
She looked at you, but her expression was tight, as if something serious was going on and she couldn’t explain. Her gaze was clear: don’t ask questions, just go.
"I’ll explain later, alright? Just... please, trust me," Olivia insisted, her tone lower now, but the panic in her eyes impossible to ignore.
You began to wonder whether something was actually wrong with the party or if Olivia was just having a moment of paranoia. But as you glanced around, you noticed people beginning to move more quickly, like something was about to happen. The music still pounded through the speakers, but you could feel tension hanging in the air.
Without further explanation, you and Olivia started heading for the exit. But just as you were nearly there, what had seemed like an ordinary party turned into something else entirely. The blare of sirens sliced through the music, and before you could even process it, the front door burst open with a bang.
A team of police officers burst in, uniformed and with the authority of those who had come to carry out a major bust. Chaos broke out instantly. People started screaming and running in all directions, trying to escape. Some threw themselves into nearby rooms, others tried to climb out the windows. But the police were everywhere, and no one could get away.
"Stay where you are!" a deep voice from one of the officers echoed through the house as the others spread out, forcing everyone to freeze.
The sense of panic was overwhelming. Your heart began to race, and anxiety flooded your chest. What was going on? Why were the police raiding the party? You looked at Olivia, who seemed completely on edge, but you still couldn’t understand the reason behind her urgency. She had sensed this was coming, but you had no idea why.
"Olivia, what..." you tried to ask, but she was already tugging at you, trying to pull you away from the chaos.
"Come on, now!" she repeated, even more desperate.
You were dragged along with her, struggling to keep your footing as the situation grew more frantic by the second. People were being searched by the officers, and some were being handcuffed, clearly being taken away. The panic was taking over everything, but Olivia kept pulling you with her.
You could feel the weight of the moment, like the night had flipped upside down in mere seconds. Fear crept in, and what was meant to be a fun evening had turned into a nightmare.
Eventually, Olivia managed to shove you towards the door, and before you had the chance to fully comprehend what was happening, the police were closing in, searching the other guests, placing handcuffs on some.
The two of you were escorted to a police van, and amidst the chaos, you couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was somehow connected—something still yet to reveal itself. As you were taken to the station, the image of the young man came back to your mind. Something about him, something about that moment, felt deeply entangled with everything happening now.
…...
The atmosphere at the police station was thick with tension. The cold lighting and the murmurs of others around you seemed distant as you followed your father down the corridor. He walked ahead of you with long, deliberate strides, as if trying to contain the fury that was clearly simmering beneath the surface.
You could feel the weight of his presence, the coldness in his gaze, and the unspoken expectation that you were meant to explain yourself. But nothing you could possibly say felt enough to match the anger he carried. The sound of his shoes striking the ceramic floor echoed down the corridor, and the weight of his eyes grew heavier with every step.
As they reached the door, the chief inspector gave a nod, signalling that the conversation was over. Your father, without so much as a glance back, made an impatient gesture with his hand, as if trying to rid himself of the whole ordeal as quickly as possible.
As soon as you stepped into the corridor, your father finally spoke, his voice slicing through the stillness of the night with a bitter tone.
"This is outrageous, Y/N. Absolutely outrageous!" he said, frustration and disdain dripping from every word. "You’re about to graduate in Law, with a brilliant future ahead of you… And now look where you’ve ended up! Mixed up in parties with drugs, alcohol, and on top of it all, getting caught by the police! How could you be so reckless?"
You remained silent, the weight of his words pressing heavily down on you. You didn’t know what to say. Guilt and shame began to stir, but at the same time, you couldn’t help the growing anger inside you at the way he spoke.
He stopped walking and turned to face you directly, his expression stern and unyielding. The anger in his eyes was almost tangible.
"I’ve always tried to protect you, Y/N, to give you everything you needed to have a successful life. And this is how you repay me? Getting involved with low-class people, with no future at all, going to parties like that where anyone could be caught up in something illegal!" He paused, his tone lowering but still full of reproach. "You have no idea how much this could damage your image, your career—everything we’ve built so far!"
The word image echoed in your mind. You knew that, to him, this wasn’t really about you—but about how your actions might reflect on their position in society. Your life seemed more like an extension of the empire he had built, and you were merely a piece to uphold its façade.
"Dad..." you tried to speak, but he raised his hand, cutting you off.
"Don’t give me that 'Dad' now, Y/N. I don’t know what’s going on with you! You were always so focused, so dedicated. And now... now you’re throwing yourself into shallow nonsense! What do you think you’re doing with your life? Mixing with people like that?"
His tone became sharper with every word. You felt a lump rising in your throat, but also a burning anger swelling in your chest. It was as if he didn’t see who you really were—only the perfect daughter he wanted you to be.
"I was just having fun..." you murmured, barely believing you were saying it. "I just wanted to feel something different. Something that wasn’t this constant pressure all the time."
Your father went quiet for a moment, as if trying to process what you had just said. But soon, he shook his head, clearly disillusioned.
"You're an adult now, Y/N. If you want to throw everything away for the sake of fun, that's your responsibility. But don't expect me to support it. I never thought I’d see my daughter lowering herself like this, mixing with people who have no future whatsoever. If you want to ruin your life, you're on your own now."
Those words landed heavily on your shoulders. You knew he was disappointed, but what he didn’t understand was that, in a way, you already felt lost in the game of perfection and pressure he’d built around you. Nothing you did ever seemed to be enough. Nothing you chose ever felt right. And still, you were caught in the idea that you had to be perfect—for him.
Suddenly, the door to one of the rooms swung open forcefully.
Tom appeared in the corridor, his steps quick and almost anxious, as if he were trying to get away from something—or someone. He looked tense, his eyes fixed straight ahead, not even noticing you standing there.
"This can’t be happening..." your father muttered, clearly irritated by the sight of Tom. He stopped walking, his eyes already sharpening with disapproval.
Tom caught your father's glare and halted abruptly, as if only just realising who was there. He looked uncomfortable, trying to pull himself together, but the tension in his body was obvious.
"Tom?" you called, your heart starting to beat a little faster. His presence here was unexpected, but there was something else in the air. Something you couldn’t quite place.
Tom turned to face you, visibly unsettled, but trying to maintain his composure. He was clearly nervous, unsure of how to handle the moment.
"I—" he started, but was cut off by the sound of hurried footsteps behind him.
You could hardly believe what you saw next.
The guy from the party appeared, walking just behind Tom. His expression was confused and strangely blank, as if he were there more by accident than by choice. But when he saw you, he stopped. His eyes locked onto yours for a moment. A slight smile, almost forced, crept onto his face—and it sent a chill down your spine.
"You..." you began, surprise overtaking your voice. "What are you doing here? How did you...?" The question hung in the air, unfinished. You didn’t know how to continue.
The guy looked at you, and for a split second, you realised he did recognise you. But there was no surprise on his face. It was as if he’d already known this encounter would happen. The tension between the three of you was mounting, and your father, now wearing a look of suspicion, turned his eyes sharply toward Tom.
His face was familiar, but now he was there, with a subtle smile on his lips, watching you. The shock was instant when you realised who he was.
Your heart sped up, and suddenly, the pieces began to fall into place.
"Ezra..." you whispered, the name slipping out more like a jolt than a question.
The young man looked directly at you, as if it were natural to see you there. A faint smile, almost like a warning, formed on his lips. The recognition was immediate, and yet, something still felt out of place.
Your father, who had been approaching Tom, let out a mocking laugh when he saw Ezra. He seemed to find the situation amusing, as though he were watching someone from a lower class in a place they didn't belong.
"Well, look who we have here..." your father remarked, his tone sharp and mocking. "The infamous 'Ezra', isn’t it? Tom’s brother, the criminal. I should thank you for giving me the chance to see your face."
The mention of Ezra’s name made your stomach turn. What shocked you the most was the way your father referred to him—with a coldness that seemed endless. Ezra, who until that moment had seemed like just another young man, was now being unmasked before you. That smile, which once appeared casual, now felt like a mask.
Tom remained silent, eyes cast down, visibly uncomfortable. He didn’t seem willing to confirm or deny anything, but your father’s glance told you everything was already clear to him.
Ezra, however, didn’t appear to care in the slightest about your father’s words. He simply watched, as if he were used to this kind of situation, his disdain practically tangible.
"I imagine I know what you’re thinking, sir," Ezra said, his tone light, as if he were merely being polite in an uncomfortable moment. "I’m not bothered by your opinions. But I do hope you understand I’m just a man trying to move forward."
Your father let out a short, sarcastic laugh.
"A man trying to move forward..." he repeated, clearly mocking him. "With what? Your criminal record?"
A wave of discomfort ran through you at those words. It was clear your father had no respect for Ezra at all, but what you couldn’t understand was how Tom was so involved with someone who seemed to carry such a heavy, shadowed past.
The surprise still held you tightly, but a lingering unease remained—like something had yet to be fully revealed.
You looked at Tom, and he averted his eyes, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Ezra, on the other hand, seemed indifferent to your father's judgement, but his presence there—so casual and distant—only made the atmosphere denser.
Your father, still wearing that mocking smile, glanced at you and made a dismissive gesture, as if he'd had enough of the scene.
"Let’s go. I haven’t got time for this nonsense." he said impatiently, turning and heading towards the exit.
The silence between you and Tom was nearly absolute as your father walked away, and you felt as though something was about to shift drastically between all of you. Something you didn’t yet fully understand.
…...
That night, the silence at home felt like a punishment. Your father hadn’t spoken a word since you left the police station, but you could feel his thoughts weighing down the air like lead. He hadn’t asked any questions. Yet. But something in his eyes told you he was already making decisions.
The next day, as you tried to focus on anything other than the recent chaos, Olivia showed up with worried eyes. She walked into your room without ceremony, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice low, as if she knew something inside you had cracked.
You nodded, though not with much conviction. Olivia took a deep breath, running her fingers through her hair as if rehearsing what she was about to say.
"That guy you were talking to at the party... I knew who he was."
Your head slowly turned to face her.
"You knew?"
She nodded.
"When I saw you two talking, I tried to pull you away. I thought maybe it wasn’t the right time. He’s... Tom’s brother. Ezra. The guy your dad helped put in prison."
You felt the ground shift beneath you. Everything started to make sense—the familiarity, the tension, the way Tom had reacted.
"Why didn’t you tell me?"
"Because I knew it would only make you want to get closer. And I was trying to... I don’t know, protect you." She gave a weak smile. "But clearly, no one can control you."
You let out a bitter laugh.
"Not even me, lately."
Later that day, the urge to see Tom became unbearable. You knew where to find him. The garage he sometimes worked at wasn’t far.
When you arrived, he was hunched over the bonnet of an old car, hands covered in grease, his face damp with sweat. But when he saw you, he froze for a few seconds.
"You should leave," he said before you could even open your mouth.
"No. You’re going to listen to me, Tom."
The silence between you stretched thin.
"Why didn’t you tell me? About Ezra?"
He looked down, resting his hands on the car as if to steady himself.
"Because it wasn’t the right time. Because I thought if you knew... everything would change."
"And it did," you replied without hesitation. "But not the way you think."
Tom finally looked at you. And in that look, there was exhaustion, regret... and something that looked a lot like fear.
"My dad’s coming after you, Tom. He already suspects something. He’s going to put pressure on you, dig up whatever he can. And I don’t know what I can do to stop it."
Tom ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
"He already came. This morning. Showed up here, pretending to talk about work. But made sure to remind me who he is. And who I am. And who I... can’t have."
Your eyes met again, too full to need words.
"I don’t care," you said. "But he’ll do everything he can to make me care."
Tom stepped closer, slowly, placing a hand on your waist. The grease left a mark on your expensive dress, but you didn’t care. He pulled you gently, resting his forehead against yours.
"I never wanted to hurt you."
"I know. But will you let me fight with you?"
His breath trembled, but he nodded.
And in that moment, despite the world crumbling around you, you chose to stay together.
You were in his car, but neither of you moved. The street was quiet, headlights off, and only the muffled sound of the city breathing in the distance. His elbows were resting on the steering wheel, head bowed. You watched the outline of him, the weight on his shoulders, like something was pulling him inward.
"You deserve to know the truth," he said, without looking at you. "I can’t hide it any longer."
You waited. No words would form in you until he decided to open the door to his memories.
"Ezra was arrested two years ago. Armed robbery. A warehouse in north London. He didn’t shoot anyone, but he had a gun. It was his third time getting into trouble... so there was no forgiveness."
You closed your eyes for a moment.
"And my father?"
Tom nodded, as if he had been expecting the question.
"He was the lawyer on the case. Representing the victim, the owner of the warehouse. But not just that. He was the one who convinced the jury that Ezra was too dangerous to be out." His voice cracked between contained anger and exhaustion. "And he made sure to use everything he could against him. Even things that had nothing to do with that crime."
"He hates you, doesn’t he?"
"He hates what I represent. That someone like me—from where I come from, with my surname—could cross the bloody hedge of his house." He finally turned his face in your direction. "And then, a few months later... he called me to work. Mechanical work, maintenance. An informal agreement."
You narrowed your eyes.
"An agreement?"
"He pays me. But never more than the minimum. And every time I thought about refusing, about leaving, he found a way to remind me... that he knows everything about me. About my mother. About Ezra." Tom paused, and something darker entered his voice. "It’s like he says: ‘If you want to keep walking around here, you’d better walk the line I’ve drawn.’"
You remained silent, absorbing each fragment of the truth. It was worse than you’d imagined. Colder, more calculated. Your father didn’t just know—he pulled the strings.
"Why didn’t you leave?"
Tom looked at you as if the answer were obvious.
"Because you were there."
Your heart tightened. And for the first time, you understood the magnitude of the sacrifice.
He wasn’t just the bad boy of the suburbs. He was someone being kept on a tight leash, used as an example—and still, he stayed. For you.
You reached out, touching his hand slowly. Grease-stained and warm. And for a moment, neither of you spoke. But everything was said in the silence.
"I never met your mum."
It was the first time you crossed that door. The small house in the suburbs smelled of tea, medicine, and old wood. Everything was clean and quiet, almost reverent.
Tom entered first, leaving the keys on the kitchen counter. You hesitated in the doorway, your eyes scanning the old photographs on the wall. A framed picture of two small boys—one was clearly him, the other, you now knew, was Ezra. And between them, a smiling woman with lively eyes.
"Mum?" Tom called, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.
There was a soft rustling sound, like fabric brushing. A figure appeared in the hallway: a slender woman, her hair too white for her age, wearing a faded blue robe. Her eyes, though tired, still held a firm sweetness.
"Got a visitor," he said, glancing briefly at you. "This is..."
"Hello," you interrupted with a polite smile. "It’s a pleasure to meet you."
His mother looked at you for a moment, as if seeing more than you were showing.
"You’re beautiful... too beautiful for this scoundrel," she said, her voice weak but full of affectionate irony.
Tom rolled his eyes, but you laughed.
She sat in the armchair with his help. Her breathing was slow but noticeably laboured—you noticed the portable oxygen tank beside her, the bottle of pills, the blanket folded over her thin legs.
"My son tries to hide it, but he’s a good boy," she commented, looking at Tom with tenderness. "Even after everything. Even with what happened to Ezra."
You felt the air grow heavy for a second.
"He doesn’t talk much about it," you replied, sitting next to her. "But he does a lot for you."
She nodded, her eyes misting over.
"He’s always been like that. Strong on the outside... but inside, he’s made of glass."
You looked at him. Tom pretended not to hear, busy preparing the tea she always had at five. But the tension in his jaw told you that he was hearing every word.
The lady turned her gaze back to you.
"Take care of him, if you're going to stay. But if you're not... please, don't hurt him."
That hit you like an unexpected blow — for the honesty, the sweetness, the fragility of the woman in front of you, who, even sick, still wanted to protect her son.
You nodded silently, feeling something tighten in your chest.
Tom returned with the tea cup, handing it carefully. His mother smiled. You noticed how his hands trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he watched her.
And there, in that modest room, in that small house in the suburbs, you saw more of Tom than you'd ever seen in the late nights of furtive touches and whispered promises. He was everything your father would never understand: loyal, protective, real.
The car slid slowly through the dark streets of the neighbourhood, and you kept your eyes on the window, as if the city lights could digest what had just happened. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but dense.
You felt the engine vibrating under the seat, the sound of the rain lightly hitting the windscreen — and the weight of that room still hanging heavy on your chest.
"Why did you never take me there before?" your voice broke the silence, almost a whisper.
Tom didn’t respond immediately. His hands remained firm on the wheel, but his fingers tightened the leather more.
"Because... it’s not a nice place," he said, not looking at you. "Not easy."
You turned your face, looking at his profile illuminated by the streetlights.
"But it’s real. More than a lot of things out there."
He let out a sigh, almost like a short laugh, without humour.
"She shouldn’t have said that," he commented. "About me, about... whether you’re staying or not."
"She just wants to protect you," you said, sincerely. "That’s what mothers do, right?"
Tom diverted his gaze from the road for a moment, just to glance at you. There was something in his eyes... vulnerable.
"When Ezra got arrested, she shut down. Inside. It was like she died too," he swallowed hard. "I just tried... to keep everything standing."
You nodded, feeling your heart tighten.
"And my dad?"
He hesitated.
"Your dad didn’t arrest Ezra alone. But he made sure to keep him inside for as long as possible. It was personal." Silence.
"Because he knew you were brothers?"
"Because he knew we were trouble. He made it clear from the start. Either we stayed silent... or we got screwed." You reclined in your seat, your stomach turning. It all started to make sense: the closed doors, the cold smiles, the control. You thought it was just about you. But it was much bigger.
"And that’s how you started working for him?"
"He gave me an ‘opportunity’. Said that, if I cooperated, he’d help keep my family’s situation... easier."
"And you accepted."
"Because I had no choice."
You said nothing. Just looked at him, truly. For the first time, without the fantasy of a forbidden romance, without the pent-up anger of a "want and can’t have". Just him, and the mess he’s been carrying alone for so long.
And there, between wet streets and red lights, you felt the gravity shift. You already knew you loved him — but now you knew the weight of what that meant.
Tom stopped the car in front of his house, but didn’t turn off the engine. His eyes turned to you.
"Do you still want to stay?"
You slowly released your seatbelt, then leaned towards him with a calmness you hadn’t had before.
"More than ever."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if that simple "yes" was the first breath after years of drowning.
......
The door clicked softly behind you, and all that remained was his breath near you. His house was silent, the living room light off. Only the faint light from the kitchen illuminated the space, casting shadows on the worn floor.
You slowly took off your coat, feeling Tom’s eyes following every movement. He didn’t say anything — not yet. He just watched you with that intense gaze that always seemed to hold so much more than it showed.
You felt the tension grow between you like a rope stretched too tight. And then, without another word, he pulled you closer.
The kiss started calm — exploratory, firm, as if he was making sure you were really there, that it was real. But soon, the control began to crumble. His fingers buried themselves in your hair, his breath quickened, his touch became more desperate, more present.
"I thought about you every night since that first time," he whispered against your skin, his lips tracing a warm path to your neck. "But I hated myself for it."
"Why?"
"Because I didn’t want to drag you into this," he pressed his forehead against yours. "But now... now it’s too late, isn’t it?"
You pulled him closer in response, feeling his body pressed against yours.
"I don’t want you to protect me from you, Tom. I just want you to show me who you really are."
The clothes slowly fell away, on the way to the bedroom. His bed was small, the mattress creaked slightly as you both lay down, but nothing mattered except his hands exploring every inch of your skin, and the whispers escaping between kisses and touches.
"I want you so much it hurts," he confessed, his face buried in your neck, his breath erratic.
"Then don’t stop," you responded, panting. "Don’t think. Just feel."
And he obeyed.
The bodies met, understood. There was no more past, no guilt, no fear. Only the present — warm, raw, true.
In the end, you lay side by side, still breathless. Tom ran his fingers along your arms, as if drawing some memory there.
"I never thought I’d have this with someone like you," he murmured.
"Someone who sees me... fully."
You stare at him, his face partially hidden in the pillow.
"Maybe because no one’s ever really stopped to look."
He closes his eyes, squeezing your hand between his. And in the silence that follows, neither of you says another word. You don’t need to.
The atmosphere in your parents' house hasn't been the same for days. Since the incident at the police station, the conversations are cutting, the glances full of judgment. But it’s when you hear, through the slightly open door of the study, your father talking on the phone with someone from the public prosecutor’s office that everything inside you freezes.
"He’s out, but not for long. This call serves as a warning. If his brother steps out of line again, you’ll see how useful I can be to the prosecution."
Anger rises in your throat. Not for Tom. But for yourself. For all the years you stayed silent, for all the "yes, sir"s, for every time you smothered your own voice to keep the peace.
You enter without knocking.
"Are you going to use your position to get revenge on a guy you don’t even know, just because he’s with me?"
Your father lifts his eyes coldly.
"I’m protecting you. And protecting the family name."
"Protecting?" you laugh bitterly. "Since when does controlling, threatening, and manipulating count as protecting? You’re just trying to keep your vanity intact. Because I fell in love with someone who doesn’t fit in your display of appearances."
"You have no idea what you're doing. You’re throwing yourself into the arms of an unstable guy, involved with a criminal!"
"Involved? Ezra is his brother, not his accomplice. And if he was arrested, you know it wasn’t clean. You and I both know that." Your voice trembles, but doesn’t waver. "And I know it was you who made sure he got the maximum sentence. All of this to make Tom dance to your tune. To keep him around like a trained pet."
Your father stands, furious.
"Are you accusing me of corruption?"
"I’m saying you’re a man so used to controlling everything, that you don’t know how to handle when something slips out of your grasp. Well, guess what? I’m slipping away." You stare at him, firm. "I’m leaving this house."
He lets out a humourless laugh.
"Are you going to live with the mechanic now?"
"I’m going to live with myself." You shrug. "If Tom’s with me, great. But even if he’s not, at least I’ll be free."
You turn your back without waiting for a response. For the first time, you feel light.
A few months later, the light from the late afternoon streams through the windows of the university auditorium. You’re in your seat, gown on, diploma in hand. In the last row, there he is. Tom. Dark shirt, stubble, focused gaze. He doesn’t smile, but when you meet his eyes, you know he’s there for you.
Beside him, Olivia cheers, holding up an improvised sign. You smile, and in that smile, you carry everything: the pain, the rebirth, the love.
After the ceremony, you run to him in the parking lot.
"I can't believe you came."
"I promised I would, remember?"
"I thought maybe you didn’t want to be a part of this anymore." He takes a deep breath, runs a hand through the back of his neck.
"I’ve watched you grow so much in the past few months... I didn’t want to be a burden."
You step closer, touching his face gently.
"You were never a burden. You’re the one who reminded me I could choose."
He kisses your forehead, his eyes closed for a moment longer than necessary.
"Ezra’s going to get parole. The case review was accepted. Your name helped a lot... doctor." You smile, moved.
"Justice needs to start within us, Tom." He holds your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours.
"And now?" he asks. "Going to save the world?"
"No," you reply. "I’m going to start by saving myself. And then, maybe, both of us."
He smiles. For real this time.
"Shall we go?"
"Where to?"
"Wherever you want."
The road stretches ahead of Tom’s old car. The city fades behind. You have your feet on the dashboard, laughing at some silly joke he just made. The radio plays an old English song, and the window is open.
You close your eyes for a second.
Free. At last.
And, beside you, he’s there. Not as a saviour, nor as a prison. But as an equal.
......
The apartment is small, but light floods in through the living room window. There are books stacked on makeshift shelves, two coffee cups on the old wooden table, and the sound of a distant drill — Tom is in the next room, fixing something that doesn’t even seem broken, just because he can’t stay still.
You’re typing on the laptop, glasses perched on the tip of your nose, with notes scattered all around. Your internship at the public defence office takes up your days, but for the first time, the work feels meaningful. You’re there by choice. Because you want to be. Because you believe.
Tom appears in the doorway, a ragged cloth covered in grease thrown over his shoulder and a lazy smile on his face.
"I finished that new shelf. Now you’ve got a place to put all those 'Criminal Law for Romantics' books."
You laugh, reaching your hand out to him.
"Come here. Rest for a bit."
He crosses the room and sits beside you on the sofa, pulling you close. You both sit in silence, just breathing together. A song plays in the background — one of those you discovered together, in some random playlist.
"Are you happy?" he asks suddenly, his voice soft, his eyes locked on you.
You don’t need to think.
"I’m at peace."
He kisses the top of your head.
"Me too."
Outside, London keeps on chaotic, alive, intense. But inside here, you’ve created a world where everything makes sense — even though sometimes it still hurts, even though there are still doubts, scars, challenges.
Because now you know what freedom is.
And you know what love is.
And you’ve learned — with him, with yourself — that you don’t have to choose between the two.
⌙ summary: nothing is better than sundays
i’m sorry pls look at him i wanna hug him so tight. he’s BABY!!!!
⌙ warnings: cursing (bc it’s tom, duh), tooth rotting, gut wrenching fluff. i wrote this while i was in my feels about tom bc i love him and miss him and he’s baby. seriously. not joking. tom out boyfriends all boyfriends. he is the moment.
⌙ wc: a short little 1.6k to make up for not posting chapter 8 of summer loving <3
⌙ pairing: tom holland x fem!reader
masterlist ⎸ listen
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
it was the small things tom did that made you fall more and more in love with him everyday.
for instance, he was a morning person. he enjoyed getting up early and getting his daily workout in when the sun was coming up. however, before he’d leave for the morning, he’d make sure to let tessa out so she didn’t wake you. he’d make sure to stay quiet while getting dressed and ready to go to the gym, plus he’d tuck the blankets back around you and place a gentle kiss on your forehead. this was his silent way of saying ‘see you when i get back’.
hello! would you write something (angst/fluff/whatever) where peter grows to love a person in the four year timeskip, but then jean shows reader he kissed mj? It can have a happy or sad ending idm! i think id be cool if the reader was the commissioners daughter too but thats just a headcanon of mine lol🤗🤗
hi! thank heavens todays one of my day offs n i have all the time so i did my best to serve right away 🙏 heres the fic
i hope i was able 2 do good evwn if i sincerely dk how to write angst ir fluff.. but i followed ur suggestions asw as ur headcanon!! enjoy
plot description: it only takes one lie to make love feel impossible and one truth to decide whether it’s worth saving.
content warnings: SPOILERS FOR BRAND NEW DAY, fluff, hurt/comfort, misunderstandings, angst (with a happy ending?), emotional confrontation, lying, mind control/manipulation (by jean grey but not on peter), involuntary kissing, crying, kissing, peter parker being hopelessly in love / (let me know if i missed anything!)
notes: this one is for @0-n-1-x !! thank u for trusting me w this plot because for ghe love of god idk how to properly write angst but whats important is i hope u like this heeehee
brooklyn buzzed around you, people crossed the streets. traffic crawled forward. somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.
and standing before you was someone who shouldn’t have existed. jean grey.
making you instinctively took a step back. “my boyfriend warned me about you.”
she doesn't answer immediately, but her green eyes searched yours with an expression that almost looked apologetic.
“i’m sorry.”
before you could react, a dull pressure settled against your temples. the world vanished and suddenly, you found yourself standing somewhere impossibly high. a rooftop.
the city’s skyline stretched endlessly beneath a blanket of stars, the wind carrying the distant sounds of traffic far below.
and then peter. still dressed in his spider-man suit, mask still on, but you could imagine his curls tousled and sweat clinging to his forehead. he looked exhausted, chest rising and falling from what must’ve been hours of patrolling.
he wasn’t alone with mj standing only a few feet away from him.
she said something you couldn’t hear and peter answered, his shoulders slumping as though whatever weighed on him had finally become too much to carry. she stepped closer.
you knew their eyes met, even through his mask, as she carefully lifted his mask stopping right above his nose, before his lips found hers.
no, it wasn’t a trick of the light, it definitely wasn’t your mind filling in the blanks. you watched your boyfriend share a kiss with mj— his highschool sweetheart who forgot him beneath the glow of the city skyline, still wearing the suit he had left your apartment in only hours before.
the same suit he’d been wearing when he promised, “i’m just heading out on patrol. i’ll see you later, baby.”
your heart cracked the same time the memory splintered apart. you staggered backward into reality with a sharp gasp, one hand flying to your chest as your breathing became ragged.
“no.” the word escaped as little more than a whisper.
jean grey lowered her hand. “he told you he was patrolling.”
your eyes burned.
“there has to be a reason.”
“maybe,” she admitted softly. “but a reason doesn’t change what you saw.”
you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the pavement, because you had seen it.
a familiar thwip cut through the silence.
both of you looked skyward where a streak of red and blue swung between the buildings before spider-man landed hard against the pavement, already tearing his mask the rest of the way off.
“__!”
his breathing was uneven, his voice frantic as he hurried toward you, but jean grey had already disappeared.
gone without a trace. leaving only you and the memory she had placed inside your mind.
“what happened?” peter asked, eyes darting over your tear-streaked face.
you looked at him. at the same lips you’d just watched press against someone else’s on that rooftop.
your voice barely held together.
“peter, where were you just minutes ago?”
peter didn’t hesitate. “patrolling.”
the answer came so naturally and so effortlessly as if he’d rehearsed it.
your breath caught, followed by a broken sound escaping your throat before you could stop it. fresh tears spilled down your cheeks.
he frowned immediately.
“hey, what’s wrong?” taking another step.
another instinctive reach toward you and when you flinched away, his hand froze in midair.
“please don’t.”
his stomach dropped.
“i know what happened.” your words were quiet.
“…what?”
“don’t.”
you wiped furiously at your face, only for more tears to replace the ones you’d brushed away. “don’t make me ask twice.”
he stared at you, confused and terrified.
“baby, i don’t–”
“you kissed her. you kissed mj.”
the blood drained from peter’s face.
“…jean grey.”
it came out as a whisper.
“so it’s true.” you laughed bitterly through your tears.
his eyes widened. “no! that’s not what i–”
“you admitted it.”
“that’s not what i admitted.” his voice cracked with desperation. “i meant jean grey.”
you looked at him, eyes red and glassy. “she showed me everything.”
peter’s heart sank into his stomach, because he could practically see the memory playing behind your eyes. “baby…”
he stepped forward again, slower this time. carefully, like approaching someone standing too close to the edge.
“please, let me explain.”
“explain what?” your voice rose for the first time.
“that i watched my boyfriend kiss someone else?”
he shut his eyes. “n…no– yes.”
you stared at him in disbelief.
“you actually expect me to stand here after seeing that and listen?”
“because there’s more to it than what she showed you.”
your words cut clean through him. “was there another angle? did i miss the part where your lips didn’t touch hers?”
he had no answer, because they had. so you shook your head.
“you promised me.” your voice cracked on the last word. “you looked me in the eyes before you left,” another sob escaped you, “and you promised you were just going on patrol.”
peter felt sick, because this was entirely his own doing and he swallowed hard.
“i never wanted to hurt you.”
“but you did.”
the sentence landed with quiet finality.
and since swinging into brooklyn, the man who made headlines— spiderman had no way to save the person standing in front of him. his own girlfriend who he promised the world to, knowing the great cost of everything.
it has been three days since you’d walked away from him and you’d told him not to follow you home. it was also three days of unanswered messages, unsent apologies, and sleepless nights that left peter feeling more exhausted than any patrol ever could.
even now, swinging through the city beneath the pale morning sun, his mind wasn’t on the robbery he’d just stopped or the civilians thanking spiderman, because it was on you.
the look in your eyes replayed every time he blinked. he shook his head as he landed atop a rooftop, letting out a shaky breath before pulling his phone from his pocket.
his thumb hovered over one contact.
commissioner jean dewolff. your mother.
the phone only rang twice before she answered. “well, this better not be about my daughter.”
peter winced.
“it is.”
“talk.”
he did, making sure he didn’t leave anything out, even stuttering while he recalled and narrated everything.
“i should’ve told her,” he admitted quietly. “i didn’t know how to explain it, but i should’ve trusted her enough to tell her the truth.”
dewolff sighed. “that’s where you failed my daughter.”
“i know.”
a sigh was heard from the other end, yet her tone softened ever so slightly. “she’s at nyu right now.”
peter blinked at the information.
“in about thirty minutes, i’ll tell her i need her to meet someone outside campus.”
his heart nearly stopped. “…commissioner.”
“don’t thank me yet.”
he listened.
“this is your chance to tell her the truth.”
peter nods as if she could see him, “i will.”
“and parker?”
“yeah?”
“don’t make me regret helping you.”
“i won’t.”
the call ended.
peter stood motionless for a moment before quietly whispering, “thank you, thank you, commissioner.”
your phone buzzed as you stepped out of your lecture hall.
momma deer: hi sweetheart
momma deer: can you meet someone outside the park across from campus? i’ll explain later
you frowned. someone?
with a sigh, you slipped your phone into your bag and headed outside. watching students cross the sidewalks, cars rolling lazily through the afternoon traffic, and the scent of fresh coffee drifted from a nearby café.
you stopped when you saw him.
peter standing beside a wooden bench beneath a tree with a bouquet of flowers rested awkwardly in his hands. he looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and at the sight, your chest tightened, but you walked right past him.
“bab– ___.”
you kept walking while his footsteps hurried after yours.
“please.”
gentle fingers brushed your wrist, and you know it’s not to keep you there. only to ask.
so you slowly turned, legs almost giving up after seeing his eyes were rimmed red.
“just five minutes.”
you stared at him, quietly sighing. “you have five.”
relief washed over his face.
“thank you.”
“these are for you.” he held out the flowers.
which after a brief hesitation, you accepted them and it took everything not to try and sniff them.
peter broke the silence that stayed shortly. “i lied.”
your gaze fell.
“i wasn’t trying to protect myself.”
his voice shook. “i was trying to protect us.” he laughed bitterly, “which obviously didn’t work.”
“yeah.”
he nodded.
“there’s something i need to show you.” he glanced around the busy sidewalk, where students were everywhere and people you knew glanced at the both of you. “not here.”
your brows furrowed. “why?”
his eyes flickered toward the crowd.
“because i’d really like to keep my identity.”
you couldn’t help the smallest exhale through your nose. “right.”
“there’s an alley around the corner.” he offered a small smile.
you could only nod, curious what he has to say. walking behind him as he lead the way to an alley that was tucked away behind the café you always went to for a quick caffeine fix, hidden from the sidewalk.
peter made sure no one could see before carefully pulling his spiderman mask from his backpack. “so, uh, my mask records every patrol.”
he looked down at it. “for evidence, in case i ever need footage.” his thumb brushed one of the lenses.
“and after you left,” his voice caught.
“i remembered it had been recording and i figured a way to save it.”
he activated the playback using his phone, watching you watch from his point of view.
there was the same rooftop, skyline, wind– you were taken aback by the high resolution of the video, because it was similar to a memory or reliving what happened. you squinted the moment you saw mj approach his view. you really couldn’t deny something about her immediately felt wrong, because her expression was empty, movements were stiff and unnatural. you’ve seen her in person once which was enough to know that wasn’t how she moved.
“mj?” peter’s recorded voice echoed.
she didn’t answer, she simply walked toward him. the footage began to jolt violently while he tried to move, and he couldn’t. the camera repeatedly shook with the effort as his breathing quickened.
because he was having a panic attack.
“come on…”
before he could move, mj reached him, lifting his mask just above his nose before cupping his face, and kissing him.
your heart tightened, but you saw what jean grey hadn’t shown you— peter’s panic, struggle, and desperate attempts to break free.
the instant the pressure disappeared after seconds, and his point of view showed how he stumbled backward so suddenly the recording lurched, “wha... what the hell?” he sounded horrified. “mj?”
she looked just as confused when he looked up at her again, “spiderman?”
silence filled the alley when peter watched the recording end.
“you couldn’t move.” your voice barely came out.
he slowly shook his head. “i couldn’t.”
“but why didn’t you tell me?”
he shut his eyes. “because i was scared.” his voice cracked.
“not because i kissed her.” he looked at you, eyes filled with tears. “because i knew how it looked, and then i lied.”
his shoulders slumped.
“that’s the part i’ll regret for the rest of my life.”
peter laughed once, one that you know is not genuine, but of nervousness. “my biggest regret wasn’t that rooftop... i... it was looking you in the eyes afterward and pretending nothing happened.” his eyes glistened. “i’ve never been more certain of anything than wanting to spend my life with you.”
he swallowed hard.
“and i almost threw that away because i was afraid to tell you the truth.” he wiped quickly at his face.
“i’m sorry for lying, making you doubt yourself, and for making you think i’d ever choose someone else.”
his voice broke. “i love you, and i’m so, so sorry.”
but before he could say another word, you stepped closer with your hand resting against his cheek.
he froze.
gently leaning forward, your lips brushed his in a gentle, lingering kiss, and when you pulled away, his eyes remained closed for a second, like he was afraid the moment would disappear if he looked.
you rested your forehead against his. “peter, please.” your voice was soft. “don’t lie again.”
“never.” he nodded immediately. “i promise.”
after a quiet moment, he suddenly looked like he’d remembered something. “actually.”
you tilt your head at your boyfriend.
“what?”
“i’m going to make something.”
“…what?”
“a tracker.”
you frowned. “a tracker? for what?”
“not like that,” he said quickly. “something that lets you know who i’m with during patrols. if i’m with another hero, if i’m responding to a call–”
“peter.”
“so you’ll never have to wonder again.”
you stared at him, shaking your head. “no, that’s incredibly invasive. your privacy still matters.”
he shook his head.
“i don’t care, if it helps rebuild your trust–”
a voice suddenly crackled through his phone. “i kind of agree with that.”
both of you froze, your eyes slowly dropped toward peter’s hoodie pocket and he looked just as horrified.
“commissioner dewolff?”
“you were still on the phone with my mom?” you stared at him.
“i swear, i remember hanging up–”
you lightly smacked his arm.
“ow!”
“mom.”
another sigh came through the speaker.
“yes, sweetheart?”
you pinched the bridge of your nose. “please end the call.”
a beat.
“…worth a shot.”
the line disconnected and his smile returned for the first time in days, looking at you, “there’s my girl.”
“don’t push it.” you rolled your eyes, mentally noting to scold your mom.
peter knew he’d have to earn your trust back every single day, but as your fingers intertwined with his, he silently promised himself he would.
plot description: every atom has a purpose, and somehow, yours always seemed to find their way back to him.
content warnings: LITTLE SPOILERS FOR BRAND NEW DAY, my first attempt writing fluff, so mushy and cutesy scenes, kissing / (let me know if i missed anything!)
notes: im totally eating this up bc ive been reading and writing endless smut fics so i decided it was time for something cute or something around that type of shit but U GUYS GET ME!! also this is another thanks to 🪷 bc w/o them i wouldve never been able to come up w thsi :) ilyily pls request more !! ill trymy bezt to give justice :)
you pursed your lips as your eyes scanned the newspaper spread across the table by the window of delmar’s.
NEW YORK STILL REELING AFTER DEVASTATING SUPERHERO CLASH.
your gaze lingered on the accompanying photograph— the same broken damage control building, the same crumbling concrete, the same place where you’d pulled a certain spider out from beneath the rubble.
an eyebrow raised at a thought while you took another absentminded sip of your coffee.
ding.
the bell above the door chimed.
and without looking up, you greeted him. “morning, parker.”
“what?” your brows knit together when you were met with silence, lowering the newspaper that covered your face.
peter stood just inside the entrance, his hoodie dangling loosely from one hand.
he stared at you for a moment, “hi,” he managed.
his expression hovered somewhere between disbelief and relief, like he’d spent the last few days wondering if he’d imagined your existence.
a small smile tugged at your lips.
“you look better.”
“thanks to you.” he let out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. his eyes drifting to the empty chair across from yours.
“mind if i…”
you folded the newspaper and gestured toward the seat.
“it’s a free country.”
“right.”
he sat down, setting his hoodie beside his chair.
what surprised him was it wasn’t awkward. at all. but it was unfamiliar to him, and he decided to break the silence after a minute of thinking.
“i wasn’t actually expecting to see you again.”
you tilted your head.
“disappointed?”
“no.” the answer came far too quickly his ears immediately turned pink.
“…i mean–”
you couldn’t help the amused huff that escaped you “relax, parker.”
he smiled sheepishly.
“i’m trying.”
you found yourself with him weeks later— after patrol had become something the two of you occasionally shared.
once the city settled into its usual rhythm of distant sirens and glowing skylines, the two of you found yourselves sitting side by side on the edge of a rooftop, legs dangling over the side as the cool night breeze swept past.
this is comfortable. you thought.
peter was the first to break the silence. “can i ask you something?”
you glanced over.
“you just did.”
“right. okay… can i ask another?” he laughed quietly.
“depends.”
“your powers.”
he rested his forearms against his knees, turning to face you.
“how do they actually work?”
you stared at the city below for a moment before lifting one hand. watching a soft pink light gather around your fingertips, illuminating the rooftop in a warm glow.
“everything is made of something.” your voice was calm. “atoms. molecules. matter.”
the light drifted from your hand, surrounding a loose pebble resting beside your shoe.
“i can like, persuade them to become something else.”
the stone dissolved into thousands of shimmering pink particles, floating weightlessly between the two of you.
peter leaned forward, completely captivated.
“that is so cool.”
the particles swirled through the air before slowly knitting themselves back together. except it was no longer a pebble and in a blink of an eye, resting in the palm of your hand was a tiny pink spider, no bigger than a coin.
its little legs wiggled as it crawled across your fingers, holding it out to a curious peter parker whose eyes were widened.
“for you.”
peter stared at the tiny spider raising one leg, almost like it was waving at him, which made him burst into laughter. “okay– that’s adorable.”
you couldn’t help smiling.
“i figured you’d appreciate the theme.”
“i don’t think anyone’s ever made me a spider before.” he carefully let the little spider crawl onto his hand, watching it wander across his knuckles. “well, i mean mr. stark made a spider suit for me, but this– this is different.”
“first time for everything.”
he looked at the tiny creature with a grin that lingered longer than he expected. “oh, you’re showing off.”
“maybe a little.”
“do another.”
“parker.”
“please?”
“you’re impossible.” you rolled your eyes dramatically.
“that’s not a no.”
the two of you laughed together, the sound disappearing into the open night above manhattan where hours slipped by without either of you noticing.
eventually, you stood, brushing the dust from your clothes. “i should head home.”
“yeah.” he stood beside you.
for a brief second, silence engulfed the space between the two of you.
“same time next patrol?” he asked.
you smiled. “only if you promise not to ask me to make spider-shaped everything.”
“no promises.”
you laughed, shaking your head.
“goodnight, parker.”
before he could reply, pink light wrapped gently around you, then you were gone.
peter looked down at his hand, the tiny pink spider was still sitting there and he smiled to himself.
“…yeah,” he murmured to the empty rooftop.
“goodnight.”
weeks slipped into months.
somewhere between patrols, coffee runs, late-night takeout, and conversations that stretched until sunrise, the superhero life quietly took a backseat whenever the two of you were together.
you’d become normal around him and he was, too.
“okay, this one’s the one.” peter tossed another piece of popcorn into the air, which only pathetically bounced off his forehead.
“…that didn’t count.”
you snorted. “that’s what you said four popcorns ago.”
“you should know science is all about trial and error.”
“we’re running out of popcorn.”
“i’m running out of dignity.”
that earned another laugh from you, the movie playing on the television had long faded into background noise.
the two of you sat on the floor surrounded by an embarrassingly empty bowl of popcorn, shoulders occasionally brushing whenever one of you reached for another handful.
out of curiosity and wanting to stretch your neck after hours, you glanced toward the window.
“hey.”
peter followed your gaze.
outside, tiny white flakes drifted from the night sky.
“it’s snowing.”
your voice was quieter than usual. almost childlike, peter noted.
you stood, wandering toward the window as if afraid the moment would disappear before you reached it.
peter stayed where he was, but instead of looking outside, he watched you watch the snow fall with the city lights reflecting against the glass and snowflakes melted the moment they touched the window.
you smiled at the view and for some reason, his chest tightened. not painfully. but with unfamiliar warmth.
when he blinked, there was only you and he didn’t know when it happened, or how.
only that somewhere between grocery runs, terrible movies, burnt coffee, and conversations about everything and nothing, you had quietly become his favorite part of every day.
“wanna grab beer?” you asked without turning around.
he blinked. “…huh?”
you looked over your shoulder with a grin. “and more popcorn.” your eyes drifted to the empty bowl. “clearly, we need more for you to waste.”
“hey!” he laughed.
“come on.”
you nudged him with your shoulder as the two of you left the apartment.
the cold greeted you the moment you stepped outside, snow continued to fall in slow, delicate flakes, and halfway across the street, peter glanced at you again.
you tilted your head when you caught him, “what?”
he opened his mouth but nothing came out.
because how could he possibly explain that the first snowfall of winter had somehow become the moment he’d remember for years to come?
that he’d stopped thinking about the life he’d lost and started imagining one with you in it.
before he could say a word— “parker!”
your hand caught his wrist.
“look at the pedestrian light, dumbass.”
you broke into a run across the crosswalk, laughing as you dragged him behind you.
he stumbled after you, laughing just as hard, holding the convenience store’s doors open, warmth washing over both of you as you hurried inside.
“beer?” you asked.
“beer.”
“popcorn?”
“lots of popcorn.”
you smiled at that, and he smiled back, watching you disappear along the aisles while he patiently waited (he was zoning out) near the counter when you returned with your hands full of canned beers and an enormous bag of popcorn.
while the cashier scanned your beers and replacement bag of popcorn, peter caught the elderly man behind the register smiling to himself.
but not just smiling, more like positively grinning.
“…uh.” peter shifted awkwardly. “did i miss the joke?”
the old man chuckled, pointing a wrinkled finger above their heads, causing the both of you to look up.
hanging from the ceiling, tied with a faded red ribbon, was a sprig of mistletoe.
you blinked. “oh.”
“there you go.” the cashier finished ringing up the last item before placing everything into a paper bag. he slid the bag across the counter before wiping his hands on his apron. “i’ve got some boxes to unpack in the back.”
his eyes twinkled knowingly.
“you kids know the tradition.”
with one last amused smile, he disappeared through the stockroom door, leaving the two of you standing in the sudden silence.
you slowly looked at peter who was already looking back at you.
“well,” he laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, “aunt may always said traditions exist for a reason.”
your heart skipped.
“did she?”
“yeah.”
his smile softened. “she also said they’re worth keeping alive.”
you cleared your throat, suddenly very interested in the floor.
“that’s a little unfair.”
“why?”
“because now if i say no, i’ll feel like i’m disappointing your aunt.”
he let out a quiet laugh. “she would’ve liked you.” the words escaped before he could stop them, and his ears turned pink almost immediately.
“…sorry.”
you smiled. “don’t be.”
a beat passed, peter took a careful step closer. slow enough that you could’ve pulled away, but you didn’t.
his hand hesitantly found yours, thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.
“is this okay?”
but instead of answering, you closed the remaining distance, because answering was never really your thing.
the kiss was brief, awkward at first, because the both of you were smiling too much to quite get it right.
but it was soft. it was the first gentleness peter has felt since god knows when. and to him, it was the kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and,
plot description: years after dr. strange erased peter parker, they never accounted for the multiverse.
content warnings: SPOILERS FOR BRAND NEW DAY, poorly written fighting scenes, mentions of death, the us government (ew), physics was mentioned once (i hate physics, do u guys hate physics?) / (let me know if i missed anything!)
notes: this was a request from 🪷 anon who i owe my life to for removing my writers block bc it got so bad after undefined and i finally made use of my knowledge in invincible (ive been marvel rotting for years) so it wasnt that hard to write but this isnt lroofread cz i js came home from a long ass shift and i used the work computer to write teehee (tell me y my boss has grammarly premium and its funky (in a bad way))
the alarms never stopped.
emergency lights pulsed through every corridor of the damage control building, the walls were broken down, shattered glass littered the floor, sprinkler systems hissed overhead, and somewhere several floors below, an explosion rocked the building hard enough to make the steel framework groan.
jean grey had breached the facility.
she hadn’t come alone.
spiderman ducked beneath a collapsing support beam, landing in a rough roll before springing back to his feet. his suit was torn across the chest, one web-shooter sparked uselessly, and every muscle screamed in protest.
“come on, dr. banner…”
hulk barreled through two reinforced walls like they were cardboard.
his emerald skin was covered in scorch marks from the security systems that had tried and failed to stop him. green eyes locked onto peter with terrifying focus, completely devoid of recognition.
this wasn’t banner. this was jean.
hulk swung.
peter crossed both forearms just before the impact sent him crashing through an observation room overlooking damage control’s experimental vaults. thick reinforced glass exploded around him as he slammed across the floor, coughing blood into his mask.
his spider-sense screamed again as he fired a desperate webline toward hulk’s face. “don’t let her get to your head!”
the web struck, and yet hulk didn’t even blink.
he tore it away and charged again at peter who barely managed to leap aside before the floor disappeared beneath hulk’s fists.
the entire level caved inward.
while far across the city, you looked up from your apartment window. the pink energy construct floating above your hand dissolved.
because for many months, you’d ignored the news of hero fights, alien invasions, and masked vigilantes— you decided none of it was your concern, becausd after all, you’d crossed realities for one reason alone.
peace.
after spending your entire life watching governments hunt people like you, dissect them, catalogue them, weaponize them.
this universe had been comfortable and you intended to keep it that way, especially after learning who directed damage control in manhattan.
bill metzger.
you’ve read into it. different universe, same ambition.
the files you’d stolen weeks ago painted the picture clearly enough, enhanced individuals weren’t people to him. they were research, assets, future soldiers which you refused to become. you didn’t want to be another file in another government’s cabinet.
every electronic device in your apartment flickered and you recognized it all too well. telepathic interference.
one consciousness forcing another beneath the surface.
“jean grey?” your expression darkened. “so that’s where you are.”
pink light engulfed your body before your apartment vanished behind you.
by the time you reached the damage control building, the upper floors had become a battlefield with security drones burned in smoking piles, containment chambers had been ripped open, and entire laboratories lay in ruins.
through it all, you found spiderman on one knee, breathing hard and bleeding as hulk stood over him with both fists raised.
you didn’t hesitate letting a translucent pink barrier materialize between them, wincing as the impact sounded like a bomb and the shockwave ripped through the hallway, shattering every remaining window across the floor.
hulk pushed harder, roaring at the barrier that didn't move.
with a slow wave of your hand, the concrete beneath hulk liquefied into glowing particles. steel support beams unraveled at the atomic level, weaving themselves around his limbs before hardening into restraints thicker than tanks could manufacture.
hulk strained while the restraints only grew denser layer after layer, molecule by molecule. he couldn’t break them.
“strength only matters,” you said quietly, “when the laws of physics agree with you.”
hulk roared again, before he froze. green eyes flickering back to brown which showed that at least banner was fighting back.
you felt the psychic connection snap, and somewhere else in the building jean abandoned him.
“...thanks?” peter hesitantly speaks.
your head turned sharply. “she found someone else.”
before peter could ask another question, gunfire erupted down the corridor.
frank castle emerged through the smoke, assault rifle already raised. his eyes held the same impossible rage hulk had worn moments earlier.
without a word, he opened fire.
peter shoved you aside.
“look out!”
yet you didn’t move. watching every bullet stop in midair, dozens of them hung motionless between you and frank.
he squeezed the trigger again, but nothing changed.
your eyes never left his.
“you’re wasting ammunition.” your fingers closed, the bullets shimmered pink.
lead became carbon, carbon became graphite, and graphite unraveled into black dust before drifting harmlessly onto the floor.
frank reached for another weapon. a combat knife.
you sighed.
the blade softened instantly, flowing through his fingers like molten silver before reshaping itself into a single long-stemmed rose.
he stared at it.
“that was supposed to intimidate me?”
frank threw the flower aside and charged.
you met him halfway as a pink construct formed around your fist. not to strengthen your body, but to redirect momentum.
his punch landed against the construct and the energy absorbed every ounce of force before returning it making frank fly backward through three reinforced walls.
he hit the fourth hard enough to leave a crater, and still, he stood.
jean’s influence refused to let him stop which made you grin.
“persistent,” you muttered.
the hallway beneath frank suddenly dissolved, every atom came apart beneath his feet before reconstructing into a hollow sphere that closed around him.
peter leaned heavily against a ruined console, breathing unevenly.
“…who…”
you turned. “you’re hurt.”
“i’ve had worse.”
“you’re lying.”
soft pink light unfurled from your fingertips, weaving between the fractures beneath his suit.
“wait–” peter’s muscles locked on instinct.
“relax.”
the energy sank through him, mending shattered ribs without altering anything else.
“i’m not changing you, parker.”
he froze.
his voice was barely audible. “who are you?”
another violent tremor ripped through the building. concrete dust rained from the ceiling as distant violet psychic energy pulsed somewhere above, each wave making the air feel heavier than the last.
you didn’t answer immediately, looking toward the lower floors.
“i know you.”
“…what?”
“i’ve known since the moment i saw you.”
beneath the mask, his breathing hitched. “how?”
“because i’ve seen a world that was never supposed to forget you.” you met the white lenses of his mask.
“huh?”
“i’m not from this universe.”
he let out a short, uncertain laugh. “okay… you got me there. that’s– that’s a good one.”
you didn’t smile which made his laughter slowly die on its own.
“multiverse.”
“right.” he forced another chuckle. “and what? let me gue–”
you looked at him almost pitifully. “your aunt died.”
his smile disappeared at the mention of may’s death years ago.
“your best friends looked through you like strangers.”
now, his chest tightened he swore his vision blurred for a second.
“you stood in the middle of the street while the entire world forgot your name.”
he couldn’t breathe now. “…stop.”
“you carry everyone.”
another heartbeat.
“and no one carries you.”
his hands trembled. “how do you know that?”
“because your story doesn’t end where mine begins.”
the words settled over him like ice. far above the two of them, another psychic shockwave tore through the tower. glass shattered and sirens echoed somewhere below.
you continued as though neither sound existed. “doctor strange’s spell wasn’t perfect.”
“it reached farther than your universe.”
“it touched mine.”
peter stared. “no, that’s impossible.”
“only if this is the only reality.”
another pause.
“it isn’t.”
the building groaned as voices echoed from several floors below.
damage control reinforcements were getting closer and meeting them was the last agenda you had in mind— your head turned toward the elevators before you quietly said, “i have to go.”
“wait.” he stepped forward before he even realized he’d moved. “who are you?”
you hesitated, your eyes drifted toward the shattered damage control insignia embedded in the wall.
“bill metzger doesn’t want answers.” your voice had gone cold.
you looked back at peter. “he wants ownership of people like us.”
“huh?”
“labels don’t matter.”
another distant gun shot.
“mutants, the enhanced...” the word left your lips without hesitation. “to people like him, there’s no difference.”
you took one step backward.
“governments don’t build trust first–”
peter finished the sentence before he understood why.
“…they build containment.”
you gave the faintest nod, “good.” before pink light began gathering around your body. “remember that before you ever hand them your name, parker.”
the light collapsed inward and you were gone. just like that.
but a single pink crystal struck the floor with a quiet ting which peter caught as he knelt slowly, his fingers closing around it.
because if it existed, it was proof someone still remembered peter parker.
graphics are not my own; I find most assets through pinterest or canva! credit isn't required to use but is appreciated along with liking and reblogging!
i LOVE ur peter stories could you please write one where reader has the powers of atom eve from invincible and you can make a plot maybe she rescues him idk ik you will write something amazing 🪷🪷
U R COOKING SOMETHING 👁️ 👁️ i thjnk i can write this but like give me by the end of the day (it’s currently 12 pm where i live)
i’ll come back 2 this ask and hyperlink the fic! ily 🪷 anon
EDIT. HI ANON THANK U AGAIN as promised here is the fic pink matter
stormborns
areudirty
dailybridgerton
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
pixelskylines
