Multifandom lover! Tolkien, Marvel, Star wars,...

Grunts: Black Widow, Blade, Dare Devil, Hawkeye, Iron Fist, *Moon Knight, Punisher, Thing, Venom, Wolverine, Hulk

"oh yeah baby, just like that," they murmur in your ear, praise spoken just for you to hear. "you feel so good right now, keep doing exactly what you're doing." a low grunt pulls from their chest and their eyes squeeze shut in concentration. "fuck, you're gonna make me cum baby. You're making it really hard to hold out for you".

Moans: Angela, Captain America, Doctor Strange, Elsa Bloodstone, Emma Frost, Hela, Invisible Woman, Loki, Magik, Mantis, *Moon Knight, Phoenix, Rouge, Scarlet Witch, Star Lord, Thor

"yeahh just like that baby, just like that." another heavenly moan tumbles from their lips, you swore you could finish just from that sound alone. "come on, i wanna cum with you, you look so good when you do"

Whimpers: Dagger, Deadpool, Human Torch, Luna Snow, *Moon Knight, Namor, Spider-Man, Squirrel Girl

"oh my god, oh my god" they whimper out loudly, anyone around could surely hear them by now. "you feel so good, so good. i can't- baby i'm gonna cum"

Pants: Adam Warlock, Black Cat, Black Panther, Cloak, Cyclops, Gambit, Iron Man, Magneto, Mister Fantastic, *Moon Knight, Psylocke, Storm, **Ultron, White Fox, Winter Soldier

"fuck- hey, you doing good? yeah? good," they tuck their face into the crook of your neck, grazing their teeth over your skin. they pant as if they can't get enough breath, their body fighting against the need for air and the intensity of their pleasure. "shit i'm so close, are close too?"

*His different alters do different things

Silence.

Bruce's face falls.

You immediately have to press your lips together.

Tony's head snaps toward the two of you.

“CURRENT boyfriend?”

He claps once before bursting into laughter.

“Oh, Banner. You're on a subscription plan.”

Bruce slowly turns toward him.

“Tony.”

Tony points at him. “I'm just saying. You should check the renewal terms.”

Natasha snickers into her hand.

Clint suddenly becomes very interested in his phone.

Bruce, meanwhile, has gone suspiciously quiet.

He turns his head away, and you can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes.

Oh no.

Maybe you pushed it a little too far.

You reach over and gently cup his cheek, turning his face back toward you.

“Current?” he asks quietly.

You nearly laugh.

“Yeah.”

His eyebrows pinch together.

“…Current?”

He gives you that tiny, nervous smile, the one that means he's already overthinking something that absolutely does not require this much thought.

“Is there a reason you specified current?”

“Because you're my current boyfriend,” you say matter-of-factly.

Bruce blinks.

“Right. Okay. Good.”

A pause.

“Just—current is an interesting qualifier.”

“Bruce.”

“I'm just saying.”

“Bruce.”

“It's not necessarily negative.”

“Bruce.”

He finally stops.

You can see the exact moment he realizes he's been talking himself into a hole.

“…I'm overthinking this.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

You grin and lean against him.

“You're my current and hopefully my forever boyfriend.”

That seems to help.

A little.

Bruce's shoulders relax, and his arm around you pulls you a tiny bit closer.

“Still,” he murmurs.

You look up at him.

“Still what?”

“Your current boyfriend?”

You snort.

“For now.”

His eyes widen.

You immediately burst out laughing.

“Oh my God, I'm kidding!”

He gives you a look.

“That's not funny.”

“It is a little funny.”

“It really isn't.”

“You're cute when you're offended.”

“I'm not offended.”

“You are.”

“I'm concerned.”

“You're adorable.”

He sighs, but there's already the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“…I'm just going to need you to stop saying things like that.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Or what?”

Bruce looks around the room.

Tony is watching them with the expression of a man who has just discovered free entertainment.

Natasha is pretending very badly not to listen.

Bruce lowers his voice.

“Or else I'm going to remind you why I'm your boyfriend in the first place.”

You grin.

“Oh?”

He immediately looks embarrassed by his own confidence.

But he leans in anyway and gives you a quick, sweet kiss.

When he pulls away, his ears are bright red.

Tony immediately groans.

“Oh, come on.”

You laugh.

Bruce looks at you with a shy little smile.

“Still think I'm temporary?”

“I'm not really thinking about anything except how cute you are right now.”

He rolls his eyes.

“You're impossible.”

“And yet…”

“And yet,” he says, smiling, “I'm your current boyfriend.”

You laugh.

“Your current boyfriend would actually love to get drinks with you and Natasha, for your information.”

You stare at him.

“Oh, so now you're using it?”

“I learned from the best.”

“Okay. I see how it is.”

Bruce's smile grows.

“And your current boyfriend isn't letting any guys hit on you.”

“Bruce—”

“And your current boyfriend—”

Tony throws his hands in the air.

“Can it, Stark. My boyfriend loves me!”

Bruce laughs.

Actually laughs.

Then he wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer, resting his head against your shoulder.

You feel his smile against you.

“That's better,” he murmurs.

˙⋆✮

Later, when you finally get a quiet moment together at the bar, Bruce nudges your shoulder.

“Hey.”

You turn toward him.

“Hey, handsome.”

His cheeks immediately turn pink.

He looks down at his drink.

“About the current thing…”

“Mhm?”

“I know you were joking.”

You wait.

He fiddles with the edge of his glass.

“But it…”

He pauses, searching for the right words.

“It made me wonder if you actually see this as temporary.”

Your smile softens.

“Bruce.”

He looks at you.

“I just wanted to get a reaction out of you.”

“I figured.”

“And maybe I didn't realize how much you'd overthink it.”

He gives you a tiny, sheepish smile.

“Yeah. I do that.”

“I know.”

You gently squeeze his hand.

“You're not temporary.”

Something in his expression immediately softens.

“I'm not?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nods.

“Just wanted to hear you say it.”

You smile.

“I'm just as scared of losing you as you are of losing me.”

Bruce looks down for a moment.

“I get worried sometimes,” he admits. “That I love you so much that it scares me.”

You squeeze his hand again.

“You don't have to be scared alone.”

He looks back at you.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

Then his mouth curls into that soft, almost boyish smile you love.

“So…”

“So?”

“I'm trying to get promoted.”

You blink.

“Promoted to what?”

He gives you a shy little shrug.

“Permanent boyfriend?”

You burst out laughing.

“You got that a long time ago.”

Bruce smiles.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Just wanted to make sure my position was secure.”

You laugh again.

“Bruce Banner, are you seriously worried about renewing your relationship contract?”

“Apparently.”

“You're such a nerd.”

“I know.”

He gives your hand a little squeeze.

“But I'm your nerd.”

You smile.

“Unfortunately.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Unfortunately?”

“Very unfortunately.”

He laughs, and for the first time all night, he looks completely relaxed.

Then, from across the bar—

“HEY, CURRENT BOYFRIEND!”

Tony's voice echoes through the room.

Bruce closes his eyes.

“I'm going to kill him.”

You burst out laughing.

“Careful.”

He looks at you.

“Why?”

“You might lose your renewal.”

Bruce stares at you for half a second before laughing so hard he has to look away.

“You're terrible.”

“But I'm permanent.”

He looks back at you, smiling.

“Yeah.”

A tiny pause.

“You are.”

˙⋆✮

You don't hear the rest of their conversation as you travel out of earshot of it. You don't care to. You're only here for one thing. You stop for a moment as your eyes dart around the chaos. Rubble and debris surround the entirety of the Damage Control building. First responders are littered throughout the area, tending to those who were in and around the building when disaster struck. Your gaze travels lightning-quick as you look over the faces of all these different people, none of them the one you're looking for.

Until your gaze lands on a stretcher, specifically the man strapped to it. Your feet carry you over in the direction of it before your brain has a chance to think of anything else.

"Bruce," you call out, the pure relief evident in your voice. You fall in line with the EMTs moving the stretcher. Bruce's eyes widen in surprise when you come into view. He says your name as a question, confusion coloring his tone.

"What are you doing here?" he says, more to himself than anything. "Did I hurt anybody? Did anybody get hurt? My inhibitor broke, I-"

You cut off Bruce's anxious line of questioning, sliding your hand into his and squeezing it tight. Of course, he's thinking of everyone else but himself. Even though out of everyone you've seen receiving treatment on-site, Bruce looks like he's got the worst of it. Always putting others before himself. It's so like him, it makes your heart ache terribly.

"Came as soon as I saw the news, honey," you say. "You're okay, everyone's okay," you soothe. You don't know if there were any fatalities, but Bruce doesn't need to know that either. For his sake, you hope there were none.

"Good, that's good," he exhales. His head falls back against the solid cushion of the stretcher's headrest.

You don't know what happened. Not really. Not everything. You know there's more to the situation that occurred at the Damage Control's Headquarters than what the news conveyed. You're also well aware how the situation is going to look to the general public. To say the least, absolutely terrible. You fear how they're going to rip Bruce to shreds, claiming that the Hulk's gone berserk when you know Bruce would never intentionally hurt anybody.

You take a long deep breath. There's no need to work yourself up over that right now. You and Bruce don't both need to be panicked. You get yourself under control, hauling yourself up into the back of the ambulance as the EMTs load Bruce into it. You slide your hand back into his once you're seated and use your free hand to cradle Bruce's dirtied cheek, moving away any stray hairs from his face. He leans into your palm, sagging with visible relief. The solidness of Bruce beneath your touch is a physical reminder that he's okay. More than a little banged up, but he's okay. He's alive. That's all you can ask for.

You'll deal with what comes next together.

Tony Stark

The coward doesn’t like the bush. He isn’t going to say a damn thing unless you’ve been in a relationship a long time, but he’s really going to enjoy things a lot less if you’re not neatly trimmed down there as if he is. He could be convinced with some work, but not without the odd comment about how “the jungle must be explored.”

Steve Rogers

He, and a certain other old fashioned guy, LOVE the bush. They didn’t grow up in a time where women really shaved down there anyways, so why would they mind now? Another thing to pull or softly stroke!

Bucky Barnes

Bush lover!!! He wouldn’t necessarily mind if you shaved, but if you start doing it frequently, he’s going to be incredibly confused. Because why?? Why do that to yourself? He knows that’s just more work and he doesn’t mind if there’s hair.

Bruce Banner

To put it simply, the man doesn’t care. It’s your body, his morphs into the big green guy whenever he’s angry, so how can he say a thing? If you really press him though, he’ll say he doesn’t mind. He’s just happy to have you, because he’s very sure you’re far out of his league even while your clothes were on.

Stephen Strange

He’s got mixed feelings on the bush. I stand by the idea that he is very sensitive down there, so the potential for scratchiness has him freaked out, plus not knowing how clean it might be if he’s with a stranger. But if you’re his partner? He’s all for the bush. It’s just another part of your body helping keep you healthy, and it’s a lot of extra work to trim it.

Thor Odinson

He’s going to be confused more than anything if you missing it. Asking where your soft curls are. He will be distraught and disgusted (with your past partners, to be clear) if you tell him you thought he’d prefer without, because that’s the experience you’ve had. It’s only natural for you to have them. If you insist on not though, he won’t push you hard.

Loki Laufeyson

About the same reaction as his brother but more…delicate. He’s more able to factor in any shame you might have felt to motivate the decision, and he will gently encourage you to let your ‘foliage’ flourish, and be very happy to see how’ve let it grown out if you have another encounter or are long-term partners.

Peter Parker

Much like Bruce, Peter does NOT care. Mostly because of how inexperienced he is. But whatever you’re comfortable with, he’s comfortable with. And he isn’t going to complain—a little hair, especially on you, never hurt anybody.

T’Challa

Pro-bush without a doubt. Teasingly asks if you’re trying to impress him if you notices you’re bare, but if that’s what you prefer? Go for it. He just wants you to feel good while he makes you feel good.

Peter Quill

Being neighbours with Peter Parker was… well unique if you put it in a good way but mostly weird. This man had moved into your apartment complex just a few days after you did and to be honest, he was one odd guy.

Things were constantly falling over in his apartment. Strange machines buzzed at all hours of the day. And judging by the amount of noise, he either didn't know the walls were paper-thin or simply didn't care.

He avoided people like they were supervillains waiting to jump him in the hallway. Every time you passed him, he looked like he'd just received the worst news of his life, walked into a wall, and then apologized to the wall for being in its way. Judging by his habits, you could very well think he worked for some gang. Not that there are many since Spiderman woke up one day and chose violence. That being said it was surprising when you bumped into him on your way to class one morning.

He was wearing the ESU hoodie, face almost hidden by the hood.

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going!” he apologises like his life depends on it. Makes you almost laugh.

“Well with your hood in your face I don’t think you can see anything.” the joke flies off his head as he apologises once again.

“Geeszz man! It’s okay.” You lift up his hood a bit to help him see better. “Stop apologising for small stuff.” you flash him a smile. “I’m not a piece of glass that might shatter on the slightest touch. Heck I might even take spiderman on!” your words made him finally crack a smile.

“See you around!” you wave and walk to your statistics class. Remind me again who was that family friend that suggested to major in AI?

After bumping into him yet again in the hallway you mustered up the courage to ask him his name and what he actual fuck he’s doing?

Because normal people don’t make as much noise as him, neither do they look like they got their ass beat up everyday and nor do they casually show up in the toughest classes half asleep and ace every test. ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

This was the most annoying thing ever. He wouldn’t let you have a good night's sleep and somehow be at the top of these ridiculously hard classes.

Looking at his silhouette getting smaller and having no time to lose, you take a leap of faith and grab the back of his shirt, yanking him back and making him drop whatever take out he was carrying.

“WHAT THE FUCKK?!” he yelps as you both tumble on to each other.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU DO ALL DAY?”

“What do you mean?” his voice is a little shaky, afraid his identity is exposed.

“I for one know you don’t sleep all night, then you look like you fought the fucking hulk every morning and you sleep in classes and somehow get straight A’s and I am strugging to even pass half of them!” the frustration making you almost pull out your hair.

He looks at you wide eyed.

“Uhhh.. I could tutor you?” he looks so unsure of what just happened.

“Look at them go in the hallway”

“Kids these days don’t have any respect for public spaces”

You snap your head to the elderly ladies passing by and then to this absolute hunk of a man pinned under you.

“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! WHAT THE FUCK!” you scramble off him leaving him even more confused about the whole ordeal.

“I’m so sorry! I don’t know what got over me! I was just so frustrated with almost falling this semester and I-”

He chuckles, “It’s okay, I understand the stress is getting to you.” he looked relieved for reasons you didn’t understand.

“Yeah I guess.” you take a shaky breath trying to figure out what to do with the situation you put yourself in. “Umm, so were you serious about the tutoring part?”

He looks like he’s second guessing himself so you speak up first. “You don’t really have to! Thank you though!” you try to get to your feet as fast as you could to get away from this awkward scenario.

He grabs your hand before you can leave, pulling himself up. “It’s not like I mind it, I don’t know if I'd be good enough to tutor you.”

You gasp in disbelief. “Youre kidding right? If I could understand one percent of how you keep up I would definitely pass.”

He raises a brow, “I mean with whatever gang stuff you have going on.” he raises his hand trying to stop you. “Nononononononono, you got it all wrong!” he gestures to himself, “Me? Do you think I could be in a gang?” you pretend to think a bit. “Nah, you couldn’t make an intimidating face and get kicked out the first day.”

“Thanky- what?” he looks genuinely surprised as to why anyone would say that.

“I’m thinking more like a hitman.”

“What?? Why would you think that? And what kind of hitman would be awkward?”

“I don’t know dude, you're the hitman.” he grabs his curls in frustration.

“I- ughh”

“Look man, I don’t care what you do outside of this place, as long as you stop making crashing sounds all night and let me sleep or tutor me I’ll stay out of your business."

“Yeah yeah yeah, that’s fine with me.” you hand him the takeout that was still lying on the floor. “Sooo, do we like exchange numbers?” you ask, fishing out your phone from your backpack. “Yeah, totally.” he types in his number and saves it as ‘peter tutor/neighbour’

“Umm, alright then, I’ll text you.” you wave and boult to your apartment.

"Remember,I'm just a regular dude doing whatever it takes to pay rent.”

You can still hear his distant voice saying something but this is all the embarrassment and socialising you can do for today.

The door slams shut behind you. You run up to the bathroom and splash water on your face. ‘It’s okay, he’s probably gonna forget it and you never see each other again’

That was one very very awkward conversation you never want to have again. You should probably delete his number before you get high off the caffeine and actually text him, but what if he makes you pass whatever this advanced calculus was.

“Maybe like ‘hey! My friend and I think you’re very hot and we’ve had a crush on you since freshman year. Why don’t you sleep with us?’”  Peter said, anxiously taking off the sixth shirt from his closet. 

“Peter!” Clark yelled, throwing his hands in the air in utter disbelief. 

“What? It’s true!” Peter said, finally landing on a white grey shirt that clung onto his lean frame. “Clark, we’re graduating soon. We might not even get to do this again.” 

Clark raised an eyebrow. The two boys have secretly admired you from a mile away. You were Empire State University’s golden athlete, a tennis champion. Peter and Clark were teammates on the football team, winning trophies here and there, but only you were rumored to get into the professional league. 

“Let’s just say hi and see how it goes from there?” Clark said, the s-shaped curl on his forehead refusing to stick with the rest of his hair. 

“Like that ever worked! Remember when you said ‘you were so good I wish I could stroke like you’ like who the fuck even says that,” Peter was finally tying his worn out Converse shoes. “Fuck it, just hurry up we’re gonna be late.” 

“Well at least I didn’t get a boner while watching the finals!” Clark rebutted. 

“You were close though, I saw your dick twitch!” Peter tutted. The two of them stared at the mirror one last time, making sure they looked perfect. 

Later at the party, Peter and Clark stood near the DJ booth, staring longingly at you on the dancefloor. You swayed and bounced to the music, your friends dancing and laughing next to you. Clark had finished his beer, his throat began to feel dry almost to the brink of thirst. Peter watched with his mouth slightly agape, if he stayed like this longer he could start to drool. 

“Keep it together, man,” Clark nudged his shoulder. “We can do this.” 

They followed you to the backyard of the frathouse, tracing your path like two dogs. You eventually vanished from their sight. Peter looked at Clark in confusion, his roommate used his height to his advantage and scanned the lot. 

“Looking for me?” the voice behind them said. They shuddered, looking at you dumbfounded. 

“We ugh–a—” Peter tried to find the words, it was as if he couldn’t speak at all. 

“We just wanted to congratulate you for your win,” Clark said, straightening his posture. You looked at them in the eyes and smiled, drinking the last sip of gin from your red solo cup. 

“I know you two, you’re spider and steel,” You said. Peter felt his heart skip a beat. “You’re Kent right?” you gestured towards Clark, his knees felt weak. “But I don’t think I know your name?” you said to Peter. 

‘I–It’s Clark,” Peter said. “I mean his name is Clark. I’m Peter.” 

Spider and Steel were the nicknames given to them during their sophomore year. The two boys that lead the team to victory. It got thrown around a lot, but to have it leave your lips felt like the greatest trophy ever. 

“Are you guys enjoying the party?” you said, toying with the cup in your hand. 

“Yeah ‘s great,” Peter said, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Well I don’t. They’re trying to pass off this shit as alcohol,” you poured the remaining liquid to the grass. Clark side-eyed Peter, trying to telepathically send a message. 

“We have beer at our place,” Peter said, showing a cheeky smile that made you chuckle. 

“We do?” Clark said as he felt Peter kick his shoe. “I mean, yeah, we do.”

They told you their address and asked you to meet them there. Clark later addressed how dumb that was because they let you go to them and not the other way around. Peter quickly ran to their apartment to tidy things up. By tidy he meant shoving clothes into every closet in the room, taking all their trash and shoving it outside, and opening their windows to let the room breathe. 

Clark rushed to the nearest convenience store to buy beer and snacks. He didn’t really know what type of beer you’re into so he decided to grab four different types hoping one of them worked. 

When Clark arrived Peter was still trying to fix their beds, shaking off and tucking in the sheets. Clark wanted to say something about how anxious he was, he could literally feel his heart pounding, but then there was a knock. 

Knock Knock. The two boys looked at each other, eyes wide. 

Knock Knock. They were both waiting for someone to open the door first. 

Knock Knock Knock. They crashed into each other when they raced to grab the doorknob.

“Are you guys, okay?” you said, the door slamming open. They both nodded and stood in attention. “You gonna let me in or—” 

“Come in!” Clark said, pushing Peter away. 

“Thanks for coming,” Peter said, following you as you walked in. There were two single beds on each end of the room. Clark’s side had posters for rock bands you’ve never heard of, pictures of an old couple, a dog with a blonde girl, and a farm on his desk. Peter, on the other hand, had tools and physics textbooks piled up on his. 

“Anywhere but there,” you said, sitting on Clark’s bed. “Neat place you guys got. Kinda crazy they let you two live together. Your neighbors must hate you.” 

“Erm…why?” Clark said, opening the beer bottles. 

“You guys are dating right?” you said, swiping your finger in the air pointing at them. 

“What? No we’re not!” Clark said, brows raised. 

“Why do you sound so fucking offended, Clark?” Peter said, taking the bottles from his hands. He hands you one, the bottle icy cold. 

“Really? I thought you guys worked so well together because you guys secretly fucked,” you said, taking a swig of your beer. “The whole Spider and Steel schtick. ”

“Well we’ve known each other since freshman year—and we live together so we kinda just live and breathe each other,” Clark said, after taking a sip of his. 

“And you guys don’t think that sounds gay,” you laughed. 

“Not if you put it that way,” Peter said. You took a big sip of your beer, spilling some on your lips that dripped down your chin and to your neck. “We’ve never done anything like—that.”

Peter heard Clark audibly gulp. 

You pat your hands on Clark’s dark blue sheets. “Would you guys want to though?” 

They both scrambled to sit beside you. “Only if it’s with you,” Peter said. Then it was decided. You closed your eyes and met Pete’s hungry lips, his kiss soft and gentle. He tried to hold back, but your tongue teased his lips and made him meet yours. 

You gasped for air and caught a glimpse of Clark who patiently watched. He felt your hand on his cheek, pulling him to your lips. Clark kissed like it was his first time, sloppy, wet, but his hands were firm on your waist, your shoulder brushing against the hard muscle of his chest. 

Peter watched as his best friend kissed and moaned to your kiss. Peter licked his lips and dove right into your neck, nipping the skin and tracing his palms on your thigh. Your moans were sweet and tempting, Peter wanted to touch you more and make your sounds echo in the room. 

You snaked your hand through Peter’s hair, pulling him back to your lips. Clark hungrily kissed the corner of your mouth. Both of their lips covered the heat of your mouth until all three of you were sharing each other’s breaths. 

It was exhilarating. You breathed them both into your embrace. Licking and tasting each other while exchanging the most desperate moans. You pulled yourself back, resting on your elbows as you watched the two boys’ desperate kisses linger. 

Their tongues swayed together, saliva glistening their swollen pink lips. They soon realize you were watching from a distance. Dumbfounded they both stared at each other and panned their heads to you, mischievously smiling at them. 

“I guess my work here is done,” you clapped, standing up. 

“Please don’t leave,” Clark said, breathlessly.

You saw their cocks bulging from their jeans. Their eyes looked glassy against the dim lights, a pair of blue and brown eagerly begging for your attention.

Clark held your hand and gently lulled you to the bed. “Just let us do all the work,” he said, going down on his knees to kiss your thigh. Peter followed suit, helping you undress. They both gasped when they finally saw you naked. 

They dug their faces into your crotch, building a harmony of licking, kissing, and sucking that made your sensitive sex tremble. You’ve been with one person before, but having the two of them take turns like they knew how to complement each other was a skill that you have never seen before. 

You reclined yourself back to the bed resting on your elbows. The two boys took each thigh and placed it on one of their shoulders, ceaselessly pleasuring your sex with their mouths. Their wet tongues and soft lips trickled and kissed all over your center making their faces slick with spit and arousal. 

They both traced your sex and eventually found each other’s mouths once again. The sight was too good for you to see. Your legs trembled from all the pleasure but seeing them both desperately taste your arousal made you reach your first climax of this night. 

Clark pulled back to admire the scene, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. Peter continued to kiss your sex, teasing its most sensitive parts with the pads of his fingers. Clark pulled the hem of his shirt in one swift motion, revealing his broad frame and muscular chest. He unbuckled his pants to let out his hardness, a trail of spit leaves his lips and falls directly to his big cock. 

“Don’t be greedy,” Clark said, pulling Peter by his hair. 

“Can’t help it—tastes so fucking good,” Peter said, eyes up to you with longing. You gestured for him to come closer, giving him a kiss once more. You shared the taste of your arousal while you roughly unbuckled his belt. 

Clark saw your abandoned sex, flushed with color and wet. He took two of his long fingers and toyed gleefully on your hole, trailing around just before he could push in. 

You took your lips and buried it in Peter’s cock. He shuddered from the warmth, the pink tip of his cock dripping with precum. “Yeah—there you go, suck on it, pretty.” 

“Can I, erm. Can I fuck you—please,” Clark said, his voice dry. You tried to utter a word but your body betrayed you, so you nodded instead. Clark eagerly placed his big hands on your waist, guiding his cock to fully sheath inside your whole. You gagged on Peter’s cock from the immense pressure; but your sex loved the sensation, it gave Clark more wetness to use, to make his cock slip deeper. 

Clark’s sweat dripped down to your belly, his thrusts were slow and hard, the tip of his cock hitting the sweet spot inside you. Peter teased your nipples as he fucked your mouth. Tears fell from the corner of your eyes, overstimulating your senses beyond all control. 

They both stopped to let you shift positions. You went on all fours with Peter on the headboard, thighs spread while his cock pointed north. Clark knelt on the edge of the bed, admiring the way you arched your back so your ass was facing him. 

You went to sucking Peter’s cock again, wagging your ass to get Clark’s attention, not like he looked anywhere else. Your body was so sore, knees trembling, arms aching from keeping your position. They both fucked you at the same pace, the entire feeling of their cocks hitting the walls of your body at the same time made you uncontrollably drip with arousal. 

The two boys enjoyed how beautiful you looked under their gaze, a dream they have always wanted. “I’m so close,” Peter said, rolling his hips up and down, his hand holding your head for control. 

“Me too, buddy,” Clark said.

“Go for it, please—cum in me,” you whined. They rocked their hips and gripped onto your body, bending forward, weakening their posture. Clark’s forehead was inches away from Peter’s face, his breaths were hot on Peter’s face. Clark took one hand and pulled on his best friend's hair, crashing their lips together. 

Their thrusts became rough and rhythmic, losing their strength and eventually emptying their climax into you. 

You swallowed Peter’s cum as you watched them continue to kiss. “Mission accomplished,” you chuckled. 

“We’re not done, honey,” Clark said. “It’s your turn now.”

They spread your legs open once more, taking each side of your neck to pepper with kisses. Peter took his finger and curled them inside you, making an intricate roll on the tips of his fingers to the sensitive spot inside you. Clark took his hand and stroked your sex, his bicep bulging with a thick vein as he moved his arm fast. 

“You did so well,” Peter whispered in your ear. You whined under their grasp with your chest heaving. 

“Go on, cum pretty,” Clark said, nibbling on your ear lobe. 

Your voice cracked against the silent night, a wave of unwavering pleasure crashing onto you. They peppered your face with kisses while Peter stroked your hair, guiding you to take deep breaths. Clark went to grab some cold water. 

You woke up to their arms around you, Peter’s head resting on your side while Clark adorably snored next to your shoulder. You tried to move so as not to wake them, grabbing your clothes on the floor. 

They shifted on the bed, Peter’s head nudging Clark’s chest. You let out a quiet chuckle. 

end. 

taglist: @withgreatpowercomesgreatfics | @michelleknight | @yesshewrites1 | @lvlyu | @loverpop | @ayaa21 | @schreiberbf | @pottersbf

A cold dread washes over you, forcing your brain immediately alert and your body already moving to sit up.

"What?"

"He is currently displaying elevated heart rate, respiratory distress, and heightened sensitivity to auditory stimuli." There's a pause. Then, because Evie apparently has no concept of subtlety when she's concerned. "He's also crying."

You're out of bed before she's even finished the sentence, dragging on the first hoodie you find and shoving your feet into slippers without bothering with socks.

The hallway is dark and quiet in that weird middle-of-the-night way where every sound feels amplified. You rush to the elevator, pressing the up button repeatedly as if that will help it to understand your rush.

"Evie, what's happening now?" You ask into your phone.

"I believe he is attempting to suppress the arachnid DNA, leading to significant distress."

Of course he is.

"Tell him I'm coming."

The elevator doors stall as they open, then shudder again as they close, the machine shaking as it carries you the three floors up. The door opens on his floor and the immediate smell of damp fills your nose.

There's no natural light up here either, so you fumble with your phone, turning on the flashlight and carefully stumble over the junk littering the cramped hallway on the way to his door.

You knock once, and there's no reply.

"Evie?"

"Peter has stated that your presence will not be necessary. He says he is okay."

You frown at the door. "Is he okay?"

"No."

At Evie's bluntness, the pit in your stomach grows. You knock again, louder this time and more insistent.

You wait a few seconds, listening. There's no movement on the other side, not even a sleepy 'I told you I'm fine.'. Which makes it so much worse.

Trying the handle, you ease your way into the apartment. The only light comes from the moonlight filtering through the windows.

Peter's sitting on the floor beside his bed. His knees are pulled against his chest, his face buried against his knees and fingers tangled into his hair. His shoulders are tense enough to look painful, and every few seconds, they jerk.

"Pete?"

He jerks at the sound of his name and his head lifts too quickly. Bloodshot eyes find yours immediately.

You freeze, trying to control your facial expressions before he see the depth of your concern. He's not even particularly dishevelled by Peter standards, but he looks awful, pain lines etched into his face in a way that makes him look way older than he is.

"You shouldn't be here."

"I'm here because you need me."

His eyes squeeze shut and his jaw clenches before he responds. "I'm honestly fine."

"You're sitting on the floor, in the dark, alone."

"I happen to like the floor."

The situation is too serious for the snort that leaves you, but you've woken up too many times to Peter handing upside down from your ceiling to believe that lie. "You prefer ceilings."

"I'm going for a change in scenery."

For a moment, you consider leaving him alone, but then his fingers curl into the fabric of his sweatpants and you remember the worry in Evie's voice.

Moving closer, you keep your voice gentle. "Stop being so stubborn."

His mouth twitches, it's small, but you take the victory.

"...It's quieter down here," he admits. You glance around the apartment as though you might suddenly be able to see what he's hearing.

Rain thuds against the window. The refrigerator hums from the kitchen. Pipes tick somewhere behind the walls. A car passes on the street below, tires hissing briefly over wet pavement.

If you can hear it, Peter must be hearing it ten times louder.

"Oh, Peter."

"It was smell at first, then sound, and then everything else." He cracks one eye open to look at you, fresh tears welling in his eyes. "I've been trying to supress it but it hurts."

You come to a seat next to him, not too close, but close enough that you can feel the heat radiate off of his body. "Then maybe you're not supposed to."

"Hmm?"

"Maybe you're not supposed to fight it, Pete." You hold out your hand, fighting the urge to pull back when he just stares at it. "These senses are a part of you. I think you have to learn to work with them."

"I- I can't," he sighs. "It'll be too much."

"I know," you swallow. "But I'm not asking you to do it alone."

Slowly, reluctantly, he reaches for your hand. The second your palms meet, his fingers close around yours. Harder than he probably realises. You don't comment on it, instead, you curl your fingers around his.

Peter's thumb drags over your knuckles.

"Your hand is cold," he grumbles.

"That's because you're so hot."

"Mhm."

A slightly more alert Peter would have turned that into a quip. The fact that he hasn't sends another wave of nausea through your stomach.

You squeeze his hand, "just focus everything on me."

Peter's rests his head on your shoulder as you begin to speak, rambling on about every single thing you can think of to give him something to focus on.

After a few minutes, Evie's voice cuts through. "His heart rate is returning to normal. However, I recommend that he remain with you for another twenty-five minutes."

You glance towards Peter's workstation. Then back towards Peter. For the first time since you walked through the door, some of the tension is gone from his face.

"Come on," you murmur. "Bed."

"Don't leave me," he mumbles.

"I'm not going to."

He doesn't argue then, letting you help him up and guide him onto the unmade bed. He crawls over the blankets, and you climb beside him.

It's a situation you haven't found yourself in before, and you find yourself lying stiffly on your back in the bed next to him.

"Can I...?" He asks quietly as he gestures vaguely.

You open your arms, and he moves into them without another word.

His head settles against your chest; his face tucked beneath your chin. You wrap one arm around his back and gently scratch your fingers through his hair with the other.

Beneath his ear, your heartbeat thumps steadily. You keep scratching lightly through his hair, over and over again, until his breathing begins to match yours.

"Peter's vitals have returned to normal," Evie announces softly sometime later.

Your eyes close as you smile faintly, relief flooding through you. "Good."

You half expect Peter to move off of you, but he doesn't. If anything, his arms tighten around you as though some part of him is afraid that the moment you know he's okay, you'll leave.

He doesn't know that you have no plans to and now doesn't seem like the right time to broach that subject. So, you don't. You just keep your fingers moving gently through his hair as his soft snores begin to fill the loft.

Every time Peter found his way into your bed, you promised yourself it would be the last time. 

I’ll confess tomorrow, you lied to yourself, knowing that the minute he flashed you his pretty brown eyes and smile, you’d lose your courage. 

When you first became entangled in this arrangement, you only possessed a small crush for your friend. You’d found each other at the perfect time in your lives, both of you seemingly at your lowest. He’d swung himself onto one of the highest corporate buildings in the city, shedding himself of his mask and unknowingly exposing himself to you, sitting on the edge of the roof with your legs dangling over the side.

He panicked, of course, until you merely turned away from him, uncaring for the superhero behind you. 

Eventually he moved to sit beside you and the rest was history. You both found an unlikely friend in one another, spending your nights together just talking, then your days.

Beneath the melancholy he was funny, smart, and incredibly sweet—it was no surprise that the crush developed. But then your relationship did too one random night when the troubles of your lives felt like too heavy a burden. 

You weren’t sure who leaned in first, or who took off whose top first. All you remembered was his body pressed to yours, his cock driving into you over and over again until you saw stars, dispelling any and all worries from your brain.

The new escalation occurred monthly in addition to your friendship. And each time it did, your affection for him deepened. But you’d noticed him start to pull away from the emotional aspect as of late.

He started having less time to hang out, and more time to fuck you. With the newest development of his enhanced arachnid DNA—something you realized made his appetite for sex significantly higher—the monthly hookups turned weekly, your feelings for him growing deeper with each intimate night.

It was when he visited you twice in one week where you decided you needed to confess to him your feelings, the post orgasm clarity a brutal knife twisting low in your belly.

You couldn’t keep pretending like everything was fine, not when you were falling in love with him, not when you wanted something he couldn’t give you. 

You knew for sure it was one sided when he’d hastily pull on his clothes and escape back out the window instead of spending the night with you like he usually did, avoiding eye contact and stumbling out a mess of excuses as he did so.

It made you feel bitter, it made you question why he couldn’t love you the way you wanted him to, especially when everything had started off so well.

Today was the fifth day in a row he’d come over, seeking relief. You could tell he was becoming needier and needier as he struggled to learn how to cope with this new part of him judging by the way he drove his cock into the deepest parts of your cunt, his hips pushing you deeper into the mattress. 

You’d already finished twice, your cries muffled first by his hand wrapped snug around your throat, and second by your face pushed into the sheets below you as he showed no signs of slowing down.

The one hundred eighty degree switch since he first started changing was mind numbing. In the beginning he always came so quickly, likely from all the sensory overload. But now? His stamina must’ve been evolving too. 

He gripped the flesh of your ass in his hand, kneading the skin while his other smoothed down your arched back. “That’s my good girl, taking my cock so perfectly.”

You whined from the overstimulation, fisting the sheets in your tight grip. He dropped your hips to the mattress, pressing himself against your back. But it wasn’t enough, he needed more.

He rolled you onto your side with one arm snug around your waist, the other hooking under your knee to hike your leg up, spreading you open for him. He rutted into you with a newfound sense of urgency, his face buried deep in your neck.

All you could feel was him, overwhelmingly engulfed in just taking what he wanted to give you, your head spinning with a dizziness as he fucked you dumb.

“So good,” he gasped into your ear. He pressed his hand over your lower stomach, groaning when he felt the outline of his cock pushing through the surface. “O-Oh fuck, you feel that? So full of me…”

“S-So—nghh—f-full…”

You turned your head, seeking his pretty brown eyes for comfort, finding them and the whites of his eyes engulfed in a pool of darkness. Your lips parted to whimper at the sight until he swallowed it with his own, capturing your mouth in a searing, sloppy kiss. 

He shoved his face back into your neck, his thrusts turning erratic, his breaths leaving him in frantic, sharp exhales.

You could feel his cock swelling in your ruined cunt and a second later, he stilled behind you. With a guttural groan, right before he dissolved into his release, the words spilled out, raw and vulnerable. 

“I love you.”

He spilled into you, his cock shooting jets of warm cum deep inside as the blood rushed to your ears, filling them with a loud ringing.

You remained still as he filled you up, trying to decipher whether you’d heard him correctly or if the words were a figment of your imagination, something you conjured from the desperation of wanting your love for him to be requited.

As the last tremors of pleasure passed through him, he carefully pulled out. Not a second later his warmth was gone from behind you. You shivered, pulling the blanket to your chest, turning to watch him dress with a hollow ache settling in your stomach where he’d been. 

He didn’t turn to look at you once.

“What was that?”

He paused, his hand slipped through the sleeves of his shirt, your voice startling him. “Hmm?”

He pulled it over his head, deflecting your question as your eyes burned into his side. 

“Why’d you say that, Peter?”

He turned, a confused chuckle spilling from his lips, his eyes dim. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You said you love me…” you whispered, a hint of hope in your voice.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion when he spoke. “It was… the heat of the moment. You know how it is.”

You’d never felt a dread so vast engulf you. “W-What?”

He regretted looking at you the second his eyes met yours, filled with a painful devastation, all hope stripped away. His indifference faltered, his pupils blowing wide with panic at the sheer amount of hurt on your face. 

“Peter,” your voice cracked. “I love you.”

He shook his head, glancing away. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes I do!” you sobbed. “I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks but you… you keep pulling away from me. Every time I get close—”

“Look, I’m sorry,” he choked out, his own eyes turning glassy as he looked away, betraying the detachment he tried to put on. “But I don’t… I don’t feel the same way.”

“Well then why can’t you look at me?” you challenged through a trembling voice.

He stubbornly kept his gaze glued to the floor. 

“Peter.”

He lifted them back to you, finding the tears in your eyes spilled over, streaming down your cheeks. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he lamented. 

“Say it again… Tell me you love me back,” you pleaded. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, the words hollow. “I can’t”

“Why?” Your voice rose, bordering on hysteria.

“I just can’t!” he shouted back, his control finally snapping. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands, his chest heaving.

He did nothing to hide the sorrow on his face now, his expression contradicting the lies he spoke. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You’re not just hurting me,’ you murmured, the fight draining out of you. “You’re hurting yourself. You don’t have to, Peter… You don’t have to push me away. You’re allowed to be happy.”

He gave a mournful shake of his head, the words slipping from his lips, broken and final. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t bear to look at you anymore. He turned to the window, shoving it open, the city sounds rushing in. 

Just as he placed his hands on the windowsill, seconds away from leaping out and away from the wreckage he’d caused, your voice came.

“Goodbye, Peter.”

His shoulders fell. He turned his head slowly, wanting to glance back at you one final time, but he knew if he did, he’d crumble.

Unknowing to him, you’d already turned away from him, sinking into your sheets, your eyes clenched shut. You heard the whip of his web, felt his energy dissipate from the room, leaving you alone with only the ghost of him as a memory. 

Comment or message to be added to the taglist <3

the first dead person you see is standing beneath a broken streetlight in queens.

you do not know she is dead at first.

the city has spent the evening behaving strangely. clouds twist above the rooftops despite the absence of wind, gathering around a violet wound in the sky that appears and disappears whenever lightning moves behind it. car alarms begin without reason. streetlights flicker in uneven succession. somewhere farther downtown, people shout at something you cannot see.

then the world gives one final, violent shudder.

the light above you bursts. glass scatters across the sidewalk, and every sound in the city seems to fall away at once.

you stop beneath the awning of a closed laundromat, one hand pressed against the brick wall while pain drives itself through the center of your skull. it is not a headache. headaches belong inside the body. this feels like something entering from beyond it, forcing its way through bone and thought until your knees nearly buckle.

a woman stands across the street when you open your eyes.

she wears dark slacks and a green coat unsuitable for the cold. her hair rests neatly against her shoulders, untouched by the damp wind pushing litter along the curb. people pass through the crosswalk between you, but none of them look toward her.

the woman is staring directly at you.

then, a taxi moves through her body.

you stumble backward hard enough to strike the laundromat window. the glass rattles inside its frame while the cab continues down the street, red taillights disappearing through the rain.

your first thought is exhaustion. your second is a concussion, though nothing has struck you except the pain still pulsing behind your eyes. you drag your phone from your pocket and point the camera across the street. the screen shows wet pavement, passing umbrellas, and an empty stretch of sidewalk where the woman should be. when you lower it, she is still there.

you raise the phone again, then lower it. the result does not change: empty screen, dead woman.

the woman remains where she is.

she looks down at herself, then at the road where the taxi passed. when she lifts her face again, relief and fear move across it in equal measure.

“you can see me,” she says.

her voice reaches you without crossing the distance. it is not loud, but it settles clearly beside your ear, as though she stands close enough to whisper.

you turn and walk away.

the woman follows.

she does not hurry. her shoes make no sound against the wet pavement, and the crowd parts around her without knowing why. every time you glance over your shoulder, she is several steps behind you, watching with the careful concern of someone approaching a frightened animal.

“i’m sorry,” she says after the third block. “i know this is a lot.”

you stop beneath the harsh white lights of a corner pharmacy. customers move behind the windows, comparing cold medicine and birthday cards while a cashier leans against the counter with her attention fixed on her phone. the ordinary scene should steady you.

it doesn’t.

“you’re dead,” you say quietly.

the woman’s expression softens. “yes.”

“and i’m having some kind of breakdown.”

“maybe,” she admits. “but i’m still dead.”

you look toward the people passing around you. no one reacts to the conversation. a man carrying takeout nearly walks through the woman’s shoulder before shifting aside at the last moment, guided by an instinct he does not understand.

“what do you want?” you ask.

the woman glances toward the darkening sky. the strange clouds have begun to loosen, but threads of purple light remain tangled between them.

“i need to find someone,” she says.

you fold your arms across your chest, more to contain their trembling than to protect yourself from the cold. “then haunt someone else.”

“i’ve tried.” grief draws something tired through her face. “no one else can see me.”

the ache behind your eyes sharpens. you press your fingers against your temple, but the pain has already begun to settle deeper, becoming a pressure you suspect will never fully leave.

“who are you looking for?”

the woman looks at you for a long moment before answering.

“my nephew,” she says. “peter parker.”

the name should mean something. you feel that immediately.

it falls into your mind like a key dropped in an empty room, striking something hard before disappearing into darkness. there is an outline where recognition should be. a space shaped precisely for him, emptied so completely that even the absence feels deliberate.

you look toward the sky again.

“i don’t know anyone named peter parker.”

the woman’s mouth tightens. she does not look surprised.

“no,” she says softly. “i don’t think anyone does.”

—

her name is may.

you nearly go to an emergency room instead of home. you stand beneath the subway sign for almost a minute, trying to decide whether seeing one impossible woman counts as a neurological emergency, while may waits beside you without casting a shadow. in the end, you take her with you because she is the only person who looks as frightened by your new reality as you feel.

she follows you home because neither of you knows what else to do.

your apartment sits above a bakery that begins working before dawn, filling the building with the smell of yeast and sugar while you are still trying to sleep. the rooms are narrow and expensive, with pipes that knock whenever the upstairs neighbor showers and windows painted shut by three landlords’ worth of neglect.

may looks around the living room as though she has been invited.

“it’s nice,” she says.

you drop your keys into the ceramic bowl beside the door. “you don’t have to lie because you’re dead.”

“i’m not lying.” she walks toward the window, though her reflection does not appear in the dark glass. “it feels lived in.”

“that’s a polite way of saying cluttered.”

“peter’s room was worse.”

the name creates the same strange emptiness inside you. you pause beside the kitchen counter before forcing yourself to continue removing your wet coat.

“you remember him.”

may turns from the window. “of course i remember him.”

“but nobody else does.”

“i don’t know.” she looks down at her hands, examining fingers that pass faintly through one another whenever she stops concentrating. “i woke up tonight. not where i died. not anywhere, really. then there was this pull.”

“toward him?”

“toward the city.” she glances at you. “then toward you.”

you turn on every light before removing your coat. you check the carbon monoxide detector, take your temperature, and shine your phone’s flashlight into each pupil while may waits beside the kitchen table. everything is normal except for the dead woman watching you test whether your own mind has failed.

“has this ever happened before?” may asks, her attention following the thermometer when you set it beside the sink.

“never.” you fill the kettle because movement gives your hands something to do. “i’ve never seen a ghost. i’ve never heard anyone who wasn’t there. until tonight, i didn’t believe people could.”

may glances toward the second cup drying beside the sink. “you live alone?”

“you’re dead, not subtle.”

“sorry.”

the kettle begins to hiss. you switch it off before it whistles, suddenly unwilling to hear anything sharp. may looks down at her hands, examining fingers that pass faintly through one another whenever she stops concentrating.

“then something changed tonight,” she says.

“that isn’t an answer.”

“it’s the only one i have.”

you carry the tea toward the table. steam rises into your face, briefly obscuring her. when it clears, may is studying you with an expression that feels uncomfortably maternal.

“you should eat something,” she says.

you stare at her.

“you tracked down the only person in new york who can apparently see dead people, and your first concern is whether she ate dinner?”

“have you?”

you take a deliberate sip instead of answering.

may’s mouth twitches.

“that’s what i thought.”

she stays until morning.

she tells you about peter in fragments, careful at first, as though his life is something breakable. he is brilliant but stubborn. kind in ways that make him careless with himself. he loses track of meals when he is working. he says he is fine when he is bleeding. he carries guilt like other people carry wallets, always checking to make sure it is still there.

she does not tell you how she dies. you don’t ask.

when sunlight reaches the windows, may becomes transparent around the edges. fear moves through her before she can hide it.

“what’s happening?” you ask, rising so quickly that your chair scrapes against the floor.

“i don’t know.”

her outline flickers. for one terrible second, you see the kitchen through her chest. then she solidifies again, weaker but present.

“maybe daylight,” you say.

“maybe.”

“will you come back?”

may looks toward the window, then at the untouched second mug beside the sink.

“i hope so.”

she disappears before you can answer.

the apartment becomes painfully quiet without her.

you stand in the kitchen until the tea cools between your hands, staring at the empty chair and wondering how long it takes to begin missing someone who has already died.

you do not sleep. you call in sick before dawn, write down every detail you remember in case the woman and her name disappear with the pain, and spend the morning searching combinations of sudden hallucination, violet sky, and people no one else can see. every result tells you to contact a doctor. none explains why your phone camera could not see her.

by afternoon, the city looks ordinary enough that you almost convince yourself may was a stress response made convincing by fear. you leave the kitchen light on anyway.

—

may returns after sunset in the same chair from which she vanished. the sight of her makes you drop the spoon in your hand. relief arrives before fear, which frightens you almost as much as seeing her again.

by the end of the week, three more ghosts find you. none of them know peter, and none arrive gently enough for you to pretend the first night was an isolated break from reality.

a man from the building next door appears in the reflection of a grocery-store freezer and asks you to tell his wife where he hides the insurance paperwork. you scream, drop a jar of sauce, and turn to find him standing close enough that his face nearly touches yours. the employees who hurry over see only broken glass and you speaking to an empty aisle.

an elderly woman waits inside a subway car because she cannot remember which stop takes her home. a child follows you for six blocks without speaking before disappearing when his father walks unknowingly through the place where he stands. each time, you search the faces around you for someone else reacting. each time, you are the only one.

there is no switch. closing your eyes does not silence them, headphones do not soften their voices, and locked doors mean nothing to someone without a body. you begin sleeping with the kitchen light on and stop standing too close to mirrors.

you do not call yourself a medium. that sounds like a title for someone trained, or at least willing. you call it “the thing that started when the sky broke.”

you learn slowly, and badly, that seeing the dead does not mean you can save them.

some want messages delivered. some want absolution you cannot give. some do not know they are dead. others know and resent you for continuing to live.

may helps when she can.

she sits beside you after the angry ones leave. she reminds you to lock the windows even though you live on the fourth floor. she criticizes the contents of your refrigerator with increasing confidence.

“mustard isn’t a meal,” she tells you one evening.

you close the refrigerator door. “neither is air, but that seems to be working for you.”

may laughs.

it is the first time you hear the sound, and something inside your apartment changes with it. the room doesn’t become warmer. the lights don’t brighten. nothing visible shifts at all.

still, it feels less empty.

you begin looking for peter.

not because may asks every night, though she does. not because the name continues catching against the erased place inside your mind, though it does that too.

you search because may looks toward every dark-haired boy on the street. because she goes silent whenever an ambulance passes. because she stands beside your window each night and watches the rooftops as though she expects someone to fall from them.

the internet offers almost nothing. no social media. no public school records. no photographs preserved beneath the name. peter parker exists only in scattered bureaucratic traces: a birth certificate, an old address, an enrollment record that ends without explanation.

may reads over your shoulder while you search.

“that was our apartment,” she says when an address appears in queens.

you write it down.

the building has been repaired after what the landlord describes as extensive damage. another family lives there now. may stands on the sidewalk beneath her old window, staring upward while someone else’s curtains move in the afternoon light.

“he isn’t here,” she says.

“where would he go?”

may looks toward the intersection.

“somewhere cheap,” she replies. “somewhere he thinks nobody will notice him.”

it takes another month to find him.

you see peter parker for the first time in a cemetery.

snow gathers between the headstones in thin, uneven patches, preserved where the winter sun cannot reach. may walks several feet ahead of you, pulled along the narrow path with an urgency that makes her flicker whenever she moves too quickly.

then she stops.

a boy kneels beside her grave.

he wears a dark coat with a tear near one cuff. snow melts into his hair while he brushes dead leaves from the base of the stone with his bare hand. a backpack rests beside him, one strap repaired with black thread.

may releases a sound you have never heard from a ghost before.

it isn’t quite a sob. ghosts don’t need breath, but her grief seems to remember the shape of it.

“peter.”

he does not look up.

may crosses the remaining distance and kneels opposite him. her hand passes through his shoulder when she tries to touch him.

peter shivers.

his head lifts sharply, eyes moving through the cemetery before settling somewhere near you. instinct sends you behind the nearest oak, though you know he has already seen you.

may remains beside him.

“he’s so thin,” she whispers.

peter takes something from his coat pocket and places it near the headstone. a small paper bag from a bakery. the top has been folded carefully twice.

“i got the cherry one,” he says.

his voice barely carries across the snow.

may closes her eyes.

“you always said it was too sweet,” peter continues, looking down at the bag. “but you ate half of mine every time.”

you turn away.

whatever this is, it does not belong to you.

you retreat toward the cemetery gate while may stays behind. she returns to your apartment hours later, quieter than when she left.

“he saw you,” she says.

you look up from the book open across your lap. “i know.”

“he followed you.”

the words bring you to your feet.

“what?”

may moves toward the window. she points through the glass, down toward the opposite side of the street.

peter stands beneath the awning of the bakery.

he is looking up at your apartment.

—

you do not speak to him that night.

peter remains outside for eleven minutes before leaving. may counts every second while pretending not to.

afterward, she sits at your table and worries the cuff of her coat between fingers that cannot damage fabric.

“he thinks you followed him,” she says.

“technically, i did.”

“he’ll come back.”

“how do you know?”

may gives you a tired smile. “because i raised him.”

he comes back two days later.

you are carrying groceries upstairs when you find him waiting outside your apartment. his hands are pushed deep into the pockets of his coat, and his shoulders have drawn inward against the draft slipping through the hallway. the weak light above him flickers every few seconds, catching on the damp ends of his hair.

may stands at his right.

peter looks from you to the place where she waits. his attention catches on the way your gaze settles there before returning to him.

“you were at the cemetery,” he says.

you adjust the paper bag against your hip. the bottom has begun to tear beneath the weight of a carton of eggs and two cans of soup under them. “so were you.”

“were you following me?”

“no,” you scoff.

his gaze moves across your face with unsettling precision. you have the distinct impression of being catalogued: your breathing, your grip on the groceries, the distance between you and the stairs.

“who are you?” peter asks.

you shift the bag higher before the eggs can escape. “the person whose apartment you’re standing outside of, apparently.”

his brow pulls together, but he does not step away from the door. “that isn’t what i meant.”

“it’s the answer you’re getting.”

may smiles beside him, the first real smile you have seen from her since the cemetery.

“don’t,” you tell her.

peter stiffens. his eyes move toward the empty space at his side. “what?”

you look at him too quickly. “nothing.”

the word doesn’t convince him.

his attention remains fixed on you while you dig through your coat pocket for the keys. the metal slips once between your fingers before you manage to fit the correct one into the lock.

“you knew who i was,” he says.

you keep your hand around the doorknob. “you told me your name.”

“not at the cemetery.”

may’s smile disappears.

the grocery bag gives a warning tear beneath your arm. you push the door open before anything falls through it.

“i have frozen food,” you say.

“it’s winter.”

“i have eggs.”

peter glances toward the bag as though considering whether the excuse deserves a response. before he finds one, you step inside and pull the door closed behind you.

may passes through the wood before it shuts.

“absolutely not,” you say once the lock clicks into place.

“you don’t know what i was going to say,” she replies.

you carry the groceries toward the kitchen. “you were smiling.”

“i’m allowed to smile.”

“not like that.”

you set the bag on the counter and catch the carton of eggs just as the bottom finally gives way. one of the soup cans hits the floor and rolls beneath the table.

may watches you retrieve it.

“the apartment next to his is available,” she says.

you straighten slowly. “how do you know that?”

“i followed him home.”

“that’s stalking.”

“i’m dead,” may replies, following you toward the refrigerator. “it’s different.”

“i don’t think the law has a separate category for ghost stalking.”

“the landlord taped a vacancy notice to the door yesterday.”

you slide the milk onto the top shelf harder than necessary. “you want me to move next to him.”

“you need a cheaper apartment.”

“both things can be true?”

may’s mouth pulls into a small smile. “exactly.”

you close the refrigerator and lean against it. “he already thinks i’m following him.”

“moving next door probably won’t help with that.”

“thank you.”

“but it might help with everything else.”

you look at her. the humor has left her face. beneath it is the same fear she carries whenever an ambulance passes the building or sirens travel toward queens.

“may,” you say quietly.

“he’s alone.”

you fold the empty grocery bag along the torn seam, smoothing the paper between your fingers. “i’m not qualified to fix that.”

“i’m not asking you to fix him.” may glances toward the wall, though peter is nowhere beyond it. his apartment lies several blocks away, in a building you have never seen. “just notice if he stops coming home.”

you should say no.

instead, your attention moves around the apartment. the rent increases again next month. the radiator works only when struck with the heel of a shoe, and the water stain above the kitchen table has spread another inch since yesterday. the pipes behind the wall begin knocking as though they have overheard and would like to add their opinion.

may waits without speaking.

three weeks later, you move next door to peter parker.

—

peter doesn’t offer to help until he sees you trying to drag a bookcase up the stairs alone.

you hear his apartment door open above you, followed by the quick descent of footsteps.

“wait,” he says.

you brace the bookcase against the railing before it can slide backward. “i have it.”

“you definitely don’t.”

“that feels unnecessarily judgmental.”

peter reaches the landing and takes hold of the lower end. he lifts before you agree, taking most of the weight with an ease that does not match his narrow frame.

may appears at the top of the stairs.

“he gets that from me,” she says.

you nearly lose your grip.

peter looks up sharply. “you okay?”

“‘m fine.”

may covers a smile with one hand.

together, you maneuver the bookcase through your doorway. peter lowers it beside the wall without letting it strike the floor. his breathing remains even, though the furniture should have required more effort.

you pretend not to notice.

“thanks,” you say.

he pushes loose hair from his forehead. “sure.”

neither of you moves toward the door.

may stands near the kitchen, looking at him as though she has been given back something she already mourned. peter’s gaze passes through her on its way around the apartment.

“you really moved in here,” he says.

“that’s generally what the boxes mean.”

the corner of his mouth lifts before he can prevent it.

“right.”

you wait for him to ask why. instead, he notices the kettle on the stove.

“you drink tea?”

“sometimes.”

“my aunt used to.”

may looks at you.

you keep your attention on peter. “what kind?”

he hesitates, surprised by the question.

“everything,” he says. “she kept buying new boxes and forgetting which ones she liked.”

“that is not true,” may protests.

“sounds inconvenient.”

“it was.” affection softens the words. “the cabinet was basically unusable.”

may folds her arms. you bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling.

peter notices anyway.

“what?”

“nothing.”

his expression becomes wary again, the brief softness disappearing. he steps toward the door.

“welcome to the building,” he says.

“thanks.”

he pauses with one hand against the frame. “the hot water stops working around six.”

“good to know.”

“and the guy downstairs complains if you walk too loudly after ten.”

“also good to know.”

“the lock on the roof door sticks.” peter looks toward you. “you have to lift it before you turn the handle.”

you nod. he leaves before you can ask why he assumes you will need access to the roof.

may waits until his apartment door closes.

“he likes you,” she says.

you begin opening a box marked kitchen.

“he thinks i’m a possible threat.”

“for peter, that’s practically friendship.”

—

winter loosens slowly over queens.

months after the first night, your life has begun arranging itself around the dead. the ability is no longer impossible every minute, but it is never ordinary. you still startle when a stranger appears inside a locked room, still check reflections before speaking, and still wake some mornings hoping the silence means it has ended.

it never does. you attend work during the day, return home before dark, and spend the evenings helping ghosts with whatever unfinished business keeps them near the living. may stays more consistently than the others. she disappears occasionally, pulled toward peter when his grief sharpens or danger finds him, but she always returns.

the second person connected to him appears in march.

you find tony stark sitting on your fire escape.

he wears a black suit with no tie, one ankle resting over the opposite knee while he examines the rusted railing with open disapproval. the arc reactor does not glow beneath his shirt. there is no blood, no ash, no evidence of the way he died.

only exhaustion.

“this is a code violation,” he says when you open the window.

you stare at him.

tony looks past you into the apartment. “you’re the medium.”

“you say that like i’ve always been one.”

his attention returns to you. “you haven’t?”

“not before the night the sky split open.”

the humor thins from his face. he studies you with the same concentration he might give damaged machinery, taking in the headache you still get when too many spirits gather and the way you keep one hand braced against the window frame.

“then this is fallout,” he says.

“from what?”

“strange’s spell.” tony glances toward may before looking back at you. “he cast something large enough to rewrite every living memory of peter. the dead kept theirs. best guess, you were caught where the two sides stopped matching, and something in you stayed open.”

you stare at him. “doctor strange did this to me?”

“not intentionally.” tony lifts one translucent shoulder. “it’s a theory. death doesn’t come with diagnostics.”

“you’re tony stark.”

“good. saves time.”

may appears from the hallway and stops.

tony’s expression changes when he sees her.

“hey, may.”

she crosses the apartment and hugs him.

their bodies pass partly through each other before settling into something close enough. tony closes his eyes anyway.

you step back from the window.

“you know peter,” you say.

tony opens his eyes.

“kid’s hard to forget.”

the emptiness inside your memory catches painfully around the name.

“apparently not.”

tony’s face hardens. he looks toward the wall separating your apartment from peter’s.

“where is he?”

“next door.”

“you moved in next to him?”

“may’s idea.”

“excellent.” tony steps through the window instead of climbing inside. “terrible boundaries. strong initiative.”

“he can’t see you.”

“nobody can see me,” tony says. “story of my afterlife.”

he is more difficult than may.

tony criticizes your laptop, your phone, the wiring in the walls, and the way peter repairs his web-shooters with parts purchased from an electronics store that also sells novelty lamps. he refuses to explain how he knows what peter is working on until you catch sight of the boy through your kitchen window one night, climbing upside down along the opposite brick wall.

may watches your reaction.

“you didn’t know?”

“you left out spider-man.”

“it never came up.”

“you told me he burns grilled cheese.”

“he does.”

tony leans through the wall, observes peter for several seconds, then draws back.

“he’s using the old cartridges.”

“is that bad?”

“it’s inefficient.”

“he’s poor,” you remind him.

tony’s mouth flattens.

the next morning, you leave a bag of groceries outside peter’s door.

you include bread, cheese, eggs, coffee, and a compact soldering kit tony insists is adequate but insulting. you do not knock. you are halfway back inside when peter’s door opens.

he looks down at the bag, then toward you.

“did you leave this?”

you keep one hand on your doorknob. “the grocery store gave me too much food.”

peter looks into the bag.

“they gave you a soldering iron?”

“strange promotion.”

his gaze lifts to yours. behind him, may stands in the narrow apartment. tony examines the damaged web-shooter on peter’s desk with increasing horror.

“this is pity,” peter says. “i can buy bread.”

“then consider it a hostile attempt to clear space in my cabinets.”

he looks at you for another moment.

“i’ll pay you back.”

“you don’t have to.”

his expression closes. you recognize the mistake before may says anything.

“let him,” she murmurs.

you nod toward the bag. “fine. you can fix the shelf in my bathroom.”

peter glances toward your apartment. “what’s wrong with it?”

“it falls down every time i put something on it.”

“that’s usually a sign you shouldn’t put something on it.”

“are you accepting the terms or not?”

his mouth curves faintly.

“yeah,” he says, lifting the bag. “okay.”

that evening, peter repairs the shelf. he discovers the problem within seconds, replaces two stripped screws, and stays another hour because may convinces you to make grilled cheese. peter burns the first sandwich while explaining why the shelf had been installed incorrectly.

may laughs so hard she disappears twice. tony watches from the counter, pretending not to.

—

ben arrives in april.

unlike may and tony, he does not appear during a storm or step through a wall with an opinion already prepared. you wake before sunrise and find him sitting at your kitchen table. he is older than may remembers him and younger than grief makes him seem. his hands rest loosely around a mug he cannot lift. he looks toward you with the patient sadness of someone who has been waiting a long time without knowing for what.

“you must be ben,” you say.

he smiles. “you must be the reason may finally stopped worrying quite so loudly.”

may appears beside the refrigerator. “i can hear you.”

ben turns. for several seconds, neither of them speaks. then may sits across from him. the quiet between them feels private, so you make tea and leave the room.

ben becomes the gentlest of the three.

he doesn’t tell you how to help peter. he asks how work goes. he notices when the ghosts become too loud and sits beside you until their voices retreat. when may pushes food and tony pushes solutions, ben reminds you that exhaustion cannot be repaired through stubbornness.

“you’re allowed to close the door,” he says one night after a dead woman spends three hours screaming in your hallway.

you sit on the kitchen floor with your back against the cabinets. “she needs help.”

“maybe.”

“that isn’t helpful.”

“neither is destroying yourself for everyone who asks.”

you stare into the tea cooling between your palms.

“peter does that too,” ben observes.

you look toward the shared wall. peter has not returned from patrol.

“so i’ve heard.”

ben’s gaze follows yours. “may says you wait up.”

“may talks too much.”

“she always has.”

may throws a dish towel through him.

peter returns shortly before four. you hear his window open, followed by the soft impact of his feet against the floor. a cabinet closes. water runs for less than a minute. then silence.

you remain at the table until the lights beneath his door go out.

—

spring settles into routine.

peter begins knocking on your door after work. sometimes he needs a tool. sometimes you need help carrying laundry. sometimes neither of you has a reason prepared, and he stands in the hallway until you step aside.

he studies for his equivalency exam at your kitchen table because his apartment’s radiator bangs loudly enough to shake the wall. you learn that he chews the end of his pencil when he cannot solve an equation, though there are few equations he can’t solve. he learns that you organize books according to which ones feel right beside one another, a system he calls completely irrational while continuing to return them to the correct places.

may begins standing behind him while he studies. tony corrects the textbooks. ben reads over your shoulder.

you become careful about where you look. peter notices patterns too easily.

“you do that a lot,” he says one night.

rain taps softly against the window. peter sits at the table with an open chemistry book, while you stand beside the stove waiting for the kettle to boil.

“do what?”

“look at places where nobody is standing.”

tony leans against the refrigerator.

“tell him you’re haunted by his former mentor.”

you ignore him.

“i get distracted.”

peter turns the pencil between his fingers. “by empty corners?”

“they’re very compelling.”

he studies you. the kettle begins to whistle, sparing you from the conversation. you turn away, but peter doesn’t return to his book.

“were you following me that day?” he asks. “at the cemetery.”

“i remember.”

“you never answered.”

may stands beside him now. worry settles through her face.

you measure tea into the mug. “i wasn’t following you.”

“then why were you there?”

“i was with someone.”

peter looks toward the empty chair across from him.

“who?”

the truth rises before fear forces it back down.

“someone who knew your aunt.”

his pencil stops moving. may closes her eyes. peter’s expression empties with practiced speed, every visible reaction drawn behind something harder.

“what was their name?”

you carry the mug toward the table. “it isn’t my story to tell.”

“you showed up at her grave, moved into the apartment next to mine, and somehow knew i needed tools.” his voice remains quiet, which makes the accusation sharper. “you leave food outside my door when i run out. you’re awake every time i come home late.”

“the walls are thin.”

“not that thin.”

tony straightens. ben watches peter rather than you.

“i’m not trying to hurt you,” you say.

“that isn’t an answer.”

“it’s the only one i can give.”

peter pushes his chair back. the legs drag against the floor. may reaches for him, but her hand passes through his arm. he shivers and rubs the place without knowing why.

“i should go.”

you follow him toward the door. “peter.”

he stops with his back to you.

the name no longer feels entirely empty. months of hearing it from may, tony, and ben have begun filling the erased space with a person made from new memories: flour on his cheek after attempting to bake, grease beneath his fingernails, tired eyes softening whenever he thinks you are not looking.

“i’m sorry,” you say.

peter turns his head enough to look at you.

“for what?”

you don’t know how to explain that you are sorry for remembering people who remember him. sorry for occupying the space beside his grief. sorry that every kindness carries a secret.

“everything,” you admit.

he leaves without answering.

—

peter avoids you for nine days.

you continue hearing him through the wall. the scrape of his desk chair, the hiss of the shower after patrol, the opening and closing of the window at hours when nobody should be awake.

may spends more time next door. tony pretends he is not worried. ben sits with you in silence.

on the tenth night, something strikes the hallway wall hard enough to shake a picture from its hook. you are out the door before it hits the floor.

peter lies between your apartments.

his mask has been pulled halfway from his face. blood darkens the side of his suit, spreading beneath the fingers pressed against his ribs. one knee is drawn upward as though he attempted to stand and failed.

may is beside him.

“peter,” she says. “peter, look at me.”

he can’t. you drop to the floor and reach for his wrist. his pulse moves too quickly beneath your fingers.

peter’s eyes open.

“you,” he breathes.

“unfortunately.”

“didn’t want to bother you.”

“you’re bleeding on the carpet. i’m already bothered.”

you slide his arm across your shoulders and force him upright. he makes a broken sound through his teeth but helps enough to reach your apartment.

tony paces beside you.

“entry wound near the lower ribs,” he says. “probably a blade. check the back.”

you lower peter onto the couch.

“stay awake.”

“trying.”

ben kneels near his feet. may stands over your shoulder, hands clasped tightly together.

you cut through the damaged section of the suit. peter catches your wrist, but his grip has none of its usual strength.

“don’t.”

“you can be modest after i stop the bleeding.”

“suit.”

“i’m not selling your identity to the tabloids.”

his eyes sharpen despite the pain. you realize the mistake.

peter has never told you he is spider-man.

tony mutters something you don’t catch. you press folded gauze against the wound. blood immediately soaks through.

“it went through,” you say.

“told you i’m fine.”

may makes a furious sound.

“may says you always say that when you’re bleeding.”

the room stops. your hands remain against his side.

peter’s breathing turns shallow for a reason unrelated to the wound.

“what did you say?”

may looks at you. tony closes his eyes. ben lowers his head.

you could lie.

the months behind you are built from lies careful enough to resemble kindness. one more might preserve everything a little longer.

then peter looks toward the place where may stands.

“you said may.”

you remove the bloodied gauze and replace it with clean fabric.

“yes.”

his fingers close around your wrist again.

“how do you know her?”

“peter, you’re hurt.”

“how do you know may?”

“she found me.”

his grip disappears. you tape the dressing into place with hands that have begun to tremble.

“i had never seen a ghost before that night,” you continue. “then the sky split open, and may was standing beneath a streetlight. tony thinks strange’s spell tore something open in me.”

peter stares at you.

“what spell?”

may whispers his name, and you look toward her. peter follows your gaze into empty air.

understanding does not come gently. it moves across his face in pieces: disbelief, fear, a hope so immediate that he crushes it before it can fully exist.

“is she here?”

may covers her mouth.

you sit back on your heels.

“yes.”

peter looks at the space beside the couch. “where?”

“next to you.”

his throat moves.

“what is she wearing?”

you look at may. “green coat. black pants. the necklace with the small silver pendant.”

peter’s eyes close. may kneels beside him.

“tell him i’m sorry,” she says.

you hesitate.

“she says she’s sorry.”

peter releases a shaking breath.

“for what?”

may’s face crumples.

“for leaving him.”

you repeat it.

peter turns away. his shoulders begin to shake before any sound leaves him. may reaches for his face, her hand moving through his cheek in a faint shimmer that lifts the hair near his temple.

peter goes still.

“i felt that,” he whispers.

may tries again. the lamp beside the couch flickers.

peter looks toward it, tears bright against his lashes.

“may?”

the bulb glows warmer. 

you remain on the floor with his blood drying across your hands while peter parker speaks to the dead.

—

he asks you to leave your own living room.

you go into the kitchen and give him as much privacy as the apartment allows.

may stays beside him. you still hear her answers, but you do not repeat them unless peter calls your name.

he asks whether she remembers. she does.

he asks whether she knows what he did. she does.

he asks whether she hates him. the question silences the apartment.

may stands from the couch and walks toward you. fury and heartbreak sharpen her expression.

“tell him to never ask me that again.”

you look toward peter. he waits with both hands clenched against his knees, careful not to disturb the dressing around his ribs.

“she says you’re never allowed to ask her that again.”

his mouth trembles.

may crosses back to him.

“tell him none of it was his fault.”

you do.

“tell him i would make the same choice.”

you do.

“tell him—” her voice breaks. 

peter looks toward you.

“what?”

may sinks beside him. “tell him i love him.”

the words settle painfully behind your ribs.

“she loves you,” you say.

peter bows forward, one hand covering his face.

you remain in the kitchen until exhaustion and blood loss pull him into sleep.

may sits beside him. tony watches from near the window, his expression unreadable.

“he’ll need stitches,” he says eventually. “you know how?”

“not well.”

tony removes his jacket and rolls up sleeves that do not exist in any physical sense.

“all right,” he says. “let’s fix that.”

—

peter wakes in your bed.

you give him the room because the couch is too narrow and because may refuses to let him remain anywhere she considers uncomfortable. he finds you asleep at the kitchen table shortly after sunrise, your head resting beside an open first-aid manual.

tony stands behind you.

“she did good,” he tells peter.

peter can’t hear him.

you wake when a blanket settles across your shoulders.

peter steps back. he has changed into the clothes you left beside the bed. his face is pale, but his breathing remains steady.

“you should be lying down,” you say.

“you stitched me up.”

“tony supervised.”

peter becomes still.

“tony.”

the ghost lifts one hand.

you glance toward him. “stark.”

peter sits across from you. “he’s here too?”

“yes.”

“why?”

tony answers first. “unfinished business.”

you repeat it.

peter’s gaze remains fixed on the empty chair beside you.

“me?”

tony looks away. “mostly.”

“mostly you,” you repeat.

peter lowers his eyes to the table.

“who else?”

ben appears in the doorway.

you rub sleep from your face. “your uncle ben.”

peter’s head lifts sharply. ben steps into the kitchen, grief and affection settling together across his features.

“hey, kid.”

you look toward peter.

“he says hello.”

peter laughs once. the sound breaks halfway through.

—

after that, peter begins coming to your apartment for the dead. he knocks every evening at seven.

sometimes may is there. sometimes tony. ben rarely leaves for long, but he respects silence enough that peter occasionally forgets someone else is listening.

you become a voice between them.

it is exhausting in ways none of you anticipate. conversation takes twice as long when every answer must pass through you. grief becomes something physical when it moves from a ghost’s mouth through your own. memories that do not belong to you collect beneath your skin.

peter notices before you admit it.

one evening, may describes a birthday from his childhood. halfway through repeating her words, the kitchen disappears.

you see a small apartment through may’s memory. blue balloons crowd the ceiling. peter sits cross-legged on the floor with cake frosting across his nose while ben attempts to repair a toy without reading the instructions.

the vision takes you so completely that you drop the mug in your hand. it shatters across the floor.

peter catches you before your knees reach the glass.

“hey,” he says, guiding you toward the chair. “look at me.”

the apartment returns slowly. you find his hands around your arms and may kneeling beside you.

“what happened?” peter asks.

“memory.”

“whose?”

you look at may. “hers.”

peter’s grip loosens.

“you can see them too?”

“sometimes.”

“why didn’t you tell me?”

“you had enough to deal with.”

his expression tightens.

“you keep saying that.”

“because it’s true.”

“you don’t get to decide what i can handle.”

the words strike harder because they are familiar. you have said the same thing to ghosts, doctors, employers, and anyone else who mistakes protection for control.

peter crouches in front of you, careful of the broken ceramic beneath his shoes.

“does this hurt you?”

“not usually.”

“that isn’t what i asked.”

you look down at your hands. a shallow cut crosses your palm from the broken mug. peter takes your wrist and examines it.

“sometimes,” you admit.

he rises, retrieves the first-aid kit, and begins cleaning the cut. may watches him with quiet pride, and tony watches you.

“you need rules,” peter says.

“for cuts?”

“for ghosts.”

ben smiles from the doorway. “good boy.”

you almost repeat it before stopping yourself.

peter looks up. “what?”

“nothing.”

“was that ben?”

“maybe.”

his mouth curves. the expression stays this time.

together, you make rules.

no ghosts in the bedroom unless invited. no screaming after midnight. no passing messages while you are eating. no entering the bathroom under any circumstances, a rule tony calls unnecessary until may threatens him.

peter writes them on a sheet of paper and tapes it beside your front door.

the dead ignore most of them. still, the rules help.

peter begins helping too.

he can’t see the ghosts, but he learns to recognize where they stand by following your gaze. he leaves one chair empty at the table. he waits when you need to listen. when unfamiliar spirits appear, he stays nearby until you determine whether they are frightened or dangerous.

he no longer comes only for may, tony, or ben. sometimes he arrives when none of them are present.

those nights become your favorite.

—

summer warms the roof beneath your feet.

you and peter sit against the low brick ledge, sharing a carton of noodles while the city glows around you. laundry moves on lines between neighboring buildings. music rises from an open window below, softened by distance and traffic.

no ghosts stand nearby. you check twice.

peter notices.

“are we alone?”

“yes.”

“good.”

you look toward him. “you say that like you don’t enjoy tony criticizing everything you do.”

“he told you my web formula was pedestrian.”

“he said derivative.”

“that’s worse.”

you smile into the noodles.

peter rests his head against the brick behind him. the fading sunlight catches along the bruise near his jaw, left by a fight he refuses to describe in detail.

“do you remember anything?” he asks.

“about what?”

“before the spell.”

you set the carton between you.

“no.”

the answer remains true, though the absence inside your mind has changed. it no longer feels empty. peter has filled it himself, one evening at a time.

“does that bother you?” he asks.

“sometimes.”

his gaze drops.

“not because i think you owe me the memories,” you add. “i just don’t like knowing someone can reach inside my head and take something without leaving a scar.”

peter looks toward the skyline.

“there are scars.”

“i know.”

“you just can’t see them.”

wind lifts his hair from his forehead. you resist the urge to smooth it back.

“what was it like?” you ask.

he is silent long enough that you expect him not to answer.

“quiet,” he says eventually. “afterward.”

you wait.

“i thought it would feel different. like the world would know something was missing.” he turns the cardboard fork between his fingers. “but everything kept going. people went to work. trains ran. ned started college. mj laughed with customers like she always did.”

the names carry no recognition. you hate the spell for that.

“and you?”

peter looks down at the city.

“i stood outside.”

you understand without asking where.

“do you still?”

“sometimes.”

“why?”

“to make sure they’re okay.”

the answer comes too quickly to be anything but habit.

you draw one knee toward your chest. “does it help?”

“no.”

“then why do it?”

his mouth twists.

“you sound like may.”

“she says that’s a compliment.”

peter looks toward the empty space beside you.

“she isn’t here.”

“no.”

his gaze returns to your face.

“then that was you.”

the awareness between you changes. 

you look away first. below, someone closes a window. music disappears from the alley, leaving the rooftop filled with traffic and summer wind. 

peter’s shoulder rests against yours.

neither of you move.

—

tony fades first.

it begins with his hands.

you notice the city lights showing through his fingers while he argues with peter about the design of a replacement web cartridge. he catches you staring and tucks both hands into his pockets.

“don’t,” he says.

peter looks between you and the place where tony stands.

“what?”

“he’s fading.”

tony closes his eyes. peter rises from the table.

“what does that mean?”

“i don’t know.”

“you’ve seen ghosts move on before.”

“not like this.”

most spirits disappear after completing something. their absence arrives suddenly, accompanied by a stillness that feels like a held breath finally released.

tony is unraveling slowly.

peter turns toward him.

“is it because of me?”

tony’s expression sharpens. “absolutely not.”

you repeat the answer.

peter pushes one hand through his hair. “then why now?”

tony looks at him for a long time.

“because you’re not alone anymore.”

you stop breathing. peter looks toward you.

tony continues before either of you can speak. you repeat his words to peter between his sentences.

“i stayed because i thought the kid i left behind had disappeared with me. then i find out he saves half the universe, loses everybody, and decides the reasonable response is to live on crackers in an apartment with exposed wiring.”

“tell him i eat more than crackers,” peter mutters.

“he says that’s not the point.”

tony walks toward him. every step makes his outline flicker.

“i couldn’t fix it,” he says. “couldn’t build anything. couldn’t leave money, call anyone, or punch the wizard.”

“he says he wanted to punch strange.”

“still do.”

peter laughs weakly. tony stops in front of him.

“but you kept going.”

you repeat the words more softly.

peter’s face tightens.

“not because of me,” tony adds, looking toward you. “that’s important. she didn’t save you. you saved yourself. she just gave you somewhere to come home to while you did.”

peter looks at you.

the apartment becomes too small for the silence that follows.

tony smiles. “don’t screw it up, kid.”

then he is gone.

no light. no sound. one moment he stands beside the table, and the next the space is empty.

—

ben leaves several weeks later.

he waits until peter is asleep on your couch, one arm folded beneath his head and a book resting open against his chest.

you find ben near the window.

“you knew,” you say.

“about tony?”

“about all of you.”

ben looks toward peter.

“i hoped.”

“may too?”

“she hopes less.”

you fold your arms across your chest. “that isn’t an answer.”

ben smiles sadly. “you sound like him.”

“everyone keeps saying that.”

“maybe you should listen.”

his outline remains solid, but you sense the distance gathering around him. the room no longer holds him as easily.

“i’m not ready,” you admit.

ben’s expression softens.

“i know.”

“you were supposed to be here for peter.”

“we were here for both of you.”

you look toward the couch. peter shifts in his sleep but doesn’t wake.

“i didn’t ask for this.”

“neither did he.”

“that doesn’t make losing you easier.”

“no.” ben moves closer. “it only means you understand each other.”

your eyes burn. ben looks back at peter.

“tell him i’m proud of him.”

“you can tell him tomorrow.”

“tell him anyway.”

fear tightens around your ribs.

“ben.”

“and tell him responsibility isn’t the same as punishment.”

you cannot answer. his hand lifts toward your face. you feel no touch, only a brief warmth across your cheek.

“you did good,” he says.

the words undo something inside you.

by the time peter wakes, ben is gone.

—

you don’t tell peter that may has begun fading too.

you become skilled at avoiding the subject.

when her hand disappears through the teacup, you turn away. when her voice grows faint, you move closer and pretend the city is too loud. when she vanishes for hours, you tell peter she is visiting somewhere else.

may doesn’t approve.

“you have to tell him,” she says.

you wash the same plate for too long.

“he already lost tony and ben.”

“so did you.”

water runs over your hands.

“that isn’t the same.”

“why?”

you set the plate into the drying rack. “because they’re his.”

may becomes very still.

“is that what you think?”

you grip the edge of the sink.

“you found me because of peter.”

“yes.”

“tony came because of peter. ben came because of peter.”

“yes.”

“then they belong to him.”

“people don’t belong to other people.”

you turn. may stands beside the table, transparent enough that you can see the chair through her coat.

“you became my family,” you say.

the admission leaves the room raw. 

may’s expression breaks. “oh, honey.”

“don’t.”

she approaches slowly.

“you were alone too.”

“i was fine.”

“you were surviving.”

“same thing.”

“no.” may stops in front of you. “peter thinks that too.”

you look toward the shared wall. his apartment is quiet. he left for patrol an hour ago after promising to return before midnight.

“every time he gets better, one of you leaves,” you say.

may follows your gaze.

“that’s what’s supposed to happen.”

“then maybe i don’t want him to get better.”

the words horrify you as soon as they exist. you cover your mouth.

may’s face softens rather than hardens.

“you don’t mean that.”

“i know.”

“grief thinks terrible things when it gets frightened.”

you lower your hand.

“i can’t lose you.”

may reaches for you. her arms pass partly through your shoulders, but enough of her remains to create the impression of an embrace. you close your eyes.

“you won’t,” she whispers.

“you’re disappearing.”

“that isn’t the same as being lost.”

the apartment window opens behind you. you pull away.

peter stands inside the living room, mask removed, one hand still resting against the frame.

he looks from you to where may stands.

“she’s fading.” it is not a question.

you wipe quickly at your face. “peter—”

“how long?”

“a few weeks.”

hurt moves across his face.

“you lied.”

“i didn’t know how to tell you.”

“you could’ve tried.”

“you lost enough.”

“so did you.”

the words match may’s so exactly that you almost laugh. instead, something inside you gives way.

“i don’t want them to leave,” you say.

peter steps farther into the apartment.

“neither do i.”

“you don’t understand.”

his expression hardens. “i don’t understand losing them?”

“they were yours first.”

“stop saying that.”

“it’s true.”

“no.” peter pulls the mask from his hand and drops it onto the table. “they found you. they stayed with you. may knows what tea you drink. tony spent three days fixing your laptop through you. ben sat with you every time the ghosts got bad.”

may watches him, tears gathering in her eyes.

“they loved you,” peter says. “that doesn’t take anything away from me.”

you look down.

“it feels like i stole them.”

peter crosses the remaining distance.

“you gave them somewhere to stay.”

his hands close gently around yours. his gloves are torn across the knuckles, skin warm beneath the damaged fabric.

“and you gave me somewhere to come back to,” he continues.

may begins crying. you barely hear her.

peter’s thumbs move across your fingers.

“i don’t come here because they’re here anymore.”

your breathing catches.

“peter.”

“i started that way,” he admits. “i needed to hear may. i needed tony to insult my suit. i needed ben to tell me things i already knew and couldn’t believe.”

his gaze lowers briefly before returning to yours.

“but they aren’t here every night.”

you know. you know because those are the nights you wait for most.

“i am,” he says.

the city moves beyond the window. a siren passes several blocks away, rising and fading through the warm night.

“why?” you ask.

peter looks at you as though the answer has frightened him for a long time.

“because you are.”

may turns away, giving him privacy she doesn’t need to offer.

“you know everything i lost,” peter says. “but you don’t look at me like i’m only what’s left after.”

you tighten your fingers around his.

“you aren’t.”

“i know.” the certainty in his voice is new.

you wonder whether that is what healing sounds like—not happiness, not forgetting, only the quiet ability to believe you remain a person after grief takes its share.

peter raises one hand toward your face, then stops.

“can i?”

you nod.

his palm settles against your cheek. the touch is careful, warmer than may’s remembered embrace, more solid than every ghost you have held and lost.

you lean into him. peter lowers his forehead against yours.

“i think i’m in love with you,” he whispers.

your eyes close, a tear rolling down your cheek.

“you think?”

a breath of laughter moves between you.

“i’ve had a complicated year.”

“that’s fair.”

his thumb brushes beneath your eye.

“i’m in love with you,” he says again, steadier now. “not because you remember me through them. not because they still do.”

you open your eyes. peter’s gaze holds yours.

“i love who i am with you,” he says. “i love who you let me become.”

you catch the front of his suit and kiss him. peter freezes for one heartbeat.

then his hand slides behind your neck, drawing you closer with a softness that hurts more than desperation would. his mouth moves carefully against yours, as though he has learned what it costs to hold something too tightly.

you feel may nearby. not watching, but simply there.

when the kiss ends, peter remains close enough that his breath warms your lips.

“was that okay?” he asks.

you press your forehead against his.

“you’re supposed to ask before.”

“i did.”

“you asked if you could touch my face.”

“technicality.”

you kiss him again. this time, peter smiles against your mouth.

—

may stays until morning.

the three of you sit on the roof while sunrise turns the windows of queens pale gold.

peter holds your hand between both of his. may sits on his other side, close enough that her shoulder overlaps his.

she tells stories until her voice begins to fade. peter listens to you repeat them without interrupting.

she tells him about the first night she brings him home. about ben falling asleep beside the crib because he is afraid peter will stop breathing if nobody watches. about science fairs and fevers, ruined dinners and rent notices, hospital shifts and every ordinary day grief once convinced him no longer mattered.

then she looks at you.

“take care of each other.”

you shake your head immediately.

“don’t make it sound like goodbye.”

may smiles.

“all right.” she looks toward peter. “eat something besides crackers.”

peter laughs through tears when you repeat it.

“okay.”

“sleep occasionally.”

“i’ll try.”

“and stop jumping off buildings without a plan.”

“that one might be harder.”

may looks at you. “make sure he tries.”

you press your lips together. “i will.”

the sunlight strengthens.

may’s outline becomes thin enough that the sky shows through her. peter reaches toward her, and you place your hand beneath his. together, you hold the space where hers should be.

may looks at your joined hands.

“there you are,” she whispers.

then she is gone.

wind moves across the rooftop. somewhere below, the bakery doors open. warm air carrying bread and sugar rises into the morning.

peter bows his head.

you remain beside him.

neither of you says that she has moved on. neither says she is somewhere better. the dead have taught you that certainty is often a comfort invented by the living.

you only know she is no longer here.

peter’s fingers tighten around yours.

“i can’t feel her anymore,” he says.

“neither can i.”

he looks at you. the grief between you is not smaller because it is shared.

it is simply no longer carried alone.

—

months later, you wake to someone knocking on your door.

the clock beside the bed reads three seventeen.

you find peter in the hallway wearing half of his suit beneath an oversized sweatshirt. one side of his face is bruised, and his lower lip has split.

“you have a key,” you remind him.

“it felt rude.”

“breaking into my apartment through the window is rude.”

“you said the lock sticks.”

“that was the roof door.”

peter considers this.

“i may have lost some blood.”

you step aside.

he enters and heads automatically toward the kitchen. the first-aid kit now occupies the cabinet beside the sink, stocked with supplies peter replaces before you notice they are low.

no ghosts wait at the table, but the apartment remains full anyway.

peter sits on the counter while you clean the cut near his mouth. he keeps one hand against your waist, fingers moving absently beneath the hem of your shirt.

“how bad?” you ask.

“you should see the other guy.”

“did the other guy have eight legs?”

“six.”

you stop. peter smiles carefully to avoid reopening his lip.

“kidding.”

“you’re becoming less charming.”

“you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

his smile softens. “yeah.”

you tape gauze over the worst cut near his ribs before stepping between his knees. peter draws you closer, resting his forehead against your shoulder.

the kettle begins warming on the stove.

outside, the city continues through the dark. pipes knock inside the walls. the bakery downstairs begins its first batch of bread. somewhere on the roof, a pigeon moves across the ledge with small, scraping steps.

peter turns his face against your neck.

“do you ever see them?” he asks.

you know who he means.

“not anymore.”

his arms tighten slightly around you.

“do you think they know?”

you look toward the empty chair at the table.

for a moment, the kitchen light flickers once, twice, then the bulb steadies.

you smile into peter’s hair.

“yeah,” you murmur. “i think they remember.”

peter lifts his head. you kiss him before he can ask what you mean.

the dead no longer fill your apartment, but their photographs do.

may smiles from a frame beside the kettle. tony stands behind peter in an old newspaper clipping, one hand resting proudly against the shoulder of a boy the world no longer recognizes. ben exists only through stories and the softness that enters peter’s voice whenever he says his name.

the spell takes every living memory of peter parker. it leaves him to rebuild himself from nothing, but magic does not understand grief.

it does not understand that the dead carry love differently, beyond thought and language, beyond whatever fragile place memory occupies inside the mind. it cannot reach the people who leave the world still holding his name.

they remember him, then they give him to you.

and when they are gone, you remember him too.

“Peter?” You call again, rounding the corner toward the door and all the air leaves you at the sight of him.

“Hey” he smiles. Or he tries to with his split lip and bloodied face.

“God. What the hell did you do?” You're rushing him in on pure adrenaline because your heart is beating so fast it's on the verge of collapsing.

“I didn't do anything.” He shrugs out of his suit, still smiling. Standing in front of you in just his boxers and you take in the damage.

His left side is bruised almost completely greenish blue. His arm has a palm long cut. One of his eyes is swollen shut. There's a cut across his lip and then there's the blood. So much of it. Its in his hair, on his temples, trickling down from his forehead, and you're pretty sure he'll need to visit a dentist because one of his teeth looks slightly crooked as he smiles.

“This was not how I sent you out there this morning” you're mad now, fishing out bandages and antiseptic from the first aid kit while you complain.

“Who the hell was it this time? And you better tell me that guy is dead for doing so much damage to my man. If you dropped him off to a prison or something after what he did to you, I swear to god the first thing I do tomorrow morning is break into that fucking prison and kill that fucking guy.”

You wet one of the soft napkins you keep for this very purpose as you sit him down on the bathroom stool and slowly wipe the blood away from his face.

He doesn't say a word, letting you ramble away, as you treat him, looking at you like you're reciting romantic poetry.

“What are you looking at?” You bite when you see him staring at you.

He replies honestly “You look so cute when you're mad. Your nose gets all red. And you're pouting, like this—” he mimics your pout “It makes you look like a goldfish” he smiles, ignoring his bleeding lip.

“Wow. I'm out here worrying myself to a heart attack and you're comparing me to a goldfish. Real fair, parker.” You let the napkin run harder at his temple than necessary.

“Ow” he winces and you immediately regret it.

“I’m so sorry.” You apologise profusely “Oh honey. I'm really sorry. I just—I was so worried for you Peter. This is the third time you've come home injured this week and its not even Friday yet.” Voicing your worries doesn't feel much better when it gives way to the guilt in his eyes.

“I know, baby. And I'm sorry to worry you. I really am. But I gotta do this, love. Someone's gotta look out for these people” he gestures outside the window to the sleeping new york.

What people? These people don't come to tend to his wounds. They just give them. These people believed a so called hero from yesterday when he blamed Peter for his death and the very drone attack that he saved the world from. These people forced him to wipe himself from the memory of every person he ever loved.

They don't care he has sacrificed everything for them. These people just believe in taking. They take and take and take. And you're worried they'll do so until he has nothing more left to give.

To fuck with these people. They don't need protecting. They don't need spiderman. They don't even need Peter parker.

But you? You need your boyfriend. You need him. You can't let the world take him away from you piece by piece. You won't.

It is only when Peter's hand comes to wipe your tears, do you realise you're crying. “I'm sorry” his words are as gentle as his voice.

“It's not your fault” you sniffle, suturing his arm up the best you know. Secretly glad your nursing course is coming to some use but sad nevertheless that its him you have to use it on.

“It is when I'm the one seeing you cry. When I'm the reason for it.” He retorts, brushing a finger on your cheek.

“Don't blame yourself.” you counter. “You never make me cry. It's those fucking people out there that are making my life hell. I swear I'm starting to have a vendetta against them at this point”

He laughs out loud at that. It never fails to amuse Peter how you try to get so bitter when you're mad but always end up being cute. “You're really cute, you know” he confesses.

You just glare at him, almost finished patching him back up “I swear to god Peter, its gonna be the start of my villain arc.” You place the band aid across his temple as you speak “I'm gonna turn into a vigilante. Name myself something scary like ‘the viper’ or ‘the thunderstorm’ or like ‘asteroid destroyer’ or something and go out for blood”

Peter bellows out a laugh so hard he almost topples over “Aesteroid destroyer? Really? Thats the name you chose for yourself?” he snickers “And what's your weapon of choice, huh? Death by cuteness aggression? Smothering them in kisses until they die of affection?”

“Don't make fun of me” you attempt to glare at him but he just laughs harder and your lips twitch despite yourself. You swat at his shoulder, playfully “you're impossible”

“And you're the asteroid destroyer” he chortles. Pulling you swiftly into his lap.

“Shut up” you whine as he continues to snicker every once in a while. Kissing your cheek as you feign annoyance at his antics.

His lips are still on your cheek when he murmurs again “You're too cute”

Within the next hour you have both migrated to your bed. A movie is playing—some old school romcom—but Peter's attention seems to be elsewhere.

His face is buried in your tits, his body a weighted blanket on yours as one of his feet constantly rubs against yours, making you giggle “Stop it, it tickles” you swat lightly at his head but he just groans into your chest.

“I like how soft you feel” he counters. Making you roll your eyes. But he just nuzzles deeper into you, unbothered as he pulls your shirt up and shoves his face in, finding his claimed pillow that is one of your breast and his fidget toy that is your other breast.

“You've got to be kidding me. How can you even breathe in there?” You complain but his response is just a half hearted whine.

“Hello? Knock. Knock.” You Knock at his head “anyone home?” You barely stifle your giggle as he comes back out, hair sticking up all messed up from your shirt as he glares at you.

“You're not funny you know. This is literally a felony”

You gasp in mock horror “Felony?” before placing a hand at your heart feigning sincerity “How shall I ever repay you for my transgressions, my lord?”

“I will show you how” he smirks before he dives down, tackling you against the pillows as his fingers dig into your sides. You laugh breathlessly and he continues to tickle.

At some point one of your feet has found its way into his hands and he's mercilessly attacking it with his fingers, tickling you until you're gasping for air mid laughter.

It is only when you beg for truce does he stop. But not before he shows you his real colours “Tell me who's the best boyfriend in the whole entire world”

You scoff “I don't know” elongating the last word and he just sighs.

“Fine then” and before you can stop him his fingers are under your shirt again, tickling your belly, immovable even as you try your hardest to shove his hands away.

“Okay. Okay. I accept. Its you. You're the best boyfriend in the whole world” you gasp out between the laughs, breathing heavy even as he looks down as you, smirking in satisfaction.

“I am, ain't I?” he says crawling over you until your lips brush his.

And you know he isn't playing a fair game because how can you tease him if he's this close “Yes, you are” you confess and dive in.

His lips are familiar in the way people know their favourite song just from a few seconds of its opening credits. You're well acquinted to the feel of his soft pillowy lips on yours like someone navigating their childhood home blindfolded.

This is your favourite part. Even though you know he's doing it so you can't back off from your words that he's the best boyfriend but…well, he is. He definitely is.

He tries so hard. Even after spending everything he has—time, energy, money, his own body and senses—in protecting people he doesn't even know, he still comes home to you.

And when he does, he isn't the friendly neighbourhood spiderman. He's just Peter parker. Your Peter parker. A little injured, utterly exhausted, a literal genius, but at the end of the day, none of that matters.

The only thing that matters to him is you, and to you him. The only thing that matters is that he chooses this—chooses to come home to you—every single day, whether it be a good day or a rough one.

But its always you that's his pole star, leading him home. Telling him that no matter how much part of himself he gives out in helping strangers, being your boyfriend is the part that's the most important, the one that will always be safe in your hands.

And its one thing he'll never take for granted.

You pull him back from your lips by tugging at his auburn curls. There's an offended expression at his face at your action “Baby—”

“Shhh” you cut him off with a finger to his lips “You're injured, webhead, so no funny business tonight. You need to get your eight hours before the city wakes up and steals my sweet boyfriend from me”

“Ughhh” he flops down onto the mattress beside you with a loud groan of disapproval. But you only laugh making him peek one eye out from under the pillow to glare at you “How cruel can you be, woman?”

“Oh you have no idea, parker” your smirk is conniving.

He shakes his head at that. Then makes a face that almost resembles a pout “Can you at least cuddle me?”

“Of course I can.” You let yourself fall into his arms and he immediately imprisons you with his biceps, throwing a leg over yours for good measure so you can't escape. “No one would believe the saviour of new york is out here demanding cuddles right now” you joke.

“Ughh. Shut up” he whines into your neck and you giggle. The sound carrying itself farther into the night air of the new york sky.

Tomorrow will be a brand new day, and spiderman will go out to protect the city yet again, but tonight, he's just Peter parker. Your boyfriend. The love of your life. And yours in all sense of the word.

And that's all that matters.

Dividers by @diviniyae

Tag list for Peter parker : @buckybsdoll @bellatrix-lestrange5