i can fix him ™

mcu!peter parker x fem!stark!reader | boy in the bubble part two.

IN WHICH after getting attacked, you find out that your dad & peter have kept spider–man’s identity a secret.

author's note — highly recommend reading part one first!! this cured my writer's block !! part three coming soon!!! :)

WARNINGS (18+ MDNI) — hurt reader [physically/emotionally], swearing, mentions of blood, a flashback to homecoming, lots & lots & lots of angst.

read part one | part three here.

gif found here.

✨masterlist.✨

3.4k.

Never in your life did you think you’d be targeted and attacked, then be smiling by the end of the night. You couldn’t fight the small grin touching your lips, couldn’t stop the butterflies that numbed each wound still scarring your body. 

Somehow, despite it all, Peter’s words gave you something to hold onto, something to keep you going—something hopeful. It gave you something to rewrite the painful narrative that your attacker had spat at you just an hour earlier. 

“What a weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark.”

“You’ve seen the unthinkable, are still going, and you think you’re weak? Impossible.”

Once you finally got to the stairs to shower, you tried to swing your leg up, immediately met with a harsh reminder of how bad your bruises would be tomorrow. 

A wince parted your lips, sparking from the ache in your right hip and the direct strike it sent to the wound on your torso. 

Perhaps you needed Peter’s help after all. 

Taking a breath, you felt less hesitant than before to ask for help. It wasn’t like you had anything else to hide—you were tattered and torn up, topless and sticky with blood. 

Besides, you were used to walking with the weight of the wounds, at this point. You cut the distance to the kitchen in a matter of slow seconds. 

“Whoever attacked her tonight planned this.” Peter’s words made you pause just outside the entryway, hidden behind the wall just beyond. You blinked a bit, immediately feeling the weight of their conversation. “It wasn’t by chance, she was targeted–” 

“You don’t know that—” Even as he cut Peter off, your dad’s response was cut short. 

“And you don’t either!” Both of the boys in the kitchen held something urgent to their words; the same sense of urgency that laced the undertones between them all evening. 

Whatever conversation you were overhearing, you knew in your bones that they didn’t want you to hear it. 

Sucks for them. 

Peter continued: “The way she’s acting.. Something’s off about what happened.” Your blood froze to ice at the sentence. “And I think she deserves to know why I wasn’t there to defend her tonight.”

Thick silence swelled in the room, and you suddenly feared that your racing heartbeat would interrupt it. You had to remind yourself to breathe, and remind yourself to be quiet. 

As tempted as you were to step in and ask questions, you knew that whatever they were keeping from you was more likely to be discovered from where you were. 

Somehow, this was something they wanted to hide from you. The secret, whatever it was, made the air around you feel slimmer and heavy all at once. It sent your thoughts into a spiral, and an urge to question the two people closest to you. 

“Look, kid. I don’t blame you for what happened tonight.” Tony took words from you that you hadn’t even known how to phrase to Peter yet. It sent a twinge to your heart, draped your panic in sympathy for him. 

“I know.” You could tell Peter needed to hear the words, even if he didn’t know how to admit it. 

“As much as I agree with your conspiracy theories on Y/N’s attacker, I don’t know if coming clean about everything will solve this.” 

Something sunk in you, deflated your spirits. It hurt that they’d hid this from you—whatever it was—and had been lying for God knows how long. 

You could hear the jab in Peter’s own optimism when he spoke up again. “Then when do you plan to tell her?” At least, he was trying to come clean. 

“I don’t know..” Your dad was honest, and sullen about it. It only added to your confusion. 

Perhaps, they weren’t going to tell you ever. Maybe if you just revealed yourself and asked your own questions, you’d actually get somewhere. 

Peeling yourself off the wall and taking a few steps into frame, both Peter and your dad were completely oblivious to you. 

Despite how you stepped into view, they remained focused on the conversation, and your dad continued. “I’ll tell you what: you tell me how you’d suggest telling Y/N you’re Spider–Man, and I’ll consider it–”

The whole world stopped moving. 

“Peter’s what?”

You could’ve thrown up at the realization, at how cold and hollow the room suddenly became. The secret was out, and the quick and wide eyes that fell to you told you just how vital this secret was. 

Peter was Spider–Man. 

Even as you stared at him, eyes as wide as his, you couldn’t shake it. Your best friend was Spider–Man, working alongside your father and found family. 

The two of you held eye contact, trying to read the other. You could read the remorse and apology and panic swelling in his wide–eyed stare, but you hoped that some of the anger building in your own was silently translated regardless. 

Your dad tried to clear his throat, tried to slice through the rousing tension between the two of you, but you didn’t break from it in the slightest. 

“Dinner’s ready.” Tony tried to make a joke. To joke at a time like this, as if he wasn’t an accomplice. As if he wasn’t keeping this from you, arguably more than Peter had been. 

It was the last straw you’d been offering, swiped from your hands and dissipating with your patience. 

You scoffed, tears finally finding your eyes. The heat of them was boiled by rage, and you didn’t have the decency to hide it. “Fuck off.” 

The room was too hard to stand in. You walked away, reminded of why you were even standing in the kitchen in the first place. 

Pain itched its way up your priority list, but you didn’t care; finding a way up the stairs was the least of your worries. You were more concerned with how quickly you could get away. 

Especially as you could hear Peter calling after you, following the path you were carving between you. 

“Y/N!” He spoke your name like a plea, like it would somehow apologize for all the dirt you’d uncovered. The sound of his voice, however, only seemed to drive you further from him. 

It split your heart into more pieces than you knew how to count. 

You already battled the insecurity of being weak. A weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark. With all the time you spent in the compound, with your friends and family, you were one of the only powerless people among them. This whole time, you thought Peter understood. 

You thought the insecurity was shared, reciprocated. 

Clearly, you were wrong and an idiot. You were the only one powerless among them. 

It made you feel so stupid; to see all the inside jokes tossed over your head, to see every stupid excuse he made thrown back in your face, and he had the audacity to be sorry?

Damn right, he should be. 

Peter’s touch felt like sandpaper to your skin as he reached for your hand. You yanked it out, not bothering to turn around. 

You tried to be strong and suck up the pain, wanted more than anything to run up the stairs and lock yourself in your room—two quick steps up the stairwell and the adrenaline wore off. You slowed your pace, fighting off the wincing, and wanting anything but to ask for help from Spider–Man. 

“Y/N, please.” His voice broke, and you felt sinister to think him deserving of it. “Please, I– I wanted to tell you, I promise–“

He must’ve been surprised when you turned around, at the speed you pivoted, at how intense your expression came across, because he startled. 

Your eyes held no response to the hot tears flooding from them, only holding space for the anger and hurt you didn’t have the energy to hide from him. 

“Promise?” The word came out whispered, threatening to break just as his words did. “You promise, just like how we promised to tell each other everything?” You saw each stab of each word and exactly where it hit on him, especially as your voice grew in volume. “Just like how you promised I wasn’t weak, when clearly, you know damn well how ironic that is!”

Twin tears slid down the length of his face, and you caught the subtle tremble in his bottom lip that he tried so hard to hide. “Please..” Now he was the one whispering, and you wish it sounded as satisfying as you wanted it to. 

“Don’t fucking sit there and act like you’re the hero here, Peter..” You couldn’t help the growl, couldn’t help the distaste inking down your body. Sure, you’d been hit with a knife just an hour prior in the evening, but you didn’t feel stabbed in the gut until now. “Don’t act like you understand shit about how I’m feeling right now!”

From just beyond, Tony started walking over, stepping quickly. “Hang on, Kid.” He cut in, stopping just a few paces behind Peter. “Don’t blame Peter for this.” His words practically turned up the heat on your burning rage. It was an effort to keep from boiling over. “I was the one who told him to keep quiet.”

The shakiest breath you’d taken all night forced its way down your throat. You finally pulled your eyes from Peter, watching your own father flinch at just how hurt you were. “No, you were the one who decided to be selfish!”

The room had never been so quiet, even the walls and the city beyond hushed to listen. 

“I don’t care who you thought you were saving here, but it wasn’t me.” Perhaps rage wasn’t the word you should use to describe the venom dripping off your words. You were seething, a mixture of betrayal and downright distraught. 

“I am not useless.” You felt the need to emphasize; to you, or the two faulty in front of you, no one could tell. “I may be the only powerless person in the fuck ass Avengers, but at least I’m fucking honest.”

When you met Peter’s eyes again, you almost couldn’t keep your composure. Maybe he was breaking apart just as quickly as you were, but you didn’t put in effort to hold room for an apology for him. You didn’t see the need to give one at all. 

“I’m sorry..” He couldn’t bring his voice above a whisper, above the tremble shaking each breath he took. And watching the way your father’s posture craned in sympathy to it finally gave you a cue to leave. You couldn’t take it anymore. 

You glanced between both of them, still ignoring the consistent stream of tears dripping off your nose and chin. “You both fucking should be.”

Holding your head high, you made your way up the stairs, pausing three steps up your trek when you heard a singular step in your direction. 

“Don’t fucking follow me.”

And you didn’t look back. 

The second you shut and locked your bedroom door, unshakable sobs spilled from your throat and choked you dry. You had never felt so isolated, so alone, and so pained. 

Truly, you did not know how it would get better from here, and all you wanted was to be held. 

You didn’t even know who you'd talk to about this. This betrayal stretched across every person you trusted, further than your eyesight. 

It was stupid, and you blamed yourself, but all you wanted to do was talk to Peter. 

Maybe not about it or to confront it right then, but you suddenly missed him and his support. You felt like that had been stripped away from you. 

You weren't sure how to trust him anymore, let alone anyone else who hid this from you.

It didn’t help that you replayed countless upon countless interactions—with your father, with Ned, and with Peter Parker Spider–Man himself. 

It reminded you of the last time you were mad at Peter, three years prior. 

At the Washington Monument. 

You remember him flaking on the academic decathlon, and flaking the night before. You were upset because he was obviously hiding something and he wouldn’t tell you what. 

“You promised we’d hang out tonight.” You remember calling after him, walking half the length of the hotel hallway after him, too. “I feel like I haven’t seen you all week!”

Peter was a pro at walking backwards, then and now, and as you always knew him to be. Even as you knew him as a klutz, even as it led him to keep walking away from you. “I’ll be back soon. I promise!”

It felt unfair to him to get frustrated with him, but you were. You were upset. “What? So your promises mean nothing?” 

That got him to stop. 

“What? No!” Defense, immediately. His eyes displayed more apology than his lips did, taking steps towards you. “I just.. I have to go, and I can explain it later–”

Your head shook at him. Whatever sparked you to feel upset had been growing for a while. It had been growing since he started ditching you a few months prior. “That’s what you said last time.” There was hurt in your voice, and you know he heard it. 

“But I–”

“We promised to tell each other everything.” You recalled your childhood together, your friendship before you started growing up. The two of you had known each other since elementary school, so changes like this was inevitable. It wasn't fair to hold him to the same standards you used to. “But if you want to go, don’t expect me to be buddy-buddy when you get back.”

You remember how it felt to walk away, but you remembered how it felt to hear him leave even more. That was harmful. 

He was entitled to grow up, just as you were, but the shifty way he started growing distant from you got you overthinking. 

It got you nervous that maybe he was seeing someone, and that hurt more than anything else. Especially that he was hiding it from you. 

What sucked the most was that Peter wasn’t back soon, or even that night. 

In fact, he wasn’t even at the academic decathlon. 

Part of you was relieved to get space from him, seeing how difficult all these feelings were to process; another part worried about him, but every time your anxiety would fester, something would serve a reminder of why you were upset in the first place. 

You won the decathlon without him. As you should.

After that, your team went to the Washington Monument, and Ned swore that Peter would meet you all there. 

“Look!” Ned tried to convince you, tried to break your unamused expression. “His location says he’s almost here.” And the phone screen he flashed at you proved honesty. Peter was minutes away. 

Before you could muster a response, Ned’s screen changed, and Peter was calling him. 

There was an awkward exchange of glances between the two of you before Ned answered the call and you walked through the metal detectors. 

“Peter, are you okay?” You couldn’t help but eavesdrop. You missed a phrase or two while security patted down your blazer. All you caught was Ned muttering a subtle “I covered for you,” and then Liz Allen taking the phone from his hands. 

Something hollow carved into your stomach at the sight, and you began to speculate whether Liz was the girl he was sneaking off with or not. 

You didn’t wait to find out. You walked right into the elevator, joining the rest of your decathlon group. 

You didn’t remember much about the trip up the elevator, all you remember was light emitting out of Ned’s backpack and something radioactive blasting right into the roof of the cart. 

Suddenly, with trembling limbs and a newfound panic, your squabble with Peter Parker seemed more than minuscule. Regret was quick to fill that hollowing pit in your gut. 

You’d blacked out a lot of those scarce moments in the elevator. But you remembered when it was safe enough to move, the security guard began to open the hatch at the top of the elevator cart, and one by one help your classmates out. 

It wasn’t until there were four of you left in the elevator that it finally fell down the shaft towards your demise. There, in that Monument, you would die with Ned, Liz, and your teacher, Mister Harrington, you were sure of it. 

You’d never forget the relief you’d felt at the sight of red and blue rushing toward you, plummeting quicker than you were, and webbing your way to safety. 

It felt odd to look back on, knowing now that it was Peter who pulled that elevator up to your safety. How you were only concerned then with apologizing to Peter Parker, who glanced at you there from beneath that mask, completely unbeknownst to you. 

Once he’d gotten you up to the top of the Monument, Ned was the first to leap out to safety, then Mister Harrington. The two of them helped Liz get out, and to your luck, just as you took a step forward, the webs above you snapped. 

You and Spider–Man fell with a blood curdling scream breaking through you. 

“NO!!” He called after you, and quickly shot a web up to the roof again. His other arm reached out toward you, webbing your wrist rather quickly, keeping you from falling any further. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay– I got you. You're okay..” He told you, his tone as gentle and soft as you knew it to be; yet, not a single thought crossed your mind that it was Peter Parker. 

You shakily dangled beneath him as he tugged you up from that web. You fought to look up at him, to keep yourself from looking down; you fought to keep the tears at bay as the shock flooded from your system. 

The second your hands touched, he pulled you up and into him. You wasted no time before wrapping your arms around him, hugging him for dear life. And it made sense, now, why he felt so familiar—why his warmth was so comforting, and why his arm around your waist felt like it belonged there. 

He held you securely, lulling those reassurances to you, pulling the two of you up to safety at the top of that Monument. 

Just before he set you down, you held him tighter. “Pe–Peter!” You gasped, and felt every muscle beneath your hold tense. 

Now, you knew why. 

You pulled back from his arms, “Peter Parker, my– my best friend! He was on his way over here.” Your voice shook as you explained, but watching him carefully set you on the ground helped to steady yourself a little. “Can you make sure– Could you make sure that he’s okay?”

Looking back, the reason why Spider–Man gaped at you so long must’ve been Peter contemplating whether or not to tell you who he was right then and there. He stared at you, beneath that mask, for what felt like minutes. 

He gave a singular, upside down, nod. “I can do that, ma’am.” And his thick, Bronx, accent threw you off more than you wanted to admit. 

Then he fell down the empty shaft of the elevator. 

You’d never forget the moment he found you after that. 

You had just gotten out of the Monument. With a shaky hand, you went through your phone to track Peter’s location. It said he was a matter of meters from you, but you couldn’t spot him in the crowd. 

Just as you went to ask Ned, Peter’s voice hollered out, calling your name. 

Both of you turned in his direction, the crowd of people parting for him as he ran over to you, catching you in a bone–crushing hug. One of his hands cradled your head into his chest, and the other kept itself snug around your waist, just like Spider–Man had earlier. "I'm so glad you're okay.." He whispered it into your hairline, just for you to keep.

The world washed away in the arms of Peter Parker. You couldn’t help but wrap your arms around him, too, hugging him effortlessly closer. Apologies from your argument the night before fell from your lips, and he also followed suit. 

You recalled that memory as something that defined how you and Peter operated—no matter what, you couldn’t stay mad at him. 

You would always find a way to forgive him. 

Now, remembering the incident was a bit more haunting. There was no telling how you and Peter would come back from this, nor just how long you’d go without each other.

And you didn't think Spider–Man would get you out of it, this time.

tag–list: @yourfavoritefangirl @inkedeye2345 @wxnterwidow333 @generalmoonpolice @elianamarie-blog

comment for the part three tag list;)

mcu!peter parker x fem!stark!reader | boy in the bubble part three.

IN WHICH a few days have passed since the attack & finding out peter's super secret, but will peter find a way to earn your forgiveness?

author's note — highly recommend reading the first two parts! i love writing song prompts, they are too yummy !!!!!

WARNINGS (18+ MDNI) — reader gets hurt, reader has lowkey PTSD, mentions of knife, angst to fluff<3

read part one | part two here.

gif found here.

✨masterlist.✨

3.4k.

Walking through the bustling city of New York never ceased to amaze you, especially at sunset. The pink tickling between buildings, the rush of people flooding the sidewalks, and the steps you and Peter took in time back to your apartment. 

It was just barely past six on that Friday evening, and you could feel the gentle rumble of your stomach at the thought of being welcomed by your Father’s cooking. 

A smile touched your lips as Peter echoed your unspoken words. 

“I wonder what he’s making tonight.” He voiced, glancing your way as you walked together. “I’m hungry just thinking about it.”

You couldn’t help but nod in agreement, hands placed over your stomach at the thought. “Stop, I’m too excited.” Tony was an excellent cook, and exceptional at surprises. You knew whatever he had in store tonight would be divine. “I saw salmon in the fridge so I wonder if—”

Peter stopping dead in his tracks startled you. He practically froze, like he was witnessing something of insanity in front of him. Glancing at where his eyes were focused, you found nothing of the sort. 

“Peter?” Concern bled from your voice. You couldn’t help it. He looked like he could feel every hair on his body stand upright. It was unsettling. 

Meeting your eyes, his brows knit together to create a look of sympathy. Apology. “I–uh, I forgot something at the school!” The words were practically blurted. 

Your own brows knit together, not in remorse, but in confusion. “Can’t you just get it on Monday?”

He shook his head. “I can’t–” The dread in his voice—the sudden breathless panic lacing each syllable he spoke—confused you, more than you knew how to say. “It’s important. I–I have to go.”

“You’re leaving?” It wasn’t an accusation more than a statement, but he could hear the undertones of what you implied. 

The look on your face read that the two of you had been here too many times before. 

He took paces towards you. “I’ll meet you there. I’ll be there for dinner.” And Peter gave you a hug. The grip to his embrace was puzzling. He didn’t seem to want to let you go. 

“You promise?”

Peter pulled back to meet your eyes, and every unspoken word shared between the shared glances told you that he meant every ounce of endearment to his reply: “I promise.”

And with that, he slipped away from you and back the way you’d walked from. 

As you kept walking to your apartment, part of you realized how difficult it was to believe him. He always ran off with some crazy excuse, and it never felt honest. Another part of you realized that you should probably ask him about it before you worried yourself sick. 

A bystander approaching you caught you off balance. 

“Y/N Stark?” They asked, something like excitement caught their tongue. “I’m a big fan of your father’s work. Would it be alright to get your autograph?”

A bizarre ask, but it wasn’t the first time. You smiled politely, nodding your head as you grabbed the pen they’d offered. “Sure! I appreciate it.”

Your hand flew elegantly across the photo of you and your father held towards you, signing your name on the bottom right corner. 

When you went to hand the pen back, they grabbed your wrist with a force that told you how stupid you’d been. 

“Don’t struggle or I’ll make this hell for you.” A threat, and it seemed nothing empty. As they forced you down the sidewalk beside them, you tried to assess what they were wearing; what was on their person and what kind of threat they’d be. 

A matted handle of a knife beside their pocket made your blood race a little faster. 

They tugged you into an alley off the sidewalk, secluded from sight, and threw you into the brick wall to the left of it. The texture scraped down your body as you tried to catch your balance, but you fell onto your back and into the pavement as the man laughed. 

“What a weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark.”

It was tantalizing, and surely something that would haunt you, but you couldn’t help but fight. You glared up at the man, hoping the look in your eye held something sharper than the blade he drew from his pocket. 

As he paced closer, you were suddenly grateful for all the close quarter combat that Sam and Natasha had taught you. 

Once he was close enough, just as he went to slash his weapon at you, you kicked between his legs with as much force as you had before locking your foot behind his right knee and pulling it towards you. He fell to the ground with a groan, swinging his knife aimlessly in your direction. You couldn’t tell if he’d missed or not—adrenaline wouldn’t let you feel it just yet. 

Your knee met his jaw before you rolled away from him. You attempted to run from the alley, but his slime grip caught your ankle and yanked you back towards him. It was a pathetic yelp that left your lips, but you couldn’t help it. 

Everything in you tried not to believe the words he’d spat at you. You couldn’t give up, you couldn’t end like this. 

Your feet kicked at him, even though you couldn’t see. You tried to flip over, catching the direct moment that your left foot met his face and challenged him back. 

You managed to stand and run before you could look back, but you couldn’t get far. Somehow, you realized the alleyway was longer than you’d remember. Suddenly, his hands were over your mouth and muffling screams; his knife was at your stomach, and all he said was the same phrase. 

“What a weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark—”

You’d never felt the stronger need for oxygen than what ripped you from slumber. 

Heave after heave, you had to remind yourself that you weren’t dreaming anymore. The nightmare was over. You made it out. You were safe. 

You were only left splintered with the feeling. Paranoia. 

Ever since the attack, and finding out that Peter Parker was Spider–Man, you’d been getting frequent nightmares. Whether the wicked dreams were flashbacks to getting jumped, or some memory with Peter that haunted your sleep, they varied each time your eyes shut. 

Immediately, you sat up, turned your bedside lamp on, grabbed your cell phone, and dialed the first number you could think of. You left no room for panic. 

It didn’t even take five seconds before he answered. 

“Hello?” 

“I had another one.” The first four words you could mutter, the only information you’d spare. It was just another nightmare, another reason to call him. It was not forgiveness. 

Not yet, at least. 

You brought your knees to your chest beneath your blankets, running your fingers across your cloth–covered calves. It grounded you from lingering scarcities, and kept you from oversharing. 

You were still upset with him and your father for what happened four days ago. Not even a nightmare would shake the betrayal from your bones. 

The sound of Peter Parker’s empathy was unspoken across the call, yet pretty loud as the silence settled between the two of you. 

He thought carefully through his next words, knowing damn well how thin the ice he stood on already was. 

“Do you want me to come over–?”

“No.” Your response was sharp, quick, locked, and loaded. 

“Is there anything I can—“

“No.” Another double edged, double lettered response. 

Peter blew a subtle breath out from what you assumed were puffed cheeks. He knew better than to say too much, than to break your trust even further. 

As silence nestled into the space between you, whatever paranoia had been shaking your system seemed to wither a little. 

Even just the muffled sound of his breath and hesitation across the call brought you more comfort than you knew how to ask for. 

You didn’t plan to cave and tell him that you missed him, though. He didn’t deserve that. 

“Does this mean you’re talking to me again?” 

Somehow, Peter’s voice hummed like the perfect mix of backstabbed and security. It made everything feel so complicated. 

You had to think about it, how to answer him.  

Still, your reply remained the same. 

“No.” It wasn’t as harsh as the variant prior. 

You heard Peter turn his own bedside lamp on, and the short sigh he let out in response to you. 

“Are you only allowing yourself to say ‘no’ to me, then?”

It was a challenge to stay mad at him, especially considering how long you’d known him for and how well he knew you. Betrayed or not, you knew deep down that you didn’t plan to stay upset with him forever. 

As much as you tried to hide it, the word came out more gently than intended. “Yes.” The humorous opportunity was difficult to resist.

You could hear the small smile Peter acquired on the other end of the line. “So she speaks.”

“No, she doesn’t.” You quipped back, though the ice you’d initiated the call with began to thaw bit by bit. 

“Would she..? If I apologized again?” The question was scarce, but you couldn’t say you hadn’t been expecting it. 

This was a dance you and Peter had been tip–toeing for the past three nights. You didn’t dare break the silence that first night, nor did you sleep, but you couldn’t help it the second night. And yesterday night, too. He had apologized both. 

He’d left an apology note in your locker earlier that day, too. 

Your dad hadn’t said anything remotely related to an apology, even though he tried other ways to bridge the growing gap between you. You couldn’t tell if it was his stubborn spirits or fear of vulnerability, but Tony Stark didn’t seem to know where to start. 

And you weren’t going to make it your job to show him. 

At least Peter was trying.

You shook your head, despite the fact that he couldn’t see it. “You can’t ask me that so late.” At this point, you couldn’t stop the playful tone of your voice. “I won’t sound convincing, and you haven’t earned forgiveness yet.”

Peter took a second, whether to take in a moment where you weren’t seething at him, or to think through a response that wouldn’t scare you off, he’d never admit. Part of you appreciated him for that, appreciated him for allowing you to have more time in his company when you weren’t so begrudging. 

Part of you forgot that he was your best friend, in the midst of how clouded you’d been with despair. 

“Tell me, then.” His voice was barely above a whisper, gentle enough to lay his weapons down. “How can I earn your forgiveness?”

Somehow, the question made your heart race. It made your skin heat and your head spin. You hadn’t thought this far into it, or given it this much reflection. 

Just how could he earn your forgiveness? How could Peter Parker win your trust back?

You gave it a second, catching a bit of your breath that had gotten away. “Maybe you can–”

The sudden sound of thudding from downstairs came out of nowhere. Your head immediately snapped towards the door, that breath instantly catching back in your throat. 

“Y/N?” 

Breathe. You had to remember to breathe. You were just jumpy after the attack. Right. Yes, clearly you were just easily startled after Friday night. This had to have been your father being clumsy. 

Pulling your phone from your ear, you put Peter on speaker while you went to text your father. If you just asked him if he was alright, that wouldn’t be caving into forgiving him. It was just two in the morning and you were a worried daughter. 

However, the screen you were met with sent your heart straight to the floor. 

Peter repeated himself, “Y/N?” There was an edge to his voice this time, skeptical of your silence. “Are you okay?”

Tony had texted you two hours prior that he left the apartment. He was upstate at the compound, needing to assist Bruce with a technology repair. 

Which only meant—

Taking Peter off speakerphone, you pressed the device back to your ear. “Peter–” You could only force out whispers, fingers suddenly trembling as they went to tug your covers off. “Peter, someone’s here!” Panic bled through as your blood washed white. 

You didn’t waste a second to scurry across the room and lock the door, didn’t wait for Peter to respond before you grabbed a baseball bat you kept in the corner to defend yourself. 

His end of the call was quieter than you wanted it to be, for much longer than you knew how to deal with. 

It was quiet enough to hear two more thuds, getting a bit closer. 

Fear kept you in such a chokehold, you had to fight to mutter his name again—to whisper his name just to make sure he hadn’t left you. 

“I’m on my way.” His voice held something grave, determined; you made out the breeze whispering behind his response through the phone call. “Don’t leave your room.” The instructions were stern, protective. 

Your grip was firm and strong against the bat, pointing it at your door like some sort of sword. The length of your arm trembled, but you tried to remain calm, especially as the thudding repeated twice more, closer even. 

Every ounce of air in your lungs froze. “Hurry, Peter..” You whispered. Immediately, you heard another thud, louder than the others. You could barely discern it over the blaring noise of your heart pounding beneath your chest. 

Each hair on your body rose at the sound of footsteps taking the stairs. 

“Peter!” Calling your voice a whisper would’ve been false; you wheezed his name out. “Peter, he’s back! He’s here!” And even though your voice was quiet, you had to force it out. You couldn’t function with the rate your body shook at. 

You couldn’t breathe anymore once the shadows of feet reached your door. 

You barely had the air to gasp at the sight, to fumble for the baseball bat you tried to grip between your fingers. 

Peter finally spoke up, “Hey, breathe.” And you felt a wave of relief when his voice was heard beyond your door as well. “It’s just me.. You’re okay.” And he went to unlock the door. 

He was the only one who knew where you hid the spare key. 

When the door opened, and Peter stood behind it, you couldn’t find the words or place the thoughts you had at the sight of him. 

He hung the phone up, waiting in the doorframe to keep from intruding. “There was a pigeon loose in your living room.” He spoke it gently, “Someone left the terrace door open.”

It took his words then to recall that you’d left that door open. No one had broken in. You were going to be okay. 

The bat fell from your hands and rattled to the floor as you released it, your phone followed suit on your bed as your hands covered your face. You couldn’t keep your composure over the panic, over each sleep deprived night and every aching bruise still painting your body. 

Hidden behind your hands, you began to sob. 

Peter didn’t hesitate to pace the distance between you. He sat beside you on your bed and pulled you into his arms. You couldn’t find the words to thank him or the strength to move for a moment, but once you did, you wrapped your arms tightly around him, and he pulled you as close as he could. 

“I’m so sorry..” He whispered into your hairline, a few of his tears catching with his words. His hand held the base of your head, thumb combing through the hair of yours that it could as he held you. 

You were still catching your bearings. Still gripping white knuckles on his band tee and shaking in his arms. “I– I didn’t think I would—” You were gasping the words between sobs. “I thought I was going to—” You couldn’t finish the sentence. 

Both of his hands found your jaw, pulling you back so he could see you. He wouldn’t let you finish that sentence, nor would he ever let it come true. “Y/N, I would never let that happen..” He spoke so earnestly. “You’re safe. I promise.”

He saw how the word promise seemed to affect you. He realized then that if he had any shot of earning your forgiveness, it was now. 

“We promised to tell each other everything.” He started, and you soaked in every word. You soaked in everything about him, allowing yourself to release your anger for a moment. “I also promised your dad that I’d do everything I could to protect you.. I intend to keep both.”

Your sobs had settled, and he’d begun to use his thumbs to wipe the tears still streaking your face. 

“I didn’t keep my promise to you too well.” He sounded so disappointed with himself. “Tony thought it would be better to keep all of this from you, but I just…” He lost the words, wincing at his realization of how awful he’d been. 

His forehead fell against yours in defeat, despairingly. “There were dozens of times I wanted to tell you. Every time I didn’t, I broke our promise, and I’m so sorry.. You deserved better than that.”

As you looked up to meet his eyes, you could see tears glistening in his own. 

“I forgive you.” It felt rewarding to say, especially as hope returned to Peter’s expression right where it belonged. You couldn’t help but laugh a little at how excited he seemed. “Fuck, and this whole time, I thought you were hiding a secret girlfriend or something.”

The laugh that spilled from his lips was much more timid than you would’ve expected, and felt incredibly intimate at the close proximity you shared. “No. There’s only one girl I’ve got my eyes set on.” And he didn’t break his stare from you. 

You couldn’t help but giggle, shoving him playfully. “That was the corniest thing I have ever heard you say.”

He laughed with you, wiping his remaining tears. “Shut up!”

The two of you fell into something so familiar, a small fit of laughter and stares of admiration. Oh, how badly you’d missed him. 

You took in the sight of him beside you, him in a natural state. His cheeks were still flushed from the brisk wind of his journey over, his curls stuck out like coils of fire atop his head. He was in pajamas, a white band tee, blue boxers, and white Nike socks. 

He looked like your best friend, and it took you til that moment to realize just how safe you felt with him—the safest you’d felt all week. 

A timid smile curved along your lips. “Would you be okay staying with me tonight?” You scanned his face for his reaction. “Tony’s out for the night and I don’t want to be alone.”

His expression matched yours, eyes pooling with a bit more sympathy, and something that looked like he’d been hoping you would ask. “You don’t have to be. I’ll stay with you.” And that was all he took before he lifted your covers for you to cozy back inside. 

Peter waited for you to give more invitation of whether or not he could get close to you. He did not want to overstep, especially after you’d just made up. When you pulled back your covers for him, he slid in beside you; once you’d pulled his arm over your waist, he didn’t hesitate before spooning you snug in his arms. 

As you fell asleep, majority of your resentment for the situation seemed to wither away. You knew you’d have a talk with your father, but seeing as you woke up to a text from him with an actual apology and the news that they’d found your attacker, you knew the conversation wouldn’t be so bad. 

Walking up in Peter’s arms was more than you could’ve ever asked for. You hoped that you’d be able to get used to it. 

You knew as long as you had each other, Peter would never let any harm happen to you. 

And maybe that meant you weren’t powerless after all. 

tag–list: @yourfavoritefangirl @inkedeye2345 @wxnterwidow333 @generalmoonpolice @elianamarie-blog @cantbecreative @justpeachyparker @spideryenby @notsolong-pause @wellshit6 @mwahreads @lovelyidyllic @mimisamisasa @love-hs28

IN WHICH stark!reader witnesses her father’s final breath after he saves the world.

writing this specifically for @inkedeye2345 because tbh it takes a comment to realize people actually want to see second parts to the posts i make :,)

i forget that people actually enjoy my writing and i’m not making it up—

read part one here if you want!

disclaimer: heavy angst, this is the saddest thing i have written to date.

you cannot charge me for your therapy bills.

i love yall 3000 🫶🫶

thank you for supporting me :,)

✨masterlist✨.

1.1k.

The battlefield was soaked with soot and blood, overlapping and mixing with each other. Mixing between your foes and your teammates. It was an overwhelming sight to see, an overwhelming scene to be a part of. Nothing you ever anticipated witnessing, and nothing you ever wanted to witness again. 

Rages and cries and striking weaponry sang symphonies as they clashed with one another. Blistered feet and Chuck Taylor’s carried you across the rubble of the compound as fast as they could, your hammering heart drowning out the sound of the war around you as you ran for your life. Ran towards your father. 

From where you were, even as the distance shortened, it was hard to tell what was happening. Six different colors shimmered their way up Tony’s right arm, resting on each knuckle with a shine that stars themselves envied. You shielded yourself from the blinding light, only for a second. That second was long enough to know that whatever your dad was doing, it weakened him. You wanted to stop it. 

You needed to stop it. 

Perhaps forty or so feet remained between you and your dad before he snapped his fingers, and you froze. Against your will, you froze. Deep down, in the stillness of the air, in the bright light emitting from his right hand of color, you knew what was happening. You knew what he was doing. 

“Dad..” It slipped from your lips before you could stop it, before the tears could sting your eyes. You stepped, paced, walked, jogged– ran. Your feet could not carry you quick enough, far enough, soon enough. Heart plummeting, breath shallowing, you didn’t pay enough attention to hear the dying war cries, the dying battle. Your eyes remained on your father. 

He slumped where he was, half of his body, his face, turning to something resembling the soot beneath you. And still, pushing past the pain of sacrifice, the pain of the losses he didn’t have the time to count, he met your eyes. Some pained, relieved, fatherly smile spread across his face. You both shed tears at the notion. 

You both knew it would be the last grin he had in him. 

You fell to your knees to meet him, tripping on a rock and still catching your tumble with grace. Sliding straight for him, all you could manage was to outstretch your arms and wrap them around him. A sob crawled out from you, at the fact that this would be your last hug or the fact that Tony did not even have the strength to return it, you couldn’t tell. 

Violent cries shook your entire body as you held him, but you needed to force yourself out of the anguished state. Tony saved the world from sorrow bigger than your comprehension, and you couldn’t let his last few moments be filled with sadness. You couldn’t let his dying breath be used to comfort your grief. 

One deep breath was all you needed to compose yourself. You swallowed the sobs as they came up, pulling back from the hug and leaning your dad back on a rock. You felt the eyes of each of your teammates slowly find some way to the two of you, but you knew that making eye contact with any of them would break your composure. 

You needed to be strong right now. 

A sniffle, and you forced a grin to mirror his, tears slipping through the seems of the dam you failed to build. “You did it, Dad.” Another sniffle, a squeeze of his shoulder, a solid hold on his hand. His hand that was too weak to tremble, a hand that felt cold as ice in your grasp. You mustered a breath, playing off a sob like a choke of air. A cough, perhaps. “I’m so proud of you.” The words left your lips with a tremor, a break in the cracks. You weren’t going to last. And neither would he.

Your father taught you well to hide your vulnerability, to mask your struggle. “Though I wish you’d let me beat you to it.” Something sad of a laugh broke through, tripping on the hollowing coating your mouth and the lump forming in your throat. That weakened squeeze within your fingers told you that Tony was glad he had beaten you to it, beaten you to the one thing he did not want you to do. 

As much as you, too, did not want to do this, be the one to sacrifice, you would have done anything to keep him there. To keep your father alive, to keep your best friend living. Yet, you failed to do so.

Peter’s presence beside you felt like a beacon of solitude. The last space of comfort you had left. Your right temple met his left shoulder, though you did not dare tear your watering eyes from Tony’s. His slow blinks and wheezing breaths would not last more than a moment longer, and you tried to memorize the feeling of his warmth while you could. The warmth of your father. 

He grabbed Tony’s left hand, his right hand grabbing yours as tight as he could. “We won, Mister Stark.” The shaken voice Peter spoke in told you he was breaking just as much as you were at the sight of Tony so tattered. It both broke you and brought you reassurance. 

“I’ll take care of her, Tony..” Peter’s whispered words shattered every guard you bore to keep yourself composed. It tore you to pieces, and how could it not? How fucked up did you have to be to try and push away the pain of losing your father? Your shoulders shook at the weight of the despair, the unbelievable pain that could not be bandaged. “It’s okay.” You could not tell whether Peter lulled the words to you or your father, but the two words were all Tony needed to hear before he, too, tore down his guards. 

The light fled his eyes the same moment the arc reactor shut off. The moment he died.

A gasp joined the mixture of your shallow breathing, your shaken sobbing, at the weight of Tony’s hand going limp in yours. He was lifeless, dead. Gone. Your father was gone. 

You pressed a tearful kiss to his fingers one last time before laying the hand at his side, leaning forward to shut Tony’s eyes to sleep forever. The second you leaned back, Peter wrapped you in his arms, allowing you to release the feeling and trauma of enduring the scene you knew would haunt you forever. 

The cost of his life for yours was a debt you would never be able to repay. A life–for–a–life kind of payback you knew you’d always fall short of. You just hoped he was right to keep you from making the sacrifice he was destined for. 

mcu!peter parker | zombie apocalypse au. CHAPTER FIVE.

IN WHICH a run in with cannibals sets you and peter back much further than anticipated.

!! WARNING !! — there’s talk and mention of cannibalism and heavy gore themes in this chapter. discretion is critically advised.

read chapter one | two | three | four.

✨masterlist✨.

4.8k.

A groggy, unforgiving headache greeted your wake as you blinked away what felt like days of sleep. You couldn’t remember half of what happened, what day it was, where you were–but the array of knives along the walls, the sleek cleanliness of the kitchen you were in, the pile of human bones in the corner of the white room–the memories came flooding back. 

You tried to sit up, quick to realize you were bound to the kitchen island by harsh leather restraints. They were tightly bound to your waist, wrists and ankles, keeping you from thrashing too much against the white kitchen counter. Your head rolled around, taking in your surroundings. When it rolled back, your eyes caught Peter, hanging by his own set of leather restraints off the wall. 

The two of you locked eyes in an instant. 

“I’m so sorry–”

“Zip it, Peter!” You fought against the restraints. “Don’t apologize to me until we find a way out of this!” You couldn’t do much when strapped down, and you knew wasting strength by fighting against a countertop would do you no good. You huffed, “What’s your visual from over there?”

Peter took a second to switch gears from his pity party, and you watched it happen. He’d been awake much longer than you, most likely blaming himself for the situation. For how long, you couldn’t tell. You didn’t have time to. 

Just as he went to tell you his first mapped escape–route, the doors opened and shut with a loud thud. 

The same man and woman from earlier walked into the room and into your vision, stepping down the stairs and pacing towards you. The psychotic look in their eyes was so clear to you, so obvious. You felt idiotic for not noticing it in the clearing, and even more stupid to not see the hunger seeping through the midst of their staring. 

“I wonder.. Which piece of you should we harvest first?” The woman’s voice hummed in a sickly song, one that made your stomach turn. Her fingers ghosted down your leg, like she was trying to think through which pieces of you would spoil quickest. Which piece of you would taste the best. 

You let out a shudder. 

Peter tugged at his restraints. “Don’t touch her!!” He growled, shouted. He couldn’t just stand there and watch this happen. He didn’t even want to think of what would happen. 

The man pulled out a butcher’s knife and pointed it at Peter. It was the same blade that sliced your thigh before you’d blacked out, standing less than a foot away from his face “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!” It was a roar almost as intimidating as Bucky’s. Peter knew if he spoke another word, he’d not only risk his life, but put yours more at risk, too. 

The woman laughed, somehow finding humor in this. “Oh, how I do love dinner and a show.” She never took her eyes off you, off your thickly cladded body. How you were still dressed was a blessing and a surprise. You were not complaining. 

You were not remembering to breathe, either. 

“Darling?” The woman continued, glancing briefly at her husband, “What’re you craving tonight?” The cruel, sickening smirk growing on her lips was enough to make you whimper. Your arms tugged against the restraints. 

The man caught your right arm roughly, causing you to flinch, stiffen. You stared at him with anticipation, a pleading look in your eyes. You were begging him to stop, to spare you, but no words left your lips. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, and you froze at the way he mirrored the woman’s twisted smirking expression. 

“I could really go for some charred bicep.” The words dripped from his tongue like venom, acid and magma that would have burned your flesh off. And perhaps, that might’ve been better. 

Better than seeing the way he raised that blade so high above his head. Better than hearing Peter’s final beseech to stop, his cry out for you. It would’ve been better than watching the blade chop full speed for your right arm. 

And it felt like the blade went clean through–It had to. It was hot and cold and heat and frost and fire and ice. Hot and cold and cold and hot and aches and burns and you couldn’t stop screaming. The pain was unbearable, stinging and cooling all at once, to the point where you couldn’t comprehend it; the pain overwhelmed you to a place of nonexistence. Pain to a degree of no comprehension, despite the fact that you could feel every waking second of it. You couldn’t breathe. 

Your limbs shook and stilled and flashed with chills and sweats and tears and sobs and bile and cold. You were cold, overheating, everything all at once. You were hurting, uncontrollably screaming. Each pained cry echoed through the room, ricocheting off the walls and immediately etching into Peter’s nightmares. Into yours, too. Into a place so dark in the depths of you, it would birthmark itself somewhere permanent. 

Screaming, bellowing, but were you even making a sound? Was the air around you truly as cold as it was hitting you? The room was spinning. The room was wet. It was hot and cold and burns and aches and far beyond anything you could ever describe, unlike anything you’d ever be able to comprehend. Anything you’d ever experienced, and something you never ever wanted to experience again. 

But he pulled the blade clean out, perhaps an inch above your elbow. And you gasped. You gasped like you’d drowned, like the air would taste cleaner. But it was warm hitting your throat, it was like you were drowning. There was no air in the room, it was water, thickly and warm and dissatisfying. It was death. You had to be dying. 

You didn’t have the mental strength to realize that the man was yelling about how dull the blade was; how the woman hadn’t sharpened the knife. You didn’t realize that your arm wasn’t even disconnected from your body, because to you, it felt like it was. 

The groggy, dizzy, unwakeable daze that lined the corners of the room began catching up to you, and you began to lose taste and touch of what was happening. You felt like you were being engulfed into a terrible dream, an out of body experience. And you couldn’t tell whether the world beyond your consciousness would be better than the phenomena you were experiencing right now. 

But Peter watched the whole thing happen. He watched your blood stain the blemished counters, the crimson he didn’t dare associate with you. He couldn’t even get it through his head that this was happening. Peter didn’t give himself time to gag at the sight, to process that you were about to get cooked and eaten. He was outraged that he’d been stupid enough to let this happen. 

Your cries and screams and thrashes and agony carved into Peter’s memory. He’d never forget this, it would haunt him. Forever. He’d never forgive himself for losing this badly. And the worst of it was that Peter wanted it to be over, so that he could get his turn. He wanted his punishment, to endure the same. He felt that he deserved it. 

He was trembling against the restraints, forgetting his own tears in the chaos of your pain. Peter wished he could take it; he wished more than anything, so desperately, that this was his ailment to live with. That he’d be the one with a disembodied arm. 

Peter fought back his sobs as the two kitchen–aids bickered about the knife. And just as they went back to what they were doing. Just as Peter tried to give himself more will to fight, more reason to bloody his wrists in attempt to escape, the lights flickered. The lights flickered and the two bone–heads looked at each other before the lights cut out. Blacked out, and when they came back up, they lit the grave room with hope. Hope in the form of Natasha Romanoff. 

Bloodied and bruised from what one could guess was remnants of a fight with everyone she’d faced to get here, Natasha took her two pistols and shot both of the cannibals clean through the head and painted the walls. The thuds of their bodies cued Natasha to process what the fuck was happening. Her shoulders slumped, she caught her breath, and immediately rushed to your aid. 

Your deafening cries had died down, weakening. It was scarier than when you’d nearly blasted out their eardrums. They were losing you, fast. Nastasha unbuckled the restraints around your right arm first, ripping the hem of her shirt off before wrapping it firmly around the slice on your lower bicep. The way you whimpered and flinched and your half–lidded eyes widened for a second made even Peter feel queasy, but it had to be done. 

Nastasha uttered a quiet apology as she finished freeing you, quick to take out a syringe from her pocket to push into your already–bruised collarbone. 

“What’re you doing?” Peter rasped out, hating to be skeptical of Natasha’s motives. A flash of worry that HYDRA had gotten to her, that she had worse plans for you rushed through him; the shortest glance at the tears and the panic as he watched the way she rushed over to him made him shake it off. Her fingers fumbled to undo his restraints, trembling, obviously as unnerved and terrified for you as he was. 

Natasha’s face was some form of grim, bare. Some shortcoming attempt at her usual stone–cold demeanor. She was a master at masking her emotions, but Peter could see the break in the dam she’d been holding up. “I gave her a sedative.” She freed his wrists, her voice wavering almost unnoticeably. “It’ll slow her heart rate, keep her from feeling the brunt of this.. It’ll hopefully help her chance at survival.” Peter glanced a few times between you and Natasha, swallowing the last of his tears before putting his head on straight. 

“We need to act fast.” Nastasha cut straight to the chase. “We can’t lose her.” Her words were short with urgency. Her breath was quick as they walked over to the counter, and Peter swore she had a glistening of tears brimming her eyes, but she’d never admit that. And Peter would never ask. 

He simply nodded and agreed. He was willing and ready to help however he could. And he started by picking you up off the island counter and hauling you out of the basement. 

Fresh corpses of the other cannibals Natasha had run into lined the halls, but the path was clear as she led Peter out of the fucked up vacinity. Both your backpack and Peter’s had been placed by the exit, and Nat carried both of them without question. Peter kept his grip on you firm, unshaken. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to you, or ever let you out of his sight again. 

No words were spoken between Natasha or Peter as they emerged from the building in the thick of night. She kept a white–knuckled hold on her pistols, nodding when the coast was clear for Peter and her to rush into the shadows. 

Peter knew she was headed straight for the airport. Once they were on that plane, headed for safety, they could talk about everything that had happened. Why Natasha was missing for a week. Where she was, how she found them. 

The jog to the airport was short, perhaps thirty minutes. With Peter’s heartbeat blaring above his neck, in his throat and all around, he hadn’t been keeping track of time. Whatsoever. His thoughts raced, he couldn’t keep a steady breath, but nothing would distract him from getting you to safety. 

That menacing, monstrous roar shook between the trees close by, but Peter and Natasha couldn’t look back to Bucky as you all approached the terminal. 

Both of them could feel the shaking of the ground beneath his trailing steps, feel the weight of his mutated presence as he loomed closely behind them. Peter kept running toward the airport garage, but Natasha slowed down. 

She yelled something in Russian, making Bucky stop in his tracks entirely. And despite the heartbreak in her eyes as she looked at him, the voice in her head that fought against her, Natasha kept yelling the words; Bucky Barnes’ trigger words. 

He fell to his knees at the phrases, palms pressing to his ears as he screamed and thrashed at no one in particular. The words drove him wild, and gave Nat the window she needed to throw the same shock–net Peter used just hours earlier, and shock him in place. 

Quick on her feet, Natasha sprinted across the terminal, cutting the distance between her and Peter before they both made it to the garage. 

She opened the large metal doors, catching as much breath as she could with the time before running to unlock the aircraft. 

Once the door opened, Peter ran inside, immediately looking for someplace to lay you  down. You remained unconscious in his grip, blood oozing from the fabric banded to your lower arm. It was a gnarly sight for Peter, and he had to fight his nausea for your sake. 

Nat rushed in after him, shut the door and set down the bags, locking them inside before heading to the cockpit. It didn’t take her long before the plane was on and she wheeled the vehicle out into the open. 

“Are you two secure?” Natasha kept that same urgency with her words, hypocritical as she kept her seatbelt off. She prepared the plane for take–off. 

Peter found a stretcher attached to the plane wall, safely strapping you onto it before he buckled a seatbelt of his own. “Secure enough!” He hollered back. 

And before Natasha even gave a response, the plane was out into high gear and they dashed down the runway. The jet was in the air within a matter of minutes, and if you weren’t bleeding out beside him, Peter would’ve found some sense of peace. Every ounce of him was focused on you. 

Before they knew it, the plane was smooth sailing in the sky, through the dusking horizon and a slight gust of overcast. 

Natasha called Peter to the cockpit soon after, nothing wavering from the sense of importance and seriousness she’d been speaking in. But when Peter came to her aid, he could spot the glistening of tears painting her cheeks. 

“I need you to drive.” Nat’s voice showed no sign of crying, nor vulnerability. “Just while I give her stitches.”

Taking a sharp inhale, Peter tried to act like he wasn’t completely panicked by the words. Either set of them. “I, uh– I’ll do what I can.” And before Natasha could even stand up, Peter kept speaking. “How do I do that.. Exactly?”

A smile consumed Natasha’s lips before she could protest, realizing just how much she’d missed Peter. They didn’t have time to catch up yet, though. Not til you were in better stability. She took a deep breath, eying the control panel. She gave a very brief explanation and tutorial on what Peter needed to monitor while she stepped out; although, the jet was on autopilot for the most part. 

Before he knew it, Peter was alone with his thoughts. His bouncing knee, his shaky fingers on the steering unit, and his undeniable urge to turn his head back and check on you every second. He did try to look back a few times, but he was either met with a lightheaded rush of sickness or a thickened throat and tears in his eyes. 

Natasha gave him a task, and he tried to focus on that. If there was anywhere in the world where you could be nursed back to health, it would be Wakanda. So he tried to keep his thoughts set there, and what Wakanda would be like. Peter just couldn’t believe he’d led you to such an injury. 

It took thirty minutes before Peter saw the break between land and the North Atlantic. It was his second time leaving the country, his first time since Germany. Spacing out at the open ocean, the dark space surrounding the dashboard, he reminisced on the reason why he’d been in Europe: the epic fight between Cap and Tony. It led him to miss them, all of them. It only reminded him of how much they’d lost. 

Peter watched the way the skyline divided. The two sets of dark that separated stars and sea, the clouds that freckled the sky, and the waves that waded miles below them. He had to remember to breathe, because they had hours ahead of them before they’d arrive at Wakanda. At least the sight of the rippling waters reminded him of something like stillness. 

Forty minutes in the sky, and Natasha walked back into the cockpit, slumping on the seat next to Peter. Her bloodied hands cradled her head, and she took in the deepest breaths he’d ever seen her take. 

And now, in the dark, in the quiet, Peter finally took a chance to take in Natasha. She was still wearing the same clothes she’d left in a week ago, tattered and scorched, but mainly muddied; now, with a thick layer of blood splotches from this evening alone. 

For the first time in his life, Peter saw Natasha in vulnerability, in fear. It was sobering, and made him motivated to help however he could. If one of them had to be strong, Peter didn’t mind taking that responsibility for a bit. It just wasn’t a scale he thought measured when it came to Natasha Romanoff. 

Her fingers raked through her short red hair, now giving Peter a view of the sorrow in her eyes. “I should’ve never left you kids alone..”

The words filled Peter with cold, heavy, dread. “Is she dead–?”

“No!” Her eyes fell wide, panicked at the thought. “No. I just..” Natasha’s lips pressed to a thin line. “I went to look for Barnes, after I freed Y/N.” She blinked away the tears as quickly as they welled. “And had I just.. Walked her to the house, I could’ve…” Her words got lost on the way out. 

Peter didn’t wait for her to find them. “You can’t think like that.” Part of him spoke to himself as he reassured her. “It’s awful, what happened.. But we can’t blame ourselves for it.” He took a second to let his own words process. “At least, not until she blames us first.”

That got Nat to laugh at least. “I’ve missed you, kid.” The laughter was short to last, both of them catching a glance back at where you soundly resided. Silence fell heavy in the space between the two of them before she sighed, releasing some of the guilt she’d let reign over her shoulders. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

“We’re together now. Let’s focus on that.” Peter cracked a small smile, forcing some of that strength he assumed Natasha needed. “I brought that change of clothes you wanted, by the way.” He found the strength to change the subject, digging through his backpack before handing Nat the clothes she’d instructed. 

With a mix of denial and complete appreciation, Natasha took the clothes with that same small smile. She thanked him. “You really thought I’d look like shit, huh?” She mused a joke, running a ghost of a finger over the fabric of the top like it was too good to be true.  

A more sullen expression transfigured into Peter’s curled lips. “No, I just figured you’d get put through the wringer.” The sentence was slow, more agonized towards the end. But it was honest. 

And it still earned a little reassuring squeeze of the shoulder as Natasha ushered herself to the back to change. 

The next two hours became Peter and Natasha catching up, eying the console but never needing to change any settings. They took the chance to check on your vitals every so often, hydrate, and freshen up. 

It was an overwhelming amount to process. The fact that they’d gotten out of the American ruins, were on their way to the last functioning societal places left on the planet, and had the source to cure the world was a lot. And Peter still had one burning question in mind. 

“So,” He picked at the food in his opened can, spinning the metal container to fidget. “Will she really need to die for them to make the cure?”

Natasha nearly spit her food out from the laugh suddenly caught in her throat. She disguised it with a faint hum. “She told you that she’d have to, didn’t she?” All she needed to see was Peter’s nod to actually let out a chuckle. “Of course she did.”

Something in Peter’s eyes sparked a bit. “Does that mean she won’t have to?”

Her head shook, “She shouldn’t have to. I never finished my notes in that folder, so she probably assumed the worst.” And that assumption was right. “She might be strapped to a bed for a few days while they do some bloodwork, but she certainly won’t have to die.”

Peter’s entire body seemed to melt back into the pilot’s seat, relief overtaking him before he could even release a solid breath. “Thank God.” He’d been holding those words, that breath, since the second the two of you reconnected. Part of him was always scared that he’d lose you once he’d found you again; now, being on that plane, headed to Wakanda, knowing you weren’t getting sent to your sacrificial death, he started to see the world in color again. 

And you did too. 

A thick gasp ripped you from your forced slumber, immediately choked back on winces as your body came to. You took in a few more rapid breaths, trying to latch onto anything familiar about your surroundings, trying to calm yourself from the adrenaline of a nightmare. The pain in your arm throbbed and your upper thigh burned, reminding you of the last time you’d been conscious. Reminding you instantly of what took you captive. “Peter!” It came out like a groan, rasped and lodged back behind your grimace of pain, but it was loud enough. 

You didn’t have to think twice before a haste tread of footsteps could be heard. In the dark of the room, wherever you were, his silhouette could be made out beside you. Warm fingers gripped your right hand, the familiar callouses of Peter’s hold brought you some mental footing. Comfort. 

He kneeled beside the stretcher you laid upon before kissing your knuckles, his lips tracing each. A bit of light caught his features, reflecting off the hot tears lining his eyes. “We got out, you’re safe.” He whispered the words so weakly, they were breaking at the seams beneath the weight of his guilt. You could barely hear them over the high–pitched whirring surrounding the room you were in. 

Tears welled in your own eyes–from the waking of your nightmare, from the overwhelming pain lining your left arm, from the silent realization that you were in a plane right now. You were safe–it was almost too much. Peter wiped the first tear that fell from your eyes, using the same free hand to move strands of your hair from your face. His grip on your right hand adjusted, only growing more secure. 

“We made it out.” He repeated, taking a shaky breath with his pause. “Can you let me say sorry now?” The cries he tried to swallow back put gaps in his hushed question, and you couldn’t bring your trembling lip to give a response. You were overcome with relief, and tried to process the trauma and realization that the two of you made it out of a situation you didn’t think possible to. 

You could only squeeze his hand in reply, and it seemed like more than enough for him. Peter pressed the back of it to his lips again before leaning closer and kissing your cheek. Unlacing your fingers, you held his face gently, wiping his stray tears with your thumb. Peter took in the moment, savoring your touch on his cheek, leaning into it. He soon dipped down, pressing a fragile kiss to your lips. It only lasted a long second or two, but he kept his forehead rested against yours for what felt like much longer. 

“It’s good to know some things didn’t change.” Nat’s voice stood out against the quiet, making you startle from the intimate moment with Peter. She stepped into view, confirming that she was, in fact, alive. Natasha made it out, too. And you assumed she’d been your saving grace against the cannibals. 

A fresh set of tears coated your eyes, much happier than the first. Even in the dark of the aircraft, you could tell she got watery the same moment you did. 

Peter kept hold of your hand, though he moved back a bit to share you with Natasha. She littled the distance between you, pressing a short kiss to your head with apology. With compassion and condolences. “Rest up, kiddo.” She sighed, “Both of you should sleep.” Natasha stood upright, looking you both in the eye. “We’ve got hours to go.”

And you didn’t argue with her. 

The stretcher was spacious enough for Peter to rest on it beside you, getting his first wink of proper sleep in possibly weeks. You slept plenty, but after an hour or so of rest, you got restless. And hungry. 

With Peter sound asleep, you took your time easing out of his hold around you and stretched your leg. The gash on your thigh was worse than you’d realized, but Nat stitched you up quite well. 

Now it was your turn to eat and catch up with Natasha. The two of you sat in the cockpit, talking through everything that had happened on both ends throughout the past week, and Nat even went on to tell you all about what the world was like during your captivity. You’d also sought advice in her about how to go about your relationship with Peter. 

She reassured you that there was nothing selfish about it. 

After a few hours, Peter woke up as well, joining the two of you in the head of the aircraft. It was a monumental moment when he did, because the three of you got to watch the plane fly over land. You made it. You were flying over the African continent. 

And static sparked over the radio system. 

Natasha sat upright, grabbing the walkie microphone and pressing a button on the dashboard. “This is Summersault, does anyone copy?” She used a nickname that you could only piece together based on assumption. The three of you held your breath as the static continued, only cutting out when Nat would press the button on her mic again. “This is Summersault. Does anybody copy? Over.”

Something thick hung in the air as you all simultaneously leaned forwards in your seats. You didn’t know who you were waiting for, but an unanswered call would not be ideal. Having static be the only answer to Natasha could mean a number of things. It did, however, fuel the worry that there wasn’t anything left. That maybe, the Wakanda you thought you were headed for, was nothing but empty buildings and bones and ash. 

You were still miles out from any possible remnants of operating civilization, so the feedback couldn’t be a fluke. Right?

What felt like a minute passed. Perhaps an hour, but you knew it wasn’t, really. Silence made the wait feel dragged. None of you could take your eyes off the console, hoping maybe that your prayers would be answered. 

A crinkle in the static, and the three of you held your breaths, flinching at the change of noise. “I think the codename I gave you was Peppermint Patty.” You never would’ve expected the recipient to have been someone so familiar, but it was Tony Stark who answered your call. He answered your prayer.

mcu!peter parker | zombie apocalypse au. CHAPTER FOUR.

IN WHICH you and peter run into obstacles on your way to find natasha. could the two of you find her before death finds its way to you first?

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Despite the second nightmare that greeted you with sleep, it was the most restful night you’d had with Peter beside you. From the sweat dotting his temples and the alert look in his eyes in the morning, you could tell that he was prone to horrific dreams, too. 

Still, the two of you woke up at dawn as agreed. Gathering food, supplies, and equipping yourselves with weapons and proper attire, you were leaving the safe haven before you knew it. 

You’d walked for about an hour down the long road you and Peter reunited on, the only turn made was into an abandoned neighborhood a few miles north. Peter had stopped you on a random street corner, telling you to trust, he had a plan. 

But that was an hour ago. 

Sitting on the curb, you watched as Peter paced back and forth between streets. Four paces right, and he was standing off Maplewood Lane; five paces left, and he was on Woodlawn Drive. The sight would’ve made you dizzy, but the growing look of panic in his eyes kept you stirring in thought. 

A sigh left your lips, checking the wrist–watch Peter lent you. “Are you sure we shouldn’t keep moving?” You asked, wanting to give him some form of solitude. “Nat told me if I got lost, I should just meet her in Massachusetts.”

Peter checked his own watch, slowing his steps down to a halt. His eyes met yours, growing paranoia swirling his pupils, but you knew it wasn’t aimed at you. “She’d told me before she left that if she wasn’t here in three minutes, we’d have to go on without her.”

And suddenly, the eye contact you two held felt like the last shred of hope you had. You were only promised each other, the person in front of the other. You shared his shock and sobering realization, the panic sweeping through his veins. 

There was something grim floating in the air. The neighborhood was nothing but a ghost town, a mere path of passing for its survivors; a meet up for the last remaining Avengers. 

Letting your thoughts carry you off, the sound of Peter’s scheduled alarm on his watch startled you, ripping you back into reality. The two of you met each other’s eyes again, breaking eye contact only to scan the area and then accounting for the loss. 

You rose to your feet, hope still lingering somewhere in your system. “Maybe she’s already there.” You posed the idea. 

Peter’s jaw had drawn a sharp line as he clenched it, to bite back swears or hold back tears, you couldn’t figure out. “Maybe.” But something possessed him as he took a few paces northward, pausing until you began to follow him. “We can make it by sunset if we don’t stop.” He was taking responsibility, taking charge.

So you were off, both silently sending prayers that Natasha was waiting for you at the airport. You’d promised not to speak of it, or the jet, or of where you planned to go; you assumed Peter had made the same vow. Any spoken indication of where you planned to go, what you planned to do, just who and what you were—the entire plan could go south. 

Peter led you through greenery and backroads, having this path memorized long before he’d found you. Your hands brushed against lazy fingers and phantom grasps every so often, just a silent check in. Both of you were on high alert to your surroundings, not daring a hand hold over the risk of an ambush. 

Part of you was lucky to have been in the HYDRA base for so long; not that you were lucky to undergo the torment and torture and abuse, but because the world had a hefty scar and a lingering stench of what kind of mutant humans had roamed the earth for those few weeks. 

There were two kinds of walkers: those who were infected, and those who were impaired. 

Pietro had been impaired by HYDRA, injected by their spider–serum manually. The scientists had hoped he would have abilities that mirrored Peter’s, perhaps a mind they could brainwash if they were lucky. Instead, they got a boy trapped in his body, suddenly detached from his mind, now with an undeniable sudden thirst for blood. 

They’d impaired Bucky, too. A shiver went down your spine at the thought that Natasha might’ve tried to search for him. What might’ve happened to her, you didn’t want to ponder on. 

Infected people began deteriorating the second they were bitten by others. It was a wide–spreading, saliva–traced illness, only reminding people of its remnants by the gore along the ground and some sad excuse of a cobweb. 

Some of the spider effects had been traceable through the infected. Patches of flesh turned to webs, and they could climb walls if they were smart enough, but they were dying. The contents of whatever HYDRA made was too much for the human mind to handle, too much and too lethal for a mortal body to carry. Most of them were rotting filth now. It just left the Earth unnervingly quiet, vacant. 

With both you and Peter immune in some way, there was no doubt that the two of you were some of the last few left. In the world. 

You kept your paces in time with Peter’s, silent as you both kept to your thoughts. An invisible shadow cast at the thought of moving forward without Natasha. You didn’t even want to bring up the fact that you didn’t know how to fly a jet, let alone what coordinates to plug in to get to Wakanda. 

In the still of your walking, focusing on the sound of the crunching grass and leaves you stepped over, Peter jolted to a stop. His arm shot out from his side to shield you, but from what? Nothing could be seen ahead as the two of you approached a clearing. His head peered around, shoulders square from focus. 

“Is it your sense?” You asked, keeping your voice as low you could muster. His head shook back and forth. 

Peter took a quiet breath, almost too scared to move. “HYDRA dampened them when I was captive.” The words struck your heart, your gut, in a way that you couldn’t describe. “But something’s off..”

More alert than ever, you checked your six o’clock, then your three, and your nine. Nothing. Nothing but the sound of your heartbeat accelerating in your ears, and your breathing becoming thinner than a piece of parchment. Just as Peter dared to take a step forward, to dismiss his warning, an earth shattering roar could be heard from behind you. That same roar that the two of you heard upon reuniting. 

The same roar that kept you up each night in that damned HYDRA base. 

And it was much closer than anticipated. 

Both of you went fridged, stiff in place before Peter muttered the word. “Run.” It was all you needed before you went sprinting off for the clearing, not risking the slightest peak back. 

It was like the earth shook with the thunderous footsteps trailing you, and the trees rustled in his wake. You knew it had been too quiet, too safe. Some form of creature that HYDRA had curated surely would’ve found you. 

And as you turned to catch a glimpse at what snuff you two out, there he was.

Bucky Barnes ran the length of the clearing, gaining distance on you at an inhumane speed. His eyes were black with void, anger. Lack of control. He ran towards you, either of you, and you panicked to think through a plan. 

Then you realized. 

“Peter!” You panted, shouted to him, “I’m going to let him bite me!!” It wasn’t an ask for approval, you made your decision. 

All the color drained from Peter’s face as he glanced at you. “What?!” Sheer dread and bafflement shone in his voice. He couldn’t believe what you’d suggested. 

You wanted to sound more sure of it, more confident, but quite frankly, you weren’t. “I am the antidote!! If he bites me…” You spoke between breaths, “He could turn back–”

“You don’t know that!” Peter argued. His tone was firm through his running. He didn’t want you to do this. “We can’t risk it, Y/N!! It’s too dangerous!” The gears turned in his head, behind his eyes, trying to find ways for you to rationally think through this. 

There was a fence just beyond the clearing. A minute or two more of a sprint and you’d make it. If you made it. Bucky was incredibly fast. And you had the inclination to try and stall him. 

You contemplated. “I have to try!!” And you had to act fast. 

“There’s too much at stake!!” There was desperation, a plea burning in his eyes. And his words almost held you back, almost kept you running. 

But you halted to a stop yelling back, “I’m sorry!!” It felt selfish to abandon Bucky, to leave him like this. 

And Peter skidded to a stop, too. 

It all happened so fast, too fast, too swifty. Bucky mauled you to the ground, the twigs and dirt and stones beneath you didn’t make you feel better about your decision. 

And just as a low groan of pain fought through your lips, you saw just how far gone he was. How grave your decision was. 

He foamed at the mouth, eying which part of you to rip apart first. His snarl rumbled in his throat, his chest, vibrating against where he pinned you to the rotted soil. Every part of him felt foreign. You weren’t even sure if this was Bucky Barnes anymore. Or if there was any of him left. 

But he hesitated. He paused at the fear in your eyes, at the stillness in your breath. With just enough time for Peter to throw a gadget at him, knocking him off you and trapping him in some form of net. 

Your chest rapidly moved with your breathing as you watched Bucky struggle, unable to move your eyes as Peter raced to you, helped you up to your feet. You couldn’t even muster a word out before he tugged you to run. “C’mon! We need to go. Now!!”

With one hand in yours, Peter led you to the fence, not sprinting til you had the footing to match his pace. His other had gripped a remote, which sent shock waves through the net to stun Bucky for a while. There was no promise, no way to tell for how long, though. 

Effortlessly, you and Peter both climbed the ten–foot chain fence at the edge of the clearing, hopping over the top and landing in another forest. With heavy breaths, the two of you kept in a jog as you trekked through the wood, not giving yourselves the chance to look back. 

Even if you were the antidote, you realized now, letting any and all who were infected bite you, probably wasn’t the best solution. 

“Thank you..” You broke through the quiet, nodding to Peter. “You saved my life.” The realization was a lot heavier than you’d processed, but every ounce of it was true. 

Peter merely smiled at you. It wasn’t his typical–Peter grin, no. He seemed a bit shaken up at your spontaneity, but he didn’t want you to think he wouldn’t have supported you. “Don’t thank me.” He spoke plainly, even through his consistent jog. “I’ve always got your back.”

There was a small clearing ahead, and the two of you aimed for the little patch of grass amid the thick forest. Peter took the chance to catch his breath, put the stun–remote back in his bag, and grabbed some water. 

You, also, caught your breath, scanned the clearing, grabbed some water. It was near noon, checking your watch, and based on Peter’s GPS, you were making good time. 

It was a breath of fresh air to take a small break, especially with your calves screaming after sprinting for so long. Being held in captivity, you weren’t training like you were used to. Your physique and muscle memory still stood strong, but your joints were killing you. 

A low whine of ache and fatigue left your lips as you reached into your bag and grabbed a granola bar. Peter was quick to notice the exhaustion. The pain you tried to stifle back. 

He took a minute to find the right words to say, sifting through the list of questions he’d thought up the past twenty–four hours. 

“When we get you to Wakanda.. Do they–” He swallowed back the nerves that tried to choke back the sentence. “Do you really have to die?”

You nearly choked on your granola bar at the question, not expecting it. Part of you didn’t expect him to look at you so solemnly, either. But he was your boyfriend. You shrugged your shoulders, taking your turn to try and find the right thing to say. “Peter, I’m, uh– I’m not sure. I don’t know—”

“Cause seeing that happen, back there.” He hugged his elbows, worry knitting his brows together as he looked at you. “With Bucky.. I just– It’s selfish, but you’re all I have left.”

The world was muted around you. The blood didn’t leave your body, but there was a cold that ran a lap through your system. There was something sobering in the air around you as you looked at each other. You truly were all he had left. 

And he was all you had left, too. 

You thought about it, the logic behind killing you. “I made the assumption.. That I’d have to die.” And you spoke with honesty, sincerity. “I assumed..” The sudden hollowness in your throat became an obstacle to keep the sentence going. “Because on the off chance that I didn’t have to die, at least I came to terms with it..”

Peter searched your eyes, finding the truth in your explanation. He moved his hands to wipe the tears that slipped, not wavering his stare from you or shifting the understanding look in his eyes. He was there to listen, just like he’d said. 

“If I’m the only possible antidote, and I have to die, I have to be okay with it.” You took a shaky breath, “And I am.” That, though, was false. 

Sure, you would die. You were far from okay with it, especially now that you’d rekindled with Peter. 

So, you found the courage to ask: “When.. When the impaired subjects bit you…” The way he tensed at the words told you that he thought you were oblivious to it. The screams he’d let out day and night in captivity told you otherwise. “Did they ever.. turn back?”

Peter found the strength to shake his head. “No.” His word was short, mainly because he had difficulty looking back on those memories. “I was just.. the same.”

And even as the false hope depleted with the question, you took a deep breath. “Wakanda is the most advanced city in the world, and the only standing untouched piece of civilization.” It was wild to believe just how much was lost in a month. “If anyone can figure out how to keep me alive and still create an antidote, it’ll be someone there.”

Hence why you and Peter didn’t waver any longer in your journey. You were going to make it to Wakanda, even if it was the last thing you’d ever do. 

It was a straight shot forward, a hike through overgrown forests and random clearings. Once you’d gotten to Massachusetts, there were only a few turns to make, and then you’d arrive at the airport. 

But Peter couldn’t seem to find the markers that Natasha had laid out. 

Hours passed, it was almost time to stop to make dinner, possibly to set up camp. Camp was the last possible resort, but Peter couldn’t find what Nat had described, and you were losing daylight. 

You’d found the clearing she described to him. An odd, dipping sphere of grass in the thick of the wood. A tree she’d subtly painted was supposed to lead them to the edge of the forest closest to the airport, once said by her that it would be closed to that. But it couldn’t be seen. 

Peter read over the piece of parchment she’d left twice more, a frustrated exhale forcing through his lips. He hadn’t eaten all day, he was hungry, tired. He was about to give up. 

“Are you two lost?”

Both you and Peter’s heads whipped towards the unfamiliar voice in unison, rattled and unnerved. Approaching the clearing were two people, probably in their mid–thirties, one male–presenting and the other female–presenting. They hadn’t been detected by either of you, or seen at all in your searching, up until they walked into the clearing. 

You’d taken the time to look over their attire, why they were so comfortable out in the open; they’d worn black short–sleeved shirts, matching cargo pants, and weaponry all along their torsos. They had identical cross–body knife holsters, and different arrays of syringes and daggers and knives lining their hips. No guns, you noted, but something else did catch your attention. A singular knife with a bone–carved handle. And you’d seen enough human bones sticking out of rotted flesh along the New York ruins to know what one looked like. 

A chill slid down your back like a serpant, sending spider–like tingles of dread down the length of your body. 

Yet you smiled, straightening your posture. “Oh, we’re just fine!” A southern accent laced your lips with each word, masking your identity. “We’re just passing through, heading back to our military troupe.” You took Peter’s left side, lacing your fingers and latching an arm with his. You looked up at him with mock infatuation, “Isn’t that right, darlin’?” You hoped Peter would take notice of the way your fingers trembled in his, in the glisten in your eyes that told you to run. 

Peter, thank God, caught the hint. You wondered whether he saw the same things you did, especially with his senses gone. “Absolutely, sweetheart.” You hid how impressed you were by his sweet–as–honey accent, but gave him a little smile like he’d read your mind instead. “We’d best be on our way.” And just as the two of you went to take your leave, the woman spoke up again. 

“Do either of you know how to get to Manhattan from here?” 

And you felt the way Peter’s step fell out of yours. The way he fell back, wanting to help. Your eyes widened in his stare, shaking your head slowly in silent communication. Your fingers squeezed with his, trying to give him warning signs, but he squeezed yours back–gave you a smile that told you to trust. 

You didn’t. 

Peter nodded, pointing with his free hand. “It’s about a two day trip south from here, ma’am.” He spoke with sincerity. And you knew he was trying to be helpful, you knew his intent wasn’t to prove distrust to you, but every second you spent there felt like an inch closer to death. 

The woman looked helpless, her partner keeping distance as the woman paced closer. She pulled out a map from her pocket, oblivious to the way you flinched at the action. “Would you mind showing me?” There was an innocence to her voice that you didn’t trust. 

Peter didn’t seem to hear it. 

Your heart dropped to your stomach when Peter dropped your hand, but fear kept your feet planted where you stood, immediately taking in every inch of your surroundings. Which trees had the lowest branches, which partings were the biggest, how the hell you would haul Peter far enough away if something were to happen. 

And it did. 

The second that Peter was within reach, the woman injected one of the syringes into Peter’s collarbone. It only took him a second to get woozy, fall to his knees, and collapse unconscious on the dirt below him. Your hands were already on your guns, prepared to fire, but the man was already five feet from your side. 

Blow after blow, he attempted to strike you with his knives. Knives in each hand, and you dodged and blocked each strike with the gun in your hand. One, two, left, right, hit, guard. You were trained for this. Your attention was primarily on blocking each slash at your figure, but you also had to ration out little glances to your blind spots to keep tabs on the lady. 

You’d already felt winded. Winded from panic, winded and achy from the amount of walking you’d had to do all day. You couldn’t even give yourself a second to think about whether Peter was unconscious or dead on the ground. Just when you’d danced your way far enough around the clearing to glance at him, a blade sliced at your upper thigh. Quick reflexes made the strike barely feel like a tickle, especially with the adrenaline high, but it still ripped through your pants. It still drew some blood. 

“Damn it!” The man cursed, forcing words through his own tired breaths. “I forgot to sharpen that one!” He muttered in frustration, most likely to the woman. 

The woman whose hands now warmed the sides of your torso from behind, who drove a syringe into your own collar bone. “Don’t worry, sweetheart.” She spoke with a chilling calm, letting you fall unconscious in her feeble arms. “We’ll sharpen it when we get back home.” And that was the last you heard, could comprehend besides Peter’s limp body, before the world went still and dark. 

mcu!peter parker | zombie apocalypse au. CHAPTER THREE.

IN WHICH reuniting with peter reminded you of the world you two used to live in, but will the two of you be able to rekindle in the world you lived in now?

read chapter one | two | four | five.

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FIVE WEEKS AGO. 

Lazy morning touches and kisses kept you glued to your bed. Your fingers danced ever so lightly across Peter’s bare bicep, taking in the moment with each sense that you could. Your heart always swelled at the sight of his disheveled curls. The tips of your fingers tickled up and down his arms, taking in his warmth. He still smelled of morning and slumber and peppermint. His lips tasted of peppermint, too. And the sweet sounds he made when you kissed him were hard to ignore. 

Peter couldn’t keep his hands off you, tracing the familiar paths of your body, over and under your clothes. He kissed you with a hunger like it was the first time he’d ever gotten the chance, and lingered with the mindful motive that he’d never get the chance to again. 

His calloused palm held your face, his other hand pressed to the small of your back. The hardened feel of the length of him beneath his sweatpants sent a warmth between your thighs and a moan through the parting of your lips. You could tell just how much Peter was enjoying this from the smirk that met your lips, and the way he pulled you closer to him. 

Rolling him over, you straddled his hips and pinned him down to your bed. Both of his hands kept hold of your thighs, looking up at you with anticipation as you parted the kiss. “What time is it?” You asked, a sugary hum to your voice. It wasn’t what Peter expected you to ask him, but he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. 

His right hand rubbed gently up and down the side of your thigh while he leaned and reached to his left to grab his phone from your nightstand. “Nine twenty–two.” A quick glance was all he needed before setting his sights right back to you. He sat up a little, free hand finding its place on your right side, the sweet spot just above your rib cage and below your tit. 

He kissed you again, and you fought the urge to smile as you cupped his face. A few longful, loving kisses and you forced yourself to stop. You exhaled, “I’m late to meet with Tony.” You sighed, “I’ve got to go.” And you carefully maneuvered off of him, hearing his little whines of protest as he let you slowly slip out of his grip. 

You loved how domestic and conventional and comfortable your relationship with Peter was. It was more than anything you could’ve hoped for, and you would trade anything in this moment to bedrot in his arms for the rest of your life. 

But you saw the seriousness in Tony’s eyes last night when he asked to speak in the morning. You saw the way he hid his panic, and heard the way he choked back the conversation until you were better prepared for it. Whatever it was, you knew it had to take precedent over your time with Peter. 

Pulling his hoodie over your head, you felt his eyes on your every moment. “Can’t he wait?” Peter pleaded, all jokingly, but still wanting to keep you there as long as he could. He slid closer to the edge of your bed, pouting a little. “I was just getting started.”

You smiled at him, genuinely considering. “He seemed upset about it yesterday, babe.” You told him, earnest. “But I’m all yours when I get back.” You took steps back towards your door as you spoke. 

“You better be.” 

And just as you went to turn and leave, you realized you already missed him. You made the selfish decision to be a little late. To rush back over and give Peter one last kiss, and he was overjoyed. You both were. 

He was so quick to return it. So quick to pull you back into him. To grab your ass and hold you to him and caress every single inch of you that you’d allow him to. His teeth grazed your lower lip, soon finding that sensitive spot on your jaw, and trailing little marks along the crevasse of your neck. 

A breathless heat overtook you, and you almost forgot what you were doing until you brought yourself back. “Peter,” It came out more pleasurable than intended, “I have to go..” And you pulled yourself off him. 

The two of you let go of each other slowly as you took your leave. 

“I love you.” He said his goodbye. 

And you took a second in the doorway to admire him, your boyfriend. “I love you too.” The mental image of him smiling at you gave you the motivation to come back to him that much sooner. 

But you were glued to that chair in the conference room for over an hour. All pleasurable expressions and touches and smiles and words from that morning had fled from your body as Tony spoke to you. The gravity of what he was telling you was too much to process at such an early hour, and nothing like what you’d been expecting him to tell you. 

Peter had gotten up thirty minutes after you left to grab food, and seeing your distraught reactions to what Tony was explaining to you through the windows of the conference room didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t like what the atmosphere was looking like. He wondered what was happening. 

But after giving the two of you almost an hour, he knocked on the door. Peter wondered if you needed saving, and he wanted to make sure the two of you were okay. 

Little did he know. 

“Don’t say a word about this.” Tony’s whisper as Peter walked in sent a chill down your spine. You forced on a smile for your boyfriend. 

Peter looked between the two of you. “Is everything alright?” He asked, watching Tony hand you a folders worth of paperwork. “You two seemed stressed in here.”

Tony nodded, following your lead with that forced grin. “Yeah, kid. Y/N here was just about to send you in.” A lie. A blatant lie, but you knew a cover up when you’d heard one. As Tony’s hand met Peter’s shoulder, you rushed out of the room at the opportunity. Knowing you had to leave before dawn tomorrow, time suddenly felt more measured than ever. 

Your bedroom looked a little grimmer when you walked into it. You started packing a bag immediately. Tony had assigned you with–

“A mission?” Peter asked from behind you, shutting the door after he entered. His presence startled you, already on edge as is. Your eyes widened, turning around immediately to face him and the piece of paper he held so firmly in his hand. His expression was a mix of betrayal and confusion and concern. “You’re going on a solo mission?”

Assigned missions didn’t always sit right, but solo missions especially had a certain kind of gravity to them. There was something more intense about them, and adding a big secret to this one meant anything but good. It didn’t sit well with Peter, and the look on his face said it all. 

You had to remind yourself to breathe for a second. “Baby..” Your voice was hushed as you approached him, gentle as you took the paper from his hands. “You can’t let anybody know that you know about this.” You were stern, but compassionate. “And you cannot come anywhere near this.”

Now all Peter felt was confusion. “You’re banning me from this mission?” His voice had an edge to it, a blade; you couldn’t tell whether it was out of concern for your safety, or hurt from what you were keeping from him. “Why?”

You weren’t sure how much to tell him to get him to understand that he needed to stay clear of this. To stay hidden. You hesitated. “I can’t tell you.” The words came out like a mournful whisper. You almost couldn’t bear the truth of it all.

What Tony had told you brought everything up from your past. He’d told you what HYDRA had been planning, who they’d already taken, why they’d taken them. He told you the truth about your parents; how they were both HYDRA scientists, how they birthed you solely to experiment on, how they’d now traced you back to Peter Parker. 

He told you how HYDRA was the reason that Spider–Man existed. How your parents were the people who designed the super spider. It was a fluke, a mistake. It wasn’t expected to thrive. And then it did. And it created an Avenger. 

Tony told you how HYDRA had been trying to replicate this spider, and the results were something scarce, deadly. Mutated. HYDRA had been trying to find a way to get Peter back, to experiment on him, to recreate their successes; Pietro found out, warned Tony, and got himself taken captive. And now, you were here.

You’d been trained by HYDRA, you were a product of them. You knew this base like the back of your hand, how to fight them off, how to stop this. All you had to do was get in and out. 

So long as Peter didn’t follow you. That’s what they relied on. What they wanted.

You couldn’t stop the way your body trembled at the thought of going back to HYDRA, but if it meant keeping Peter safe, you’d do it a thousand times over. 

Grabbing his hands, you squeezed them both; begging and pleading, you needed Peter to understand how important this was. “I can’t tell you, but I need you to trust me.” Your stare was piercing, tearful, powerful as you looked at him, one eye to the other. “Stay here and stay safe. Do you understand?”

Peter wasn’t sure what was happening, or where you were going, but he knew your past with HYDRA. If he found out you were going back to the prison you’d been saved from, there was no telling what he would do. Especially if he found out it was kept from him. 

But you made your decision. 

A single nod was the only reply you got from him before he pulled you into a hug. Nothing bone–crushing, but enough to tell you that he knew the look in your eyes; he knew there was some risk to this that might alter the world as you knew it. At least, the world built between the two of you. 

His lips pressed to your hairline as he hugged you, swaying the two of you to try and savor the moment that much more. He felt the way you shook in his grasp, the staggered breathing that warmed your spot on his chest. “When do you leave?” His ask was gentle, fragile. Hushed. Just for the two of you. 

Mustering a deep breath, you exhaled your bubbling sorrow with a sigh. “Tomorrow, at dawn.” The words hung in the silence that soon filled the air, leaving both of you to process just how little time the two of you had before you’d have to slip away. 

It felt grim, and you couldn’t help it. The fits of quiet between you for the rest of the day were anything but out of the ordinary. You knew he wanted to go with you, to protect you, even if he didn’t understand the gravity of what you were being asked to do. But you trusted that he would respect your wishes. You trusted that he would stay behind. 

And you trusted yourself with that. 

Come dusk the next day, you were already second guessing being there. Their forces were heightened, Tony’s voice went static in your earpiece, and you couldn’t find a way in; they’d patched up the entry point that Pietro had laid out for you. Now they’d lined their trees with barbed–wire. 

They must’ve been expecting you. 

Your black skin–tight suit blended into the shadows, hiding you among the trees surrounding the HYDRA base upstate. You’d circled around the entirety of it, unseen and unheard, but you were at a deadend in your plan. 

A twig behind you snapped, and you readied yourself in the blink of an eye—gun in hand, locked and loaded, grounded footing, and a lethal glare. You nearly shot the person on sight before realizing it was Peter in his suit. 

Peter in his suit. At the HYDRA base. 

Every ounce of blood in your body went cold, stiff. Your heartbeat was thunderous as you put your gun back, taking hasty paces towards him. “What are you doing here?” You couldn’t tell whether the grit of your teeth came from the sheer panic coursing through you, or the rage bubbling just below the surface. 

He stammered, obviously here without a plan, but here with a logical–to–Peter explanation. “I heard they’d sent you back to HYDRA, and I–” Peter wasn’t expecting to see you so opposed to him being there, so jarred. Unnerved “I just thought I’d—”

“You need to get out of here!” Your voice was hushed as you shoved him back. “They’re expecting you–expecting us!” Everything emitted from you only translated to panic. Panic and terror and frustration. “You need to leave–”

Lights shown on you from every direction. 

HYDRA soldiers cornered the two of you, closing in fast, leaving no time for you or Peter to react before they’d bound your limbs together. They were more gentle with you than Peter, hearing him yelping–screaming, thrashing against their harsh grasp on him. 

“Wake up!” 

A gasp drove your eyes open, waking up with Peter’s hands firmly on your shoulders. You tried to catch your breath, tried to come to terms with your surroundings, tried to remind yourself that you weren’t there anymore. Each gasp of air grounded you from that nightmare, from the reality that it once hadn’t been just a bad dream. Shaky fingers had wrapped around Peter’s wrists in your slumber, and your wide stare was quick to find the gaping look of concern he shot at you. 

Peter’s gaze softened at you, seating himself more comfortably on the edge of your bed beside you. “Breathe.” He reminded you, a hushed request. He didn’t want to push you, not while you caught your bearings. “You’re safe. I got you.” His grip squeezed your shoulders with the reassurance, making you all the more grateful that he’d come to your aid. 

You’d never had parents to comfort you in your childhood with these kinds of things, or to reassure you that everything was just a dream and you were safe growing up. You didn’t get that experience, not until the day you’d met Peter Parker. Especially after he started spending the night in your room. 

Overwhelmed with the images burning in your brain, the terror now poking needles through your bloodstream, you felt tears sting your eyes. Peter helped you sit up on your bed, his eyes steady with yours as he tried to gauge your reaction, tried to guess how to help you. You weren’t sure how adjusted his eyes were to the dark, but considering the way his expression shifted at the sight of your trembling lip, you assumed he could see your every movement. 

The steadying of your breath, the way it immediately became shuttered with sobs; the shaky fingers you used to cover your face as you broke into tears. Broke into pieces. You’d barely slept more than a wink for the past week, too focused on finding Natasha, and some sense of safety. Now, with time to process and time to rest, you found it all too much to handle. 

The bed dipped beside you, and Peter’s body came in contact with yours. It was hesitant, so so hesitant, but he cradled you in warmth and he blanketed his arms around you. He pulled you close, pulling your head to his chest, and holding you until you gave him word to stop. When those words never came, his fingers combed down the length of your head through your hair, repeating the motion with timed, slowed, breathing. He just let you cry it out, not needing an explanation, nor any reciprocation, and you knew he’d stay like that forever if you’d asked him to. 

His chin lowered, pressing further against your hairline. “Have you been getting nightmares often?” Peter’s voice was barely louder than a whisper, his tone as soft as his touch. He felt you shrug against him in response, and you felt his lips purse against your forehead in reaction–not a kiss, just a ghost in the space around it. His next words were tentative, “I heard you screaming.. In your sleep.” And you froze against him, a timid mix between a shuttered exhale and a whimper came out in response. 

Peter noticed, somehow pulling you closer. “You don’t have to talk about it.” His sincerity told you that no matter how curious, he didn’t need to know. He just wanted to be there to support you, to listen. “I just..” He paused, “I wasn’t sure how to be there for you, but I didn’t want you to go through that alone.” The last bit of his sentence hushed into a whisper, spoken against your temple so it was yours and yours alone to hear. Because you knew that Peter was scared, too. And perhaps, hearing you screaming reminded him of just how scared he was of losing you. 

He didn’t ask anymore questions, especially when you cried a bit harder in response to his support. Peter could tell it wasn’t something you were used to, nor anything you’d expected. 

After a minute or two, when you’d grounded yourself a bit more, Peter’s voice rippled through the silence. “Would you like some water?” His ask hung in the quiet for a moment, awaiting the nod of your head that you gave in response. His hands gently traced the length of you up to hold your face, and he looked at you, truly. Peter wiped the tears from your face, pressing a kiss to your head out of habit. “I’ll be right back.”

But he didn’t move, considering that every fiber of your body protested his leave. Your hands grabbed at his arms, your eyes filled with plea, and the rest of your limbs froze at the thought of you sitting alone in the dark. You couldn’t handle it. 

Peter merely gave you a gentle look in his eyes and a soft smile to compliment it. He grabbed your hands, careful as he rose to his feet and guided you with him. He didn’t seem to mind how little distance you kept from him as you both walked out to the kitchen, and his fingers kept a firm grasp on yours as you walked, his thumb drawing little shapes of reassurance that he wasn’t planning to let go. 

He did everything one–handed up until the point where he couldn’t. Peter set your hand on his shoulder when he needed to use both of them, and you kept yourself in the protection of his warmth as much as you could. You took the time to try and still your panic, trying to count the corners, count the different colors in the room; focus on the contrast between the cold, refrigerated water and the warm cavity of your mouth once it was ready for you. 

The room filled with stillness as you eased the dryness caking your throat, and a new set of tension crept through the corners. Peter seemed to feel it too with the way he crept closer to you, leaning on the counter just a hair from you. The close proximity reminded you of the way you two used to be, how comfortable and touchy and close you were. Just how awful would it be to ask if he still wanted to be together? You grew lost in thought at the idea. 

His hand ghosted your back, eyes scanning where you stared at down the hallway. “Are you feeling better?” Even with just the two of you, in such an open space, he didn’t dare bring his voice too high above that rumbly, soft–toned volume. 

When you gave your nod in response, you felt the chill of his absence as he walked away from you. Your hand rushed to his wrist and he met your eyes instantly. “Don’t leave.” It was the first thing you’d said, and the words were drenched in desperation. Peter had to fight back a smile in reaction. 

His fingers interlocked with yours again, gently tugging you over to him. “I’m just grabbing a glass of my own.” He glanced at the cup of water in your hand, now almost empty. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And perhaps, you felt embarrassed. Red flushed in your cheeks and you nearly froze in place. Perhaps, you were just getting used to being so close to Peter again after four weeks without him. He poured his own glass of water, this time, keeping his hold on your hand indefinitely, even as he topped off your cup. 

He led the two of you back to your room, though something seemed to stop him in the doorframe. You and Peter locked eyes again, immediately noticing the look of question he held. With a slow nod, you released your hold on his hand to grab his glass of water and set it on a nearby shelf. 

“Come here.” You cut through the quiet, outstretching both arms to him. The keen way Peter walked over made you bite back a smile, and he secured himself in your arms, hugging you the tightest he had since you’d been reunited. It was reassuring. Maybe he’d been thinking about wanting you back just the same. “Thank you.. For waking me up, and taking care of me.” You kept the words mellow and hushed, still keeping the tremble in your voice at bay. 

Peter’s head hid itself further in the crevasse of your shoulder. “Are you sending me back to my room?” His question held both a tone of teasing and genuine curiosity. You couldn’t tell which was more prominent, so you pulled back from him to read his eyes. 

Shaking your head slowly, your lips curled slightly. “No.” In the thick of the moment, you got to take him in, fully. The bend of his curls from rushing to your aid, the lingering scent of his sheets from his awoken slumber. He wore a hoodie you remember borrowing two times too many, and his hands held you in a spot they felt so familiar in. And in this space, just the two of you, it felt more like home than anything you’d felt in weeks. It felt so much like home, your own eyes betrayed you. Glancing at his lips, you tried your best not to double–take. “I was going to ask if you could stay..”

Peter noticed instantaneously; the shift in the atmosphere, the distance that shortened. And he didn’t do anything to stop it. In fact, he was starting to inch closer, his own eyes traitorously staring at your lips. “Is.. That what you want?” Suddenly, you couldn’t remember whether the both of you were talking about him staying with you, or your possibly sustained relationship. 

With him less than an inch from you, it became difficult to think. Difficult to comprehend, to focus on anything but the parting of his lips in front of you. Stealing one more glance up at his eyes, you found yourself breathless. “Yes..” It came out a whisper, a quiet gasp, and Peter couldn’t keep his composure. 

His fingers grazed your chin, pulling you in to close the standing gap between you. Your hands found the base of his neck to reel him into you, and the kiss was met with something so eager, you had confidence that his mind had been occupied by you, just as much as yours had been occupied by him. His hands found your waist, trailing up to your ribs and higher to touch places you’d nearly forgotten. Your own fingers gripped the material of his shirt, tugging him over to your mattress. 

You opened your mouth more to him, wanting him to access any and all of you. The feel of him against you, the feel of his touch getting tougher with you, riled you up more than you’d expected. Produced sounds from you that were breathless, desperate, sinful. And just as your hands trailed down Peter’s torso, tracing his abs down to the hem of his pants, he pulled back from the kiss. 

Catching his breath, he rested his forehead against yours. He looked into your eyes with such emotion, you thought he was looking for the same feeling to stare back at him. 

And maybe he was. 

“Y/N, are we…?” He trailed off, still catching his breath. “Are we still–?” Peter couldn’t seem to muster out the end of the sentence, but you were catching on to what he was trying to ask you. “Are you still my–?”

You pulled back a bit from him, studying him wholly. “Do you not want me to be?” The question brought you down from the high you were chasing, finally addressing the burning question both of you silently asked. 

Peter shook his head, “No, I still want you to be.” His small growing smile eased the weight you’d begun to carry around. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you held onto. “Do you still want to be?”

“Your girlfriend?” And when he nodded, it confirmed that you were, in fact, both in agreement. “I do.” When you kissed him this time, it was much sweeter than before. “I’m just not sure how to..” The word got lost as you spoke, confusing yourself, “…Exist? Like we did?” The words came out sounding just as confused as you were. “I don’t know–” You started stammering, a little panicked. “It feels so complicated now. I don’t—”

“Hey.” Peter’s voice cut you off, sincere and understanding. “It is complicated.” He reassured you, “It feels out of wack and it’ll take some time to learn now to prioritize it and adjust, but we’ll figure it out.” The smile he gave you dismissed any doubt you could’ve come up with. “We can talk about it more once we find Nat, okay?”

You nodded, pressing your forehead to his again. “Okay.” And when he kissed you, it ignited all of the butterflies that were presumably frozen over. Smiling into it, you were quick to find yourself pulling back and trying to stifle back a yawn. 

Peter laughed under his breath, gently tugging you over to your bed. “C’mon.. It’s late.” No amount of protest would’ve stopped Peter from making you get comfortable, seeing as it was considerably late. As much as you’d missed kissing him, you’d missed the feeling of him holding you so snug arguably more. 

Slumber was quick to find you, comforted in the presence of Peter, and consumed by the peace of mind knowing that the two of you were together again. You just hoped this wouldn't be the last time you two would sleep so soundly together.

jj maybank x fem!reader.

IN WHICH you and jj don’t know how to face each other after he drunkenly tells you to leave your boyfriend for him.

a/n — this is my first JJ fic but hopefully of many so lmk what else y’all wanna see 🤭🤭

✨masterlist.✨

3.4k.

After the week you’d had, you never thought JJ would be the one gracing your presence. You never anticipated being stuck in silence with him like this. Typically, his company was welcomed. He was your safe space, your home. Your best friend. Quiet with him was something you always looked forward to. 

Although, last weekend certainly changed that. 

You two hadn’t spoken in a week. It was the longest you’d gone without talking to him since your parents moved to figure eight in the fourth grade; even then, that was only two days. You and JJ grew up neighbors before that. It was written in the stars that you were meant to be in his life, engraved in your bones. To grow up together, to laugh and cry together and to fall way too hard for him. And you knew JJ was messy. Messy and complicated and never someone you could tie down. 

But he was your best friend. 

JJ walked beside you as the sun set further off the shoreline, painfully ignoring the tears slipping down your face and the words bubbling up his throat. He clenched his jaw and grinded his teeth and fiddled with that stupid bandana to avoid wrecking the silence building up between the two of you. 

Above all else, your friendship was of utmost importance. Hence why when you’d written a love letter to him for Valentine’s day in the eighth grade and he never responded, you acted like you hadn’t written anything at all. Hence why when Topper Thornton started to give you romantic attention last year, you tapped into it. 

A little harmless flirting surely wouldn’t hurt, especially if it meant making JJ jealous. And, of course, he was. But did he say anything? No. And the more time that went on, the more you realized just how harmless being Topper’s girlfriend would be. You’d grown to like him, sure. But he’d never be JJ. 

Not even after last weekend’s incident. 

JJ held the front door to his house open for you, eyes glued to you like you’d valish if he happened to blink for too long. Despite the two of you not talking for a week, he still didn’t hesitate to answer your phone call when you’d dialed his number earlier. He didn’t hesitate to offer his house–his bed–when you told him your parents were divorcing.  

They’d been shouting and arguing and bickering and forgetting your existence for the past week. Your boyfriend graciously offered for you to stay at his, and you had anxiously been waiting for him to send word that you were all clear to head over. But Topper stopped responding. He hadn’t texted you since. 

That was three nights ago. 

The thought of that sunk into you with edges much more rigid than you’d anticipated. And when JJ left you alone in his room, it finally hit you. Everything you were feeling set into motion, toppling every wall you’d been building down to the floor. Sobs choked their way up your throat and your entire body shook where you stood. You weren’t okay. 

And JJ read you like a book. He always did. 

You’d been written in a language that only JJ took the time to learn. He knew you better than anyone else did, and you couldn’t fathom how or why. 

JJ was quiet when he walked back into his room. The only sound that announced his arrival was the clanking of the glass beer bottles against his wooden desk. He sat down the beverages before pulling you into a hug. He didn’t have to say anything to let you know that he wasn’t expecting you to reciprocate it. He just wanted to be there for you. 

Your arms slowly wrapped around him, and he took that as a sign to pull you even closer. He held your head to his chest, stroking his fingers down strands of your hair to say you were safe with him. Vulnerability was a difficult thing for him, but he knew he couldn’t let you break down alone. He’d never let you go through this alone. 

He stood there for as long as you needed, and you could tell he’d stay with you like that through the entire night if you’d asked. It was a breath of fresh air that you needed. 

When the sobs settled, JJ cupped your cheeks to wipe your tears. He moved your head up to look at him, and finally met your eyes for the first time since he’d picked you up. JJ took you in, looking back and forth between one eye and the other before convincing himself that you were gonna be alright. He was going to make sure of it. 

The way you leaned into his touch was a feeling he’d missed. He hadn’t let it hit him just how much he’d missed you, but his week had been rough without you. JJ took the moment to let his eyes fall shut once yours did, and his forehead pressed against your own. 

And in that moment, silence fell between the two of you in the way you were used to. It was a silence you’d begun to ache for. Comfortability. Safety. For just a moment, you convinced yourself that everything would work out. Everything was going to be okay, and you had nothing to worry about. You chose to focus on that instead of the looming dread that the moment would end before you wanted it to. You could feel the words gnawing at JJ through the stillness of his breathing. 

You’d stored the moment in the depths of your mind, knowing it would be safe there for the time being. It only took a minute before JJ took a hesitant breath, opening and closing his mouth like he knew the damage that he’d cause by breaking the silence. 

“Are we never going to talk about it?” His voice was soft; it was a question only meant for the two of you, but the gravity of it sent you spiraling right back to the second he was talking about. 

Watching your friends try to walk along the sand whilst tipsy never failed to make you smile. They were such a bunch of idiots, but they were the best kind out there. 

You’d agreed that for this beachfront party, you’d be the designated driver. It gave you an opportunity to see just how dumb the lot of you came across when you were intoxicated. It also gave you the opportunity to feel the raw anxiety of how long your boyfriend had left you on delivered for. 

“Y/N!” You heard a holler from nearby, looking up from your phone just in time to see JJ nearly trip over a stick in the sand. His stumbling brought you to your feet, walking over to him. He certainly was pie–eyed. He was drunk. He reeked of it. “Shit..” He tried to catch his balance, his barrings, holding onto your arms as you held onto his. “I–I’ve got something to tell you.” JJ slurred. 

Your smile fell a bit at how serious he seemed. There was a look in his eyes that told you he was nervous to keep going. “Jay? What’s up?”

His eyes scanned you like they were sober, glistening with something that made your stomach flip. Your breath vanished, your heart leapt, and you felt sinful for the butterflies that he gave you. You felt ashamed. 

“Leave him.” The words had more syllables than they were supposed to and were dripping with booze, but they still hit you like they would if delivered any other way. “Leave Topper–” JJ swayed a little too far to his right, almost toppling into you but catching his balance. 

The two of you were a dangerous inch apart. 

Your eyes met, glancing from one to the other as he glanced at your lips. You felt the world stop. “Leave him cause I…” You watched the struggle in his eyes. He was fighting back demons not to kiss you. “I love you.”

Wide eyes stared back into his own. You’d been waiting years to hear those three simple words from him. Hearing them drunk though felt like a jab to your ego. Part of you felt like it was wrong to accept them. 

You thought about it though. 

“JJ, you’re drunk.” You had to keep a stern tone with him, placing distance between the two of you. Stepping away to grab some water, his hand met your wrist to pull you back to him. 

You didn’t mean to look at him with such a startle, but the way your eyes met, you could tell you’d triggered something in him. Something that might’ve made him feel like he was acting like his father. You watched the way his eyes widened, and gears turned, because he instantly let go of you. 

He took steps back, muttering panicked apologies at your frozen figure. You tried to call out to him, to tell him that it was okay. You were okay and he didn’t have to stammer off, but he did. He ran off, and just like that, you didn’t hear from him. 

You two didn’t speak until he’d answered your phone call thirty minutes ago. And now you stood toe to toe, chest to chest, head to head. You felt the air thin between the two of you at his question, and let out the breath that you’d been storing next to the elephant in the room. “I really don’t want to.” You gave an honest answer, keeping your tone as gentle as you could. 

As you opened your eyes to meet him looking at you, your head craning up to look at him. Your nose traced the curve of his from the motion, but distance was instant to creep between you when your phone lit up. The screen was face up on his bed and flooded light into his bedroom. You looked towards it, taking paces over to check and see if it was a response from your boyfriend. 

Maybe it was wrong of him, but JJ kept his hands on you for as long as he could before you slipped from his grasp. His fingers lingered at your hips, his eyes held you longer than he was able, and he watched the falling of your expression at whatever notification had come popped up on your phone. 

His jaw clenched, hands running through his hair as he let out an exasperated sigh he’d been holding onto. “Christ, Y/N.. I can’t keep doing this..” JJ was flustered, both from frustration and whatever effect you’d had over him. He respected the space that stood between you, but never found the strength to look away, even as you caught the angered look in his eyes. 

Your brows pressed together, one arching higher than the other. “Keep doing what?” There was both agitation and genuine confusion in your tone, “Does it bother you to see me in a happy relationship?”

JJ scoffed, tongue outlining the inside of his mouth as he fought back a laugh. He stared at the ceiling as if he’d find an answer there other than brute honesty. He was unsuccessful. “Don’t bullshit me. I know you.” His words were short, almost as short as his breath. Almost as short as his temper, yet he was more composed than you were. “I can’t keep watching him hurt you like this.” 

He struck a nerve with his words. The sincerity he had, the audacity he had to question your happiness. Hell, you were far from happy; your relationship with Topper was nothing short of toxic and unfulfilling, but JJ calling it out? Like he had ever cared about you more than someone he could chest bump and catch a wave with?

You hoped smoke didn’t exhale through your nose with the breath you’d let out. Your fuse was growing short circuited. “God, you’ve got some nerve, Jay..” Angered paces closed the distance between you as you walked back over to him. “You’ve got some balls on you to say that after the stunt you pulled last weekend!” Your pointer finger poked at his chest with your accusation. 

The air between you was so thick, neither of you had confidence that a knife could do any damage. But there was something addictive about the anger you stared at each other with, something in the humidity of the tension. You two couldn’t look away from each other if you tried to. 

“Really? Do I?” His sarcastic, rhetorical questions carried with a snarky tone of voice. He almost mocked you. “Sorry that I actually care about you!” JJ couldn’t stop his voice from rising in volume. “I mean, God..” The last word snagged on a scoff, a chuckle. “How is he even your boyfriend? What do you guys even do together?” 

Seeing JJ short tempered was one thing, but you’d never seen him this aggravated before. It almost made you smirk at how much you’d ruffled his feathers; just how much you’d gotten under his skin, made him jealous. It was entertaining. 

But you were angered. Right. You were upset with him. You’d almost forgotten. 

JJ’s tongue dared to make a short appearance, wetting the gap between his lips as he hesitated. He knew this comment would cause damage, but he was in the thick of the moment. JJ’s voice finally lowered in volume, speaking through gritted teeth when he asked: “When was the last time he’s even kissed you?”

And that fucking did it. 

Toe to toe with him, you kept your head craned up to him, eying him from the two feet of space that kept you two separated. You couldn’t tell if your eyes sparked with tears or pure aggression. “Don’t you fucking go there, Maybank!” You snapped. “You’re walking a thin fucking line right now– I mean, seriously!” You were exasperated, cutting yourself off mid sentence from your loss of words, but you couldn’t lose this argument. You let out a scoff at him, narrowing your eyebrows. “Y’know, I bet you don’t even fucking remember what you said to me–”

JJ cut you off this time, only needing one stride to close the distance between you. “And what if I did remember?” His voice grew quieter, snagging on the ridged edges of his tone. The intensity of the room was still thick, but you’d suddenly forgotten to breathe with how little space there was between you. The atmosphere surrounding you changed appearance, revealing that it was never fully anger, rather than pure unadulterated attraction. 

Your heart pounded in your ears, caught in your throat, and ricocheted off of JJ’s chest, as it now threatened to touch your’s. Any breath that slipped through your lips tickled his own, and you felt the heaviness in each of the exhales he fanned across your face. The containment of his composure, and how difficult he had keeping a hold and restraint on himself. 

His eyes were glued to your lips despite the close proximity you stood at, and your own eyes were traitorous as they caught a glimpse of his. Soft, just slightly out of reach, and threatening any movement that you challenged. 

“What if I did remember? And what if..” He drank you up, how speechless he’d left you. JJ didn’t showcase the cockiness he’d felt, stumping you, leaving you at his whim in front of him. He took in the moment, savoring the ghost of your body slowly pressing against him. “What if I meant every word? And I..” His voice had grown huskier, timid and low and just for you. “I want to show you just how you deserve to be treated..”

You felt the gentle, light, brushing of his fingers just beyond your silhouette. He knew he was teasing you, but he was just testing waters. JJ didn’t want to cross a boundary that you didn’t permit him to. 

But it was you that began closing the gap, that brushed your lips against his. You left him speechless with just a taste, just a sliver of contact. You could hear the sharpness of his inhale; the breath that hitched at the back of his throat. It took every fiber of your body, every cell in your brain not to cave…but you were winning. 

The outline of a smirk ghosted across your lips, your mouths a very hazardous distance away from each other. Each breath was shared, each feeling reciprocated, but you couldn’t be the first one to falter. “You want me that bad, huh, Maybank?” You let the coyness ring through your low–toned question, the triumph of your teasing sing to him. And it was all the more satisfying when he had to swallow some of the tension before giving his response. 

It was almost too compelling, how high you got on his sudden nervousness. He was flushed, putty, speechless. There was a frog in his throat, and he couldn’t seem to let it out. Just by giving him a little preview of what you felt like, he couldn’t seem to catch a hold of himself. Alas, you couldn’t keep yourself contained forever. 

“Yeah, I do..” A breathless whisper, and you felt every spark attached to it. Each syllable of sincerity, and it drove you wild. 

You let the feeling soak in, letting your lips curl in victory. “Good.” You hummed, closing the aching gap between you and kissing him. You kissed JJ, holding his head in your hands and pushing him back against his wall. JJ was quick to reverse it, quick to bounce off the wall, and pin you there in his place. His hands traveled up the length of you, fingers pressing to your hips, your sides, padding dangerously close to sensitive spots you didn’t think he’d be so quick to find. 

The kiss was filled with more than just the bubbling rage you’d felt just moments prior; the passion that wasn’t fueled by anger at all. Neither of you could fight back the rising smiles at the realization of just how long this had been coming. Both of you wanted this for so long, and you knew neither of you would let the other go anytime soon. 

Especially with how turned on you were. 

Your lips parted with a gasp, JJ’s entire palm pressing to your clothed breast. His other hand found a way up your shirt. Sinful touches and breathy moans filled the room, and you felt totally consumed by each other. Possessed by lust, and overcome with an undying need for JJ. You needed him everywhere, in every way. And you couldn’t even believe this was happening. 

As JJ’s hands found your ass, kneaded the plush of it, you hopped into his arms and wrapped your legs around him. The grunt that he’d let out into the kiss only added to the knot growing in the depths of your stomach, the ache throbbing between your legs. Your hips rolled to meet him as he walked over to his bed, quick to lay you over his comforter and kiss down your jaw and your neck. 

His fingers locked with yours, holding your hands beside your head against his mattress. When he’d parted from your neck, the look in his eyes could’ve killed you. The look on his face alone could’ve driven you mad—his lips plump and red from kissing you senseless, JJ’s entire face gaping at you, silently begging you for more. But his eyes were asking, giving you the choice. It was your call. 

You combed your fingers through his hair, grabbing his chin to pull his lips back to yours, when your phone interrupted the two of you with its blinding light. Both of you peered over at it, not the least bit indulged with what pulled you from the heat of the moment. 

“Are you going to check that?” JJ asked, some edge to his voice. And you couldn’t tell whether it was protective demeanor, harmless competition, or his composure not to take you right then and there. 

Meeting his eyes again, you found yourself smirking, breaths still heavy from how worked up you were. Your eyes didn’t leave his as you turned your phone over. “Not tonight.” You spoke with a hum, quick to take off your top in a quick motion afterward. 

Maybe part of you should’ve felt guilty, or guilty for not feeling guilty. But you couldn’t care less. Especially because you felt like the luckiest person in the world. 

mcu!peter parker | zombie apocalypse au. CHAPTER TWO.

IN WHICH you & peter are humanity’s last hope of salvation from HYDRA’s zombie apocalypse, but will lingering feelings from the past get in the way of that?

read chapter one | three | four | five.

✨masterlist.✨

3.4k.

“We have to get me to Wakanda.. so that they can kill me.”

You swore the world froze the second the words left your mouth. The truth didn’t feel real, even though you’d come to terms with the fate you knew was required of you. But the way Peter stared at you so profoundly; the way he stood from his seat, took paces towards you, the look he kept in his eyes. It made you feel like maybe there was a way out of it. 

“No.” Was all he said at first. And it wasn’t a reply, it was a command. It was a word of promise, of protection, of truth. And it made you swallow back the responsibility you forced upon yourself. The mask of acceptance you wore nearly broke in half, falling victim to the look of intensity Peter shot at you. It was a look that he hadn’t used with you in this new world. His eyes hadn’t glistened like that since before the outbreak. “No. I won’t let you die.”

The firmly stated words brought up the denial you’d been shoving down—hope you’d been trying to bury. It was a feeling that seemed childish to carry, childish and unwelcome and something that had no place here. 

So you shrugged. Blank stare, blank expression. You tried not to show him the trembling in your fingers, or the quickening of your breath at his demeanor. You tried to hide the panic that overtook your senses. “Maybe I don’t have to.” You spoke with honesty, glancing behind Peter at the folder he’d left at his seat. “But you read what I read?” It was more of a confirmation than a question. 

It took Peter more strength than he’d ever admit to peel his eyes from you. To turn back in his tracks and grab the folder. “Yeah, but–” He cut himself off, flipping through the papers. Skimming the pages that you’d highlighted and dog–eared and read through. The files that you stole. “What is this?”

“The initiative.” The answer was quick. You knew what you were talking about. You’d been preached to about this initiative since the day you dared to step foot back into HYDRA. The day the world fell apart. “We were pawns in their greater schemes, Peter. You and I–” There was a pause. A revelation. A confession. “We started this.” And you looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time in weeks. “We have to end it.”

Peter flipped through the pages, looking over headshots of the two of you, side by side. You didn’t have to read over his shoulder or even see the pages to know where he was at, what he was reading — assessing the words you were saying and connecting them with the written ones he read. He connected the dots, consumed in silence from his state of denial. You watched the curve of his brows as they sewed together, the sight of him merely standing in front of you was a forgotten comfort. His presence was a forgotten comfort. You hadn’t realized just how much you’d missed him until you’d given yourself a second to think about it. 

And you didn’t have that second right now. 

“How do you know this is real?” His eyes met yours, pleading, begging for this to be something merely theorized, fictional, anything other than reality. There was a curiosity to them that told you more than he wanted to admit right then; he wanted the answers you had to give, but he also wanted to figure out how to keep you safe first. 

You’d nearly forgotten just how well you knew how to read him. 

Parting your lips, you choked on the words. This was the hard part. He watched you struggle, and it reminded you just how much you hated showing weakness–just how little weakness you’d shown in the past month to anybody. Being this vulnerable and naked to someone gave you a glimpse of the person you were, and it scared you to feel like you’d reverted. It scared you to remember that person, and to forget that they’d even existed for a minute. 

You set your backpack on the floor. You shook off your jacket, tossing it too. The urgency and the lack of explanation kept Peter staring, lured and locked in. It kept him speechless as you grabbed the edges of your sweatshirt and pulled it up and off of you; kept him speechless at the crimson lining his cheeks at the sight of you in a camisole, and instantly catching his breath at the sight of teeth accenting your biceps. Scars outlining multiple rows of another person’s teeth. Dried blood and teeth. 

Peter nearly dropped the pile of paper’s in his hands, but he played it off. His fingers rubbed down the length of his cupid’s bow, down his lips and over his chin. It was his obvious tell, to you, that he was stressed, undeniably worried. Consumed, tormented. “Holy shit, Y/N.. What the hell..” He didn’t even have the words, the strength, to keep the sentence going. 

Forcing oxygen, you forced a front with it. Mustered courage, false strength. You knew he saw the way your arms trembled, that he saw through any kind of mask you’d try to develop. “Pietro–” You took another breath, sharper than before. “Pietro bit me. It healed him..” You found the words, right before grief finally caught up to you. “Right before they...”

Your focus steadied right under Peter’s eyeline, knowing you’d break if you met his stare. He could see you, watch you break, but somehow there was some kind of fake security when you didn’t have to watch his reaction to it. 

But then again, Peter knew you, and you’d forgotten that. His hands were gentle when they grabbed your shaking shoulders. When you’d found the second of strength to meet his eyes, you watched him study the length of you; he assessed your damage, made up stories in his head of all the ways they’d tortured you. Tears welled in your eyes at the sight of tension in his jaw and the agony in his eyes. 

He didn’t say anything before he pulled you to him, hugging you with more words than he knew how to articulate in that moment. The tender press of his hand to your back, the nudge of his head against your temple, and the gentle squeeze of his arms around you, it told you everything. This was the way he’d pictured reuniting with you, this is what kept him going. Finding you. He’d missed you. 

And you’d missed him. You’d forced yourself to forget it, to be blinded by anger, to forget the way you were the last time you’d seen him. You threw your arms around him, finally allowing yourself to break into pieces. You unlocked the doors that you’d forced your feelings behind, broke down the walls you forced your emotions to fortify within. You finally gave yourself the time to process everything you had to witness this past month. 

The separation and deaths of your found family, the unbearable torture and experimentation HYDRA had you undergo, the unwanted reunion with your parents; watching and causing the death of your best friend, being the reason Natasha wasn’t with you right now, and finally, greeting your boyfriend by kissing his cheek with a slap across the face. 

Being in his touch made the world feel normal, made you feel selfish. It felt selfish to forget what state society was in. It reminded you of a life before the outbreak, before everything was poisoned and damaged and dystopian. It felt incredibly selfish to be in a state so domestic, especially when the weight of the world was on your shoulders. 

Peter pulled back from the hug just enough to see your face. To hold your face in his hands and wipe the tears from your eyes. To see you. He took a few deep breaths, almost like he was trying to remind you to breathe as well. His hands slid down your jaw, your neck, cautiously running his fingers over the scarring on your arms. “Was he–” He paused, “Was he the only one who bit you?”

The tears felt stale now. You sucked in a breath, bringing yourself back into the harshness of the present moment. “No.” You sniffled, taking the cue to clear your throat and forcefully return the little amount of strength you had left. “When he came back, they had two other subjects bite me.” You glanced from one arm to the other, seeing as both limbs were decorated. “The other two bites were from walkers on the street.. Before you found me.” Both of you could see the lingering flakes of drying blood lining your biceps. 

You pulled back from Peter’s touch, grabbing your sweatshirt from the floor. Just as you went to force it over your head, Peter gently grabbed your arm. His eyes traced from the jawed scarring up to meet yours. “Can I–?” He cut himself off, taking a small breath. A nervous pause. “There’s running water here. You should shower.” He pulled his touch back with the comment.

A small smile touched your lips. “Are you saying I smell bad, Parker?” The response triggered from a forgotten instinct, finding that small pocket of normalcy between the two of you. And Peter mirrored your smile, laughing a little. 

“Well, I was planning on telling you earlier, but you slapped me.” It was a joke, and you knew it was a joke, but you cringed at the memory. You felt the apology bubble up your throat, and you parted your lips to tell him, but he cut you off before you got the chance. “C’mon. I’ll get you some clothes.” And he led the way. 

Silence filled the open space between the two of you. It was much more comfortable than before, despite the unspoken panic and urgency that laced the undertones; despite the unspoken fact that the two of you were still technically dating. 

Peter opened a door for you, flipping his right arm over to check the time on his wrist–watch. “We’re losing sunlight, so I think we should crash here tonight and battle–plan, then we can head out tomorrow after sunrise.”

Your eyes scanned the unclaimed bedroom before you, and how there were items of yours from the compound that you’d completely forgotten about. That you learned to grieve like they were lost in a fire. Your favorite band tees were salvaged, a music box that Sam gifted you sat on a bookshelf—a bookshelf with at least fifteen of the books you once had kept upstate. Empty spaces sat between certain spots and books, indicating that some series would always remain spacious and missing in their collections. 

You couldn’t get your lips to touch from the shock and gratitude that ledged between them. It hit you like bricks that Nat and Peter had been expecting you, it left you speechless to think about just how long they had been. You were in captivity for a month. This was a project. 

Clearing his throat, Peter leaned against the wooden doorframe beside you, giving you enough space between you to keep things comfortable. “While Natasha tried to find a way back to base to save you, I had some free time.”

The comment made you finally meet his eyes. His stare had already been settled on you, studying you in a way he hadn’t gotten the chance to since your reunion; taking you in like he used to, scanning your face for a reaction. 

The apology you owed him from earlier blistering in the back of your throat, forced back by the chokehold of tears, the hollowness weighting your tongue. And once again, as you gathered the strength to say it, Peter cut you off. 

He cleared his throat again, “I’ll go start us some dinner. You, uh– You let me know if you need anything.” And Peter rushed off, as if he knew what you were trying to say to him. It were like he didn’t feel deserving of the apology you’d been wanting to give him. 

It broke your heart to think like that. 

Or perhaps, he was scared he was losing you. That you’d both felt like the domestic bond you had built didn’t have a place in this new world. At least, not yet. But was that just the two of you punishing yourselves?

You’d kept the train of thought as you showered, washing off the trauma and painful experiences you’d lived through this past month. It felt freeing to wipe yourself clean, to run your fingers through a head of refreshed hair. Scrubbing off your wounds, the dirt under your fingernails, the scabbing on your limbs. 

A shower was desperately needed, a liberty you’d taken advantage of when it was at easy access. So were clean clothes. 

You chose a short sleeved band tee that you’d taken from Peter’s wardrobe a few months back; it was a black graphic Red Hot Chili Peppers top, his favorite. It made you curious on why he kept it with your clothes, but it also warmed your heart at the remnant of the memory; he always used to say that it looked better on you. 

The smell of food quickly filled your senses the second you’d left your room, and the loud growl of your stomach reminded you of just how long you’d gone without eating properly. HYDRA had really only served you necessary nutrients through an IV needle, so the scent of roasted vegetables was a surprise more than welcomed. Even if Peter could only cook canned food. 

You practically inhaled your food, and Peter gladly gave you the bulk of it. He made you drink two glasses of water, mixing in electrolyte substances in with them too. He took care of you, and it made your heart swell. 

Once you were done eating, he wouldn’t let you clean your dish, either. Not because he treated you like a guest, but because he had a spot on the counter next to a first–aid kit ready for you. 

The room was quiet, and it had been. It wasn’t only due to how dire your need for food was, but also because the two of you were lost in thought; finally assessing and processing things you didn’t allow before knowing the other was okay, finally realizing just how much the weight of the world rested in your hands. 

Peter was silent, focused, as he opened the kit. You kicked your legs back and forth on the kitchen counter, watching the crease of his brow as he avoided your eye contact. He stood beside you, scared to stand too close to your personal space, but keeping minimal distance in case the company was appreciated. He didn’t want to read your mind, but he also didn’t know how to ask these questions. And you couldn’t blame him. 

You didn’t either. 

He grabbed a rag, blotting it with rubbing alcohol as he pushed up the sleeve of your his shirt. “This might sting a little.” He warned, keeping his focus on which of the bite–marks were the freshest. 

Your lips pursed, raising a slight brow at him. “I think I’ve handled worse–” The sentence trailed off as your lips pressed to a harsh line, quick to take back your words. It did sting, and you pressed your free hand to the counter to try and subside it. “Shit..” You muttered, cursed, tried to focus on anything but the pain. 

Without a word, Peter opened his free hand on the counter beside yours, offering it if needed. And it was, very much so. You took it without question, not even waiting a second before you squeezed it in yours, counting the seconds it took for the fizzling liquid to do its work. To fade away. Knowing how long you had undergone torture in the HYDRA base, you knew these wounds were better off cleaned in Peter’s care than ignored. 

Taking in deep breaths, you looked up at Peter. His eyes fixed just beyond your eyeline, watching his movements with careful accuracy. You tried to guess his thoughts by analyzing the way he looked at your arm, but you knew your method of mind–reading would always fall short. And just when you’d gotten the courage to part your lips and talk about his band–tee, Peter beat you to breaking the silence. 

“Was it really my fault?”

The question certainly took your mind off the burns now lacing your arm. You scanned his eyes again when he finally met yours, trying to find the right way to answer him. Your bottom lip lodged between your teeth for a second, but you knew you couldn’t find the answer in avoidance. 

“I can’t say it’s not.. But we shouldn’t have hid so much from you…” You spoke honestly. The way his shoulders squared, you could tell he didn’t want to hear it. Perhaps he’d wished that you would’ve lied to his face, but that wasn’t who you were. Still, this wasn’t his grievance to carry. You blamed yourself for the way he was punishing himself for everything. “I’m sorry I slapped you.”

Suddenly, his expression shifted. He paused what he was doing to study you, brows sewn together in confusion for a brief second. “But you were right–”

You cut him off, shaking your head. “I was wrong to pin it on you.” Your statement was solid, a foundation of earnesty. Your hand found a place on his cheek, immediately realizing that it was too comfortable, too intimate. Quickly, you moved it to his shoulder, hoping he wouldn't have noticed. “I took out my anger on you—” The right words to say scrambled in your brain, but what came out was truthful, and Peter could see that. “I–I was hurt. I thought you’d compromised the mission because you didn’t trust me.”

“I compromised the mission because I found out they’d sent you alone into HYDRA.” His entire demeanor melted into empathy and understanding. Your vulnerability seemed to melt the weight of how much responsibility he’d taken on for the downfall of society. “I trusted you completely. I thought they’d blindsided you– Sent you back to the place that we had saved you from..” Peter was the only person who knew the extent of your upbringing with HYDRA, even though most of the Avengers had read your file. 

The two of you stared at each other for a moment, both having more understanding of the other. 

Peter went back to cleaning out your arms, nearly done with one of them. “I should’ve trusted you. I should’ve stayed out of it–”

Your grip tightened on his hand. “Peter—”

“I should’ve stayed at base. None of this would’ve happened..” His jaw tightened, upset with himself. “I’m sorry–”

Your hand found his cheek again, and this time, you kept it there. “Peter.” You waited until he gave you his attention, until there was confidence in the fact that he was listening. “We can’t live in the past like this.. It happened, and now we’re going to fix it.” The ghost of a broken smile found your lips, trying to feed him reassurance. “But for what it’s worth.. I forgive you.”

The words he processed eased the ache of his sorrows. Peter’s posture relaxed, but he tried not to show it too much. “Thank you..” He spoke quietly, grabbing a bandage and a strip of gauze from the box beside you. Peter gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing your hold, using both of his hands to wrap your left arm. 

Both of you fell into a comfortable bit of silence for a few minutes before the rest of the night filled with casual small talk and tiny fits of laughter. You finally allowed yourself to sit in it, be present with him; be present with the selfishness of being happy for a minute. You’d missed seeing Peter light up when he spoke about certain topic, the way he was so attentive to you; how thoughtful he was, the way his tongue poked out on occasion when he was focused. 

And you’d never know that he missed you just the same. Being in your presence alone seemed to lift a grievance off his shoulders. Neither of you asked whether you were still dating or not, but neither of you felt the need to. 

Because you both shared the same thought: you were going to find Natasha and you were going to right your wrongs. You were going to save the world, together. 

lmk 😼😼

mcu!peter parker | zombie–apocalypse au. CHAPTER ONE.

IN WHICH you’re the last hope to saving the world from HYDRA’s destructive zombie outbreak.

read chapter two | three | four | five.

✨masterlist.✨

1.9k.

“You were born for this.” The words were tattooed on your existence, handwritten on your destiny. “We made you for this.” And your fate was embroidered with such words, such purpose, even as your footsteps echoed on the ashes of humanity. The last remaining remnants that society existed were crushed beneath your leather boots, and broken along the cracking pavement. 

It had been four weeks since the outbreak. Four weeks since you’d been kidnapped by HYDRA; since you’d been separated from the avengers, since the death of Steve Rogers and since the downfall of America. The rest of the world was slowly catching flame with the fire that HYDRA started, withering away at the mercy of people who were stupid enough to try and fly out to salvation. 

But this virus wasn’t a disease, it was a creation. These infected people weren’t able to be cured, they needed to be stopped. And the only person who could stop it kept trekking on the pavement, white knuckles on a gun and a backpack. 

The fate of the world rested in that backpack, in your brain, in your blood. And you didn’t even give yourself time to process. You'd been running for days.

Natasha’s words still rang through your head like some kind of broken record, a senseless beacon of hope you tried to make some sense of. She’d come to free you, to inform you of the state world currently laid in. “If we get separated, I’ll find you.” She’d used the gravest tone you’d ever heard her muster. “And if you get lost, meet me in Massachusetts.”

You never would’ve thought that she’d be the one to get lost. To sacrifice herself just to get you out, and you knew why. You also knew you’d find her. You had to, needed to, or she’d find you. You’d find each other. Somehow, someway, soon, you'd be reunited. It was only a matter of time. 

But that was a week ago. 

Thank God you made it out, yet you were anything but hopeful. You could tell this was only the beginning. The start of something gut—wrenchingly inhumane. You were nearly out of New York, trekking on foot to Massachusetts like she’d told you to. Driving would put you at too much risk right now, especially when trying to journey alone. This helped you to better navigate your surroundings. 

Hearing the low glottaled groan of an infected, you craned your head in the direction. They were stuck beside a tree, webs restraining them to the trunk and their body deteriorating as the hours passed. The stench of their corpsing complexion alone was lethal. Still, you knew what you had to do. 

Aiming your gun, you kept your distance. Loading, squinting an eye, and firing like HYDRA was right all along: you were born for this. You made a clean shot, putting the victim out of their misery and continuing to trek along the ruins of a road. 

Until you heard a twig snap behind you. 

Your instincts were too fast as you loaded and aimed your gun once again, turning on your heel behind you to find yourself staring at a familiar face. Your eyes widened, lowering your gun only a little. 

“Peter Parker?” It was the first time you’d spoken in days. The words felt wrong on your tongue, and seeing him was something you weren’t sure what to make of. 

He looked older, matured, aged. Aged by the things he had to endure when the world ended; matured by the things he had to do to protect people, to witness the losses he did. He was older, in experience, in life, and in the days he knew were numbered. 

His hands were raised, but his eyes told you that he knew you wouldn’t shoot him. You were classmates, after all. Teammates, Avengers. Something more. You should’ve felt relief to have seen him, and part of you did. But the other part of you drove the actions that led you to put your gun in its holster at your hip and pace towards him. Peter stayed where he was as you slapped him across the face. Your blood boiled with rage. 

And he just let it. 

“This is your fault!” You spat at him, fighting the urges to punch him, to hug him, but even you knew that anger would get you nowhere; even you knew a huge part of you was undeniably grateful to see him alive. Unharmed. 

His jaw clenched and he’d finally averted his eye contact. Peter knew you were right, even as outlandish as the accusation was. “Y/N, please..” His voice was softer than you remembered it being, perhaps because of how apologetic his tone was. It almost thawed your anger. It almost reminded you that perhaps things weren’t as grim as you’d begun to believe. You couldn’t let it, though. 

Your fist raised to throw a punch. A roar far off in the distance ceased your actions. Your whole body froze, and Peter’s did, too. Cold blood and a trembling fist to your side, and you looked to Peter for a directive out of this. 

He grabbed your hand without hesitation, leading you into the forest beside you. Not a word was said. You were silent, invisible to your surroundings. Cutting through overgrown greenery, and stepping over fallen branches and knee–high grass. Peter led you past trees and bushes, over rotting bodies and patches of dry dirt, until you got to a twenty foot gate randomly placed in the middle of it. 

Like procedure, he placed his thumb on a touch screen and the gate opened, programmed to only open up a crack so he could squeeze through, and thus you behind him. The gate closed less than a second after you were through it, and just beyond it was a bolted door. 

Peter dropped your hand, unlocking the door and helping you inside. This must have been where he’d been resigning since the last time you saw him. He, too, had been taken by HYDRA when you were. He, too, had been worked and experimented on, just the same as you. And he, too, wasn’t a stranger to the way the two of you led the world to its demise. 

Did he know the part he played in all of this, though? Truly?

Silence reigned over the two of you as you calmed down, and Peter led you through the bunker he had been living in. There were walls of canned food, loads of weapons, working technology, and piles of papers. He’d been writing, documenting. 

Perhaps, he’d been alone. 

Peter was the first to break the silence. “Are you hungry?” He’d noticed you staring. “Cold? Want a change of clothes?” Even when the world had gone to shit, he still knew how to be a good host. Even when he knew you were upset with him, he knew how to make you feel comfortable. Seen. 

It took you back to moments before everything happened. Before everything changed. It brought back memories of a world you now only knew in slumber, things almost too painful to think about in waking moments. 

Taking a breath, you turned to face him. “Are you living here alone?” You ignored his questions. Typical. The query ached in your throat, you had to ask it. “Are there– umm.. Are there any of us left besides–”

“This is Natasha’s place.” He knew who you were trying to ask about. You watched the way he turned on a heater in the middle of the room. How his shoulders hung lower the deeper in thought he got, how many seconds were in between his answer and the realization that it might just be the three of you left. “I don’t know who’s left. Besides you and me, and Nat.”

And that’s when you realized the part she was playing in this; she had been protecting Peter, the same way that she’d been protecting you. The two of you were merely kids, after all. Clinging to the hope of getting back to a world where you could get college degrees, and they would mean something. 

You walked further into the room, following the warmth as it poured into the space. “When was the last time you saw her?” The rage you’d felt towards Peter just moments prior had already begun to thaw, already losing sight on where the anger came from. You were more focused, more worried, about Nat right now.

He sat down on a chair in the space, tapping his finger on the arm of it and bouncing his leg as he pondered. “The last I saw her, she was on her way to get you.”

That realization made your heart stop. Your feet glued to the floor, and your whole body froze. It seemed like Peter’s body caught whatever sensation of panic flooded yours. He froze, too. 

“Peter.. That was a week ago.” The words fell heavy from your lips, like the fate of the world was tied to them. And it was. 

He stared back at you, not daring to break the eye contact. Whether it was to provide comfort, or to better read your expression. “I know.” Even he understood the weight of this. The weight of whether Natasha was still alive, safe. Or worse. 

You looked at him, taking a breath. Realizing you were quick to your anger earlier, and realizing that maybe Peter didn’t know what role he played in this. Regret put you in a chokehold, the bitterness of death taking reign on the tension in the room. It stole any kind of wishful thinking you’d had, and made its dire presence known by sounding off in the ticking of a clock—hand. 

Grabbing your backpack, you went for the folder you’d kept inside. You fumbled to grab the papers, handing them over to Peter. “We need to find her.” 

A puzzled look danced across his face in the light. He wasn’t entirely sure what you were getting at, or what you handed him, which meant you were right. He had no idea what part he played in this. “We need to find her, and we need to get the fuck out of this continent.”

He looked through the papers, eyebrows pressing together as he processed the writings. “Y/N, what the fuck is this?”

“Did she tell you what our plan was?” You asked him, trying not to let your anxiety boil over. You needed to keep your composure. “Did she ever tell you what we need to do?”

“What the fuck.. What the fuck am I looking at?” He ignored your question. 

You looked at Peter and took a deep breath. Now wasn’t the time to panic, you knew it wasn’t. “Peter, I know how to stop this outbreak.”

Instantly, he met your eyes from where he sat, his entire expression changing the tone it directed at you. Misunderstanding morphed to confusion, curiosity. Hope. “How?” He forced the words out, needing to know the answer. 

“We need to find Natasha, and get to Wakanda.” You told him, hugging your knees closer to your chest. “When we get to Wakanda, they’ll know what to do.”

Peter wasn’t satisfied with that. “And then what? How does the world just go back to normal?” His questions were urgent, but not judgmental. He didn’t ask with a tone to attack you. In fact, the weight they gained told you he might’ve caught on to what you were about to say. “How do we cure these people?”

Anxiety ran a course through your system, gnawing at your insides and sending a chill down the length of your body. You stilled, minus the fidgeting of your fingers. Your breaths became trembled, and you procrastinated your answer. “We have to get me to Wakanda.. so that they can kill me.”

And the whole world went quiet. 

okay so i wrote this with you and peter getting dusted and how tony would cope, but pt. two will be how you and peter cope with tony’s death🤭🤭

i promise it’s still angsty!

WARNINGS – gory, angsty asf, rewriting the ending of infinity war so if you watched it recently it might feel repetitive, i forget if there’s swearing but here you go just in case<3

✨masterlist.✨

1.5k.

You knew it was risky to follow Tony and the wizard that morning. God, you knew it was risky. It’d been like any other morning–out for a run with your dad: talking about projects, talking about his engagement to Pepper, watching the immediate protective shift he had when a portal appeared on the shoreline path in front of you.

The grave look on his face said it all.

And you knew the risks. You’d signed up for these kinds of dangers when you were born with the Stark name. It was a target sewn to your back by DNA. The same genes gave you the stubborn spirit to sneak onto an alien spacecraft to help your dad; genes that made you look like the spitting image of him when you’d found out Peter Parker also had the same idea.

In hindsight, you were glad your boyfriend made the trip. It made you feel better protected.

Especially seeing as you lost.

If someone were to tell you on your run that morning that you’d take a punch to the gut and a dagger to the thigh by later that evening, you would stand speechless. If someone were to have told you that you’d lose this badly, and nearly lose your dad in the process, you wouldn’t believe them.

Laying on the dry–graveled surface of whatever planet this was, you pushed yourself up as high as you could. Your upper thigh screamed with blood and the burn of a fresh cut. It was the deepest one you’d ever received. A hushed whimper forced a response out of you at the feeling, making your father turn his attention towards you.

You regretted even being there the second it all happened.

With his head turned to his left, toward you, Tony lost his footing, meeting the fatal kiss of Thanos’ dagger right to the stomach. You watched the blood instantly choke out through his lips, and the way he stammered back as the purple giant shoved him harshly into a rock.

“NO!!” You shouted, as if your cry stop it. As if it would save him. You couldn’t lose your father. You couldn’t live without him. You didn’t even want to think of the possible outcome.

One of your arms gave out, shoving you face–first back into the ground beneath you. Your eyes welled with tears, and you tried to fight against your own pain to make your way over, to say goodbye. To try and fix this. You had to fix this.

“Stop!” The world stilled as Dr. Strange spoke up “Spare his life..” Dr. Strange sat up, pained. Pained and protesting, but willing. The tone of his voice gave you chills. “And I’ll give you the stone.” It wasn’t a request, nor a bargain, rather than a demand.

“No tricks?” The single drop of blood glistened off Thanos’ temple in the several setting suns of the planet, highlighting how little patience Thanos had left, too. Highlighting just how much Tony Stark bled out at his mercy beside him.

Without a word, Stephen maneuvered the air and the Time Stone appeared between his thumb and his first finger.

And thus, Thanos agreed.

In a manner of moments, you’d pressed yourself off the ground, standing. You used some tech your father lent you to spray some sort of temporary stitch–up over your wound for the time being. Looking up, you met your father’s eyes and saw the stabbed indent disappear. Dr. Strange handed the stone over with a white flag and a twinge of regret. You felt the world shift as it happened, the gravity of it growing heavy.

Everything you knew was changing.

Thanos vanished, leaving you all to sit in the feeling and process what had happened. You felt it in your gut that this loss would be horrendous, but the only thing that ran through your mind was making sure your dad was okay.

Limping, you rushed over as quickly as you could, hugging him with all the strength you had to muster. You didn’t care that you were crying. You didn’t care that your body was lined with dirt and blood and bruises. You held him tightly, and kept yourself from processing what the hell happened. Kept yourself from the distraction of Peter Quill blasting the space that Thanos just stood in.

“Did we just lose?” He asked, misery and frustration and denial clear in his voice.

But you and Tony ignored him. Your father held your face in his hands, taking you in with the fear that it might be his last time ever doing so. “Whatever happens, I love you.” He told you, and the words tattooed in your memory and stood alone among anything else he’d ever told you. You cling to them with every ounce of energy you had left.

“Whatever happens, I love you too.” You repeated back to him, ignoring the trembling in your lip.

Peter rushed over to the two of you, hugging both of you tightly. Both your dad and Peter helped you stand upright, but Tony handed you off to Peter while he confronted the wizard.

Tony looked at Strange with a look of both gratitude and confusion. “Why would you do that?”

“It was the only way.” Dr. Strange took a few shaky breaths, his expression unreadable. “We’re in the endgame now..” Was the only response he allowed, the universe allowed.

“Uhh, Mister Stark!” Peter called out, his grip morphing on you. The way he held you suddenly got tighter, more secure, more protective; as if you slipped through his fingers, or you would, or you were dying. His breath quickened, like something grave was happening. “Mister Stark!! Something’s happening!”

Tony didn’t waste a second before he walked over to the two of you, watching as Peter lowered you to the ground, cradling you in his arms. Nothing was happening, as far as you were aware, you didn’t feel anything. And Tony didn’t see anything.

But the sweat that traced Peter’s temple wasn’t something unnoticed. The way he held you, the way he looked at you, Tony knew Peter was sensing the state of their loss. “Kid?” Tony asked, sitting beside you two, grabbing one of your hands and squeezing Peter’s shoulder with the other. “Kid, what’s happening?”

Peter was between hyperventilating and being entirely speechless. His head shook rapidly, glancing from you and Tony. “I’m not–” Tears lined his eyes, quick to run down his face. “I’m not sure.. But I don’t–”

“Something’s happening.”

Each of you turned to Mantis as she spoke, soon obliterating, turning to dust on spot and dissipate into nothing. She was simply gone.

Panic. Pure panic flooded the air.

Drax’s focus went to his hand as it started in his fingers, his hand disappearing. “Quill?” His tone was nothing but concernment, uncertainty. Then he was gone, too.

“Steady, Quill.” Your dad quipped, watching the space where Peter Quill stood.

It started in his legs, traveling up his body as he turned into the same textured substance. “Oh, man..” And his face lingered, imprinting the dust before blowing off with the breeze.

“Tony..” Stephen spoke up, seeing the look in your dad’s eyes. Seeing the thoughts as they ran courses, miles, laps in Tony’s head. “It was the only way.” He repeated. His tone was apologetic as he, too, fractured into immeasurable pieces. His body turned to molecules, fading into the air.

Peter swallowed thickly, beads of sweat dripping from his hairline. His knuckles were white around your hand as you brought them to your lips and kissed it. You weakly squeezed your father’s hand, smiling up at the both of them. “I love you guys.” And as if you knew what was happening, spouting from your legs and spreading to your fingers, you turned to dust, too.

Your father tried to catch it, squeezing his fingers tightly around the space your hand had just been. He felt tears sting his eyes as you vanished in front of him. His whole world, his daughter, gone in a matter of seconds.

“Mister Stark..” Peter broke the deafening silence. “I don’t–” His eyes studied the hand that had just held yours, eyes glossy with grief and denial. “I don’t feel so good..”

His breaths were choked, ached, agonized as his legs gave way. Tony watched the way he turned to dust just as everyone else had. He kept hold of Peter’s shoulder, speechless. Tony couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

Peter looked to him, panicked. Completely and utterly panicked. “I don’t wanna go.” He repeated the phrase like it was all he knew, “I don’t wanna go. I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go–” And when the pain became immeasurable, undeniable; when his fate was sealed, he took a final breath, clenching his jaw to try and keep himself from breaking in his final moment. “I’m sorry..” And just like that, he was gone.

He was gone, and Tony was alone. He stared at Nebula, nervous that if he looked away, she’d disappear too. The two didn’t know each other well at all, but her company was something he grasped onto like water. He clung to anything and everything she had to offer, hoping to God they’d make it out of this.