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Spiders have three life cycles. When between cycles, it can leave the spider vulnerable to threats. And for those spiders who make it through, it amounts to a kind of... rebirth.
SPIDER-MAN: BRAND NEW DAY
In Theaters Now | dir. Destin Daniel Cretton
Synopsis: You never knew writing a few words on the back of a stranger’s letter would reach the eyes of the man who swore the world had forgotten him.
WC: 1551
Category: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, BND!Peter Parker, Mentions of Loneliness, Reader is a Photographer {Not Proof Read Since I’m Lazy LMAO)
AHHHHH THE MOVIE WAS SO GOOD!! MY ANGSTY HEART IS BEATING WITH EXCITEMENT.
[SLIGHT SPOILERS (IF YOU'D EVEN CALL IT THAT) BELOW THE CUT]
『••✎••』
You found the letter by accident, tucked against a ventilation duct on the rooftop of a six-story brick building on the edge of the Lower East Side, a place you’d climbed for the unobstructed view of the Williamsburg Bridge catching the morning light. The golden hour was your favorite—a brief window when the city looked less like a concrete jungle and more like a carefully constructed model, all sharp edges and soft shadows.
Your camera was heavy against your shoulder, the strap digging in. You’d already got the shot—a lone cyclist on the bridge, a silhouette against the rising sun—but you lingered, inhaling the scent of damp concrete and last night’s rain. That was when you saw it: a single, creased piece of paper, folded into a tight square and pinned by a loose bit of wire.
Curiosity, an old friend you could never quite shake, got the better of you. You crouched, the worn knees of your pants pressing against the gravel-strewn tar. The paper looked as if it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times, the corners soft and frayed.
When you opened it, the ink was slightly smudged in places, as if from a hesitant hand or maybe a few drops of something you couldn’t quite place. The handwriting was a messy, hurried scrawl, all sharp angles and leaning letters. It didn’t look like a love letter, not really. It looked more like a confession.
And that was exactly what it was.
"Hi, my name is Peter Parker, and you don’t remember me, but I have something to tell you that’s going to sound crazy. But it’s the truth, and I know you’re going to believe me, because you’re very good at telling when I’m lying…"
The letter went on, a rambling, disjointed explanation that spoke of loss so profound it felt physical. It didn’t go into detail, didn’t name names or events, but you didn’t need them. The feeling was unmistakable. It was the ache of being a ghost in your own life, of watching people you love live on as if you never existed.
That was the part that hooked you, that lodged itself somewhere deep behind your ribs. You’d felt it yourself—walking through crowded streets, sitting in bustling cafes, a silent observer in a world that felt perpetually just out of reach. You’d spent years capturing the city through a lens, always a step removed, a voyeur of other people’s lives. This letter was a reflection of that feeling, written from the other side.
You looked up from the page, the camera suddenly feeling impossibly heavy. The sun was higher now, the magic of the golden hour fading. The city was awake, the hum of traffic a distant thrum. You thought about the person who wrote this—this Peter Parker who claimed not only to be forgotten but to have been the masked hero swinging through these very streets.
It was absurd. It was the stuff of comic books. You could hardly believe it, but you somehow knew that the pain on the page was real. You knew real when you saw it. I mean, you’d built a career on it.
You didn’t have a pen, which, honestly, you never did, but you did have a fine-point Sharpie in your camera bag for all those times of writing labels on memory cards. So, using what limited supplies you had, you pulled it out, its black cap tight between your teeth. You turned the letter over to the blank, slightly grimy backside. For a moment, your mind was blank. What did you say to a ghost?
What did you say to someone who had lost everyone? You couldn’t promise to remember him. You didn’t even know him.
You settled on the truth. Your own small, quiet truth.
"Dear Peter Parker,"
As you wrote, you believed you were writing to an anonymous stranger, one of the eight million stories in the naked city. A story that had, for one reason or another, landed at your feet. You knew the odds of him ever seeing your reply were slim to none. It was a message in a bottle tossed into a sea of steel and glass, and you told yourself it wasn’t about the response. Because it couldn’t be.
And yet..
If you had stayed just an hour longer, you would have discovered that the ghost you’d written to was real. And that the ghost would be standing exactly where you were, reading your words in the same dawning light as you’d just read his.
The letter was never forgotten. In fact, it singlehandedly became the most important object in Peter Parker’s apartment. He had returned home after a grueling patrol—a twelve-hour shift that had left him with a sprained wrist, a black eye, and a profound sense of isolation that was becoming more and more familiar as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months.
He hadn’t slept in almost two days. And other than the overwhelming sorrow that seemed to be swallowing him whole, he didn’t know if it was the exhaustion, or the reminders of how much he missed his Aunt May, or if he was just… broken. But whatever it was, it was a bad combination.
He had the letter in his pocket. And after this specific patrol, he had nearly burned it to a crisp with a cheap lighter he’d found in a junk drawer. He had held the paper over the sink, the flame almost licking at the edges, the words about to be erased forever. But then he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Because even though no one remembered him, he remembered them.
Instead, he left it on that rooftop. A last-ditch effort to purge himself of the one thing that was tethering him to a life that no longer existed. He didn’t expect a response. He didn’t expect anything. He just wanted it gone.
And so, of course, he didn’t last more than a day in that state. He told himself he was going on another quick patrol to clear his head, to burn off the restless energy that was humming under his skin. But he knew he was lying to himself. He was going back to that rooftop.
Needless to say, seeing the words—your words—on the back of that letter was a shock. He hadn’t even expected the letter to still be there. And yet not only was it there, but it had a new addition. A response addressed to him.
"Dear Peter Parker," the neat, looping script began. "I’m sorry I’m not the person you wanted this letter to reach, but in a way, I’m glad it was me. Because reading this, I felt the city get a little less lonely for a second. I don’t know you. I don’t know the person you lost, and I don’t know the full weight of the story you’re carrying. But I do know, for what it’s worth, from one ghost to another, you’re not as alone as you think you are. Someone saw your letter. Someone read it. And someone, somewhere, is hoping you get a second chance at happiness. Even if you don’t think you deserve it…"
"And if you are who you say you are," it continued, the ink growing a little bolder, as if the writer had found their conviction, "the city needs its ghosts. Even the ones no one can see."
He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until the world started to tilt, the edges of the rooftop blurring into a hazy gray. He sank to his knees, the gravel biting through the thin fabric of his suit, the letter clutched in his hand. The paper trembled against his palm as he read it again. And then a third time, his eyes tracing each curve and line of your handwriting.
In all the months since the spell, since he’d become a walking, talking, breathing paradox, this was the first time he felt anything other than the crushing weight of his own invisibility. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t joy. It was a strange, aching warmth that spread through his chest, almost like a flicker of light in a room that had been dark for so long he’d forgotten what illumination felt like.
The city needed its ghosts.
He folded the letter carefully, the creases now permanently etched into the paper, a new set of lines added to its history. It felt different now—heavier, more significant. It was no longer a relic of a life lost, but a reminder of why he should fight for the one he still had.
And that night, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he didn’t find himself tossing and turning on a lumpy mattress, staring at a water-stained ceiling. He didn’t find himself listening to the symphony of sirens and shouting matches that were the soundtrack to his Lower Manhattan apartment. That night, he had the best sleep he’d had in months. A deep, dreamless, and—most importantly—restorative sleep. He woke up feeling lighter, the ever-present tension in his shoulders a little less severe, the ever-growing migraine in his mind a little quieter.
Who knew all it took was a few words from an unsent letter to make a ghost feel alive again?
You were ment to meet someone for tutoring when you meet Peter Parker. You go on dates but he keeps leaving you mid date. It’s only later when he appears bloody on your fire escape that you learn why.
Tags:
Peter Parker X fem!reader ,mostly fluff with a pinch of angst, no use of y/n, not proof read we die like men.
that’s it enjoy!
It had been a couple of weeks since you’d started seeing a guy from your class. You had taken up a job doing some tutoring for some extra cash when you had mistaken for the person that you were supposed to meet in the library. He introduced himself, “Hey, I’m Peter. I'm sorry I meant to be early, my aunt always said 5 minutes early is on time, but looks like you beat me to it.”
you chuckled and both said, “So where do you want to start?” Then you both realized what was going on. You got to talking as you killed time and it turned out that he was really smart.Like, way smarter than he led on. You guys spoke about advanced concepts within his engineering field and your biomedical. Bonus:he was really cute. As you saw who you were actually meeting you managed to ask him out for a coffee date which he reluctantly agreed to.
You would be lying if you didn't say that it was the first good date that you had been on in a while although, he had been cut short as he took a call and said it was a really important work emergency. Before he could run off he said, “This was awesome,” he said, his fist to his mouth glancing at his phone. "We have to do it again sometime.”
“I'll text you to set something up if you’d like.” you said as he halted half way through the door.
“I would love that!” he shouted, shutting the door of the coffee house behind him. His words had left you with a twist of giddyness and doubt.
This was routine for the next few dates,getting work calls at all hours. Including on a Saturday night. You guys were having a nice time at a bar in Hell's Kitchen. You were sharing how moving to this city was hard since you had no one when you had come from a town where everyone had known each other one way. He was just about to open up when the phone rang again and all you could do was sigh and turn to your drink. Before he picked up he took your hand so you faced him again. “ I’m so sorry that this keeps happening. I swear I’ll make it up to you.”
“I'm sorry petter but I can't help but think the worst when this keeps happening. I mean what job requires you to come in at 10pm on a saturday?” you take your hand from him and take a sip from your drink.
“I would explain but it’s… extremely delicate. I can't really share this with anyone.” you felt his graze strongly focused on you and his phone went absolutely crazy. He took your face in his hand, which was surprisingly coarse for a guy like him, and he gave you a kiss on the cheek before he said, “One day I'll be able to tell you, I promise.” After he paid for the tab, you were left to your devices. The taxi ride home was conflicting, you were nearly convinced that he had a girl that he was trying to hide but at the same time he sounded so genuine.But this pattern was extremely suspicious, he had mostly reminded you about the time he insisted on a study date at your house only to cut it short by saying he had something to do at home. The butterflies returned to your stomach when you remembered the kiss you shared at the bar.
When you arrived at home you decided that with a shower you were going to make your decision to contribute to the sneaking around or to end things. But it took you eating half the tub of ice cream in the fridge, lighting all the candles in your flat, along with watering all your plants in your fire escape to think of what to say. You were caught in the color of a particular pansy when you heard a loud thud on the fire escape above you. Grabbing the closest sharp object near you, which were a small pair of garden scissors, and hid into the shadows as you heard footsteps coming down the escape.
A red figure with a mask and blood all over approached the open window,the glow of your candles and the city below being your only lights. You finally spoke up, “who are you? What are you doing here? I’m armed!” you pointed your garden scissors at the figure as they held a hand up in defense.
A familiar voice said “W-wait. Hold up, it's me Peter!” he ripped his mask off to reveal a face covered in bruises and blood, you also noticed that he was holding his side with his left hand, covered in blood as well.
“My god, Peter, what the hell happened to you?” you dropped your “weapon” and came close to him to examine his injuries. He had a couple small cuts all around his body and one large one just under his ribs. When you helped him to your couch you scurried to find the box you had tucked away for first aid. When you switched on the lights you saw his suit was red and blue with webbing detail and all the dots connected. “Oh my god your spider-man” you almost dropped the box.
“Yes I’m so sorry for keeping it a secret from you… I really wanted to tell you but I guess you understand why now.” After he finished that sentence he took a deep breath in and winced, grabbing his side again.
“Oh I’m sorry I’ll freak out later.” You got over your initial shock and got to work. You helped him get out of the top part of his suit to get a better look at the cut. It was big but not that deep so you reached for the liquid stitches you had bought years ago to seal a cut of yours. It seemed so silly compared to this. You cleaned the wound with rubbing alcohol which caused Peter to whimper a bit and then applied the liquid stitches. You put gauze over it and covered it with medical tape. As you moved with his less severe injuries you began demanding answers.
“What the hell Peter? This doesn’t look like a work call to me.” You said tending to a cut above his eyebrow.
“Well technically this is work for me.” He said with a small smirk on his lips.
“It’s not work if you don't get paid.” You said raising your eyebrow and digging the cotton ball with rubbing alcohol into his cut making him whine.
“Okay, I’m sorry you’re right.” He grabbed your hand with the cotton ball. “ I would have told you sooner but, that kinda defeats the point of the whole anonymous super hero thing.” You budged a smile. And he kissed your hand.
When you were done your first aid kit was left scarce, “I still have so many questions.”
“Shoot.”
“Why would you come to me? I mean I’m just a med student. I think a hospital would probably be a better bet.” You threw your hands up.
“ They would take my mask off and we can’t have that.” He said, pressing his lips together.
“Yeah I guess we can’t” you rolled your eyes getting a glass of water for him. “How were you getting patched up before?” You said handing him the glass with a pain killer.
“I would do it myself.” He said before taking a sip to swallow the pill.
“thought you just dated med student chicks for free health care.” You said crossing your arms as you sat on the coffee table in front of him.
“No. You're the only girl I’ve dated… in a while.” He said finishing the water and handing you the glass. That was supposed to be a jab at him but it turned into you seeming like an asshole.
“I’m sorry, I’m still a bit shocked.” You set the glass down on the coffee table so you could fix a bandage on his chest, another superficial cut that would heal in a week tops. “and to be honest a bit mad.”
He looked at you as you fixed it, “you have every right to be. I kept ditching you on our dates.” You stopped what you were doing to look at his face. “ I want to treat you better. I know I can.” He looked away frustrated, pressing his lips together.
“Don’t worry Peter. I know that this is bigger than me and you. I’m just glad that you trust me enough.” You look away and play with your finger nails when you feel his gaze on you again. “How come, by the way? Why would you trust me so blindly?”
Your cheeks grew red when he said. “Because I know the kind of person you are.” He placed a hand on yours like he did at the bar. “Because I know that you're the type of person that would patch me up first and then ask questions. I have a six sense, a Peter tingle if you will.” He shrugged.
You chuckled. “Well, do you want a change of clothes? I might have something.” He nodded and you headed to your bedroom. When you returned he was on his feet looking at your picture of your high school friends while holding his side covered in bandages. “Those are from back home.” He turned to look at you, his eyes were a mix of sad and tired. “ We were so close. It was terrifying having to move knowing I have no one. I’m still not sure if it was worth it.”
“ I can relate to that.”He said looking down at his hands. “I had to sacrifice something dear to me in order to keep it safe. And I’m not sure if it will pay off either.”
You handed him a fresh set of clothes and said “only time will tell.” When you showed him where the nearest bathroom was you thought about the night you just had and compared it to the other dates that you had with him and this was the first time that you felt he was being completely honest with you.
You were laying on the couch freshly cleaned with your phone when he walked outside of the bathroom. No shirt and basketball shorts. “Hey the shorts are fine but the shirt really doesn’t fit me.” He held the black shirt in his hand as the other one held the bandages.
“yeah the shorts are my dad’s and the shirt was never going to fit. I just thought it would be funny to see you in a baby Tee.” You looked over your phone and he looked straight out of a movie. With cuts and scars all over his chest and abdomen. Some along his biceps and fore arms.
“Really funny.” He said in a sarcastic tone sitting down next to you. You took a quick look at his side to check for any bleeding on the bandages but when you look up you see him staring at you.
“What? Are you in any pain, do you want me to check your bandages?” pressed your hand against the wound under his ribcage.
“No. I'm fine its… I’m sorry I dragged you into this.” he placed his hand over yours again. “I wanted to have a good night with you at the bar and all i did was stress you out. I'm sorry.”
You leaned closer. “ It's okay Peter. If I had known I wouldn't have questioned you so much earlier. I’ve always looked up to spider-man and I can’t believe he’s such a sweet guy like you.” in that moment you felt him move closer and, as if attracted by a magnet, you as well moved forward. The moment was perfect. The light glow of the kitchen light, the sweet warm smell of the candles and the zing his lips felt on yours. For all you knew the kiss lasted for hours.You opened your eyes and saw Peter with a dopey smile.
Just as he was about to go for a second one he winced, grabbing at his side. “I think we better take it slow for now.” you chuckled playing with his hair. “Looks like you're not exactly in the best shape for more.” You patted your lap for him to rest his head.
He sighed, laying down putting a hand over his head. “I guess you're right.” just about you were going to reach for the remote on the coffee table when he slung a web to retrieve it.
“I don’t think I’ll get used to that.” You said switching on the tv.
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Just got back from the theatre, that movie was sooo good ♡
Masterlist | @peterparkers-bad-youtube-apology
Masterlist | @angelic-holland
webbed up | @spderjmz
a forbidden romance makes its way to the avengers compound
stuck like bricks | @lumosflairr
When peter swings through your window and asks you to build Star Wars legos with him, how could you say no? [stark!reader]
youre spiderman?! thats so cool! | @alrisyl
You go to Peter’s expecting a normal hangout, only to accidentally discover he’s Spider-Man… and react way more excited than he was prepared for.
SUGAR RUSH. | @musingsofheaven
Suit Up, Buttercup | @thollandsgirl2013
You blackmail Peter into letting you try on his Spider-Man suit. It fits too well, leading to making out—and Tony walking in.
Spider On The Ceiling | @/thollandsgirl2013
Sneaking in your room and then getting caught by Tony.
Reckless | @/thollandsgirl2013
After Peter sneaks in injured from patrol—again—you confront him.
A Hero's Flaw | @/thollandsgirl2013
Peter Parker and Y/N, classmates with clashing views on Spider-Man, constantly bicker until they unexpectedly start dating. When Y/N discovers Peter’s secret, their relationship is tested, leading to love, trust, and acceptance.
Love Stained | @/thollandsgirl2013
You surprise Peter with kisses to test your new lipstick, leaving him covered in maroon marks.
Failed Kiss | @/thollandsgirl2013
Peter attempts an upside-down kiss but fails, leading to laughter and May's concerned intervention.
The Weight of a Name, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5 | @happy74827
He believed the entire world had forgotten Peter Parker, until the girl he never spoke to in class said his name.
You knew it was him all this time. | @lily-lilith26
You were lying in your bed, reading one of your friend’s books you had stolen from his bag when you heard something poking at your window. Turns out it was a bloodied Spider-Man. Turns out you knew who he was from the start.
Peter Parker Masterlist | @waitimcomingtoo
When Did You Get Hot? | @/waitimcomingtoo
You see Peter for the first time in years and suddenly find it hard to be around him due to all his new improvements
Built A Fire Just To Keep Me Warm | @/waitimcomingtoo
you and Peter are in the same friend group but never got along. That doesn’t keep him from making sure you never get cold
The Script | @/waitimcomingtoo
you and Peter break up once you find out his secret and he falls apart
Two Normal Arms | @/waitimcomingtoo
when Peter breaks his arm, he notices he gets a lot of attention from you. So much attention that he prolongs the broken arm as long as he can
Misread signals | @sincerelyyoursz
you’ve dropping hints that you like peter, but he just doesn’t seem to be picking up what you’re putting down
save me | @teamred
right before peter tells you the truth of why he never has time for you, an accident occurs.
the reveal | @cloudybarnes
after years of being friends, y/n wants to tell peter just how she feels. the night she decides to tell him, she walks in on him in his spider-man suit and suddenly second guesses if it’s the right time
just for tonight | @/cloudybarnes
peter accidentally tells the avengers he has a girlfriend and now they all wanna meet her. in an attempt to not look like a liar, he recruits his best friend y/n to fake date him for the night so he can introduce them to her
Twenty–bucks: | @deathbyathousandspiders
you and peter kept your relationship secret from the avengers, and even with their theories, it wasn’t until a mission went south that the news came to light.
daddy issues | @/deathbyathousandspiders
Dusted, part two | @/deathbyathousandspiders
boy in the bubble | @/deathbyathousandspiders
security system | @/deathbyathousandspiders
out of sight, on his mind | @ptergwen
patching him up | @/ptergwen
a holly jolly christmas | @mcrdvcks
Peter has been on his own for a while now, but he notices you, his neighbor, hanging up lights by yourself.
misinterpreting his behavior | @luveline
not known or seen | @/luveline
jealous peter | @/luveline
family planning | @/luveline
Naps in the Quinjet | @alisonwritesimagines
After a rough mission, both you and Peter crash together in the quinjet.
Promises, Promises | @murdockparker
Five years is a long time to be together, Peter knew that. Peter also knew that everything was expensive—but he had an idea. A little juvenile, sure, but it was an idea regardless.
Perfectly A Little Late | @t-lostinworlds
with all things college, two jobs—tutoring on weekends and another at the bakery downtown—you're one busy girl. Peter completely understands that of course, admires it even. But it doesn't make it sting any less when you just so happen to forget about his birthday.
Places We Won’t Walk | @duskholland
when you have superpowers thrust upon you, sacrifices have to be made. some more willingly than others.
Breaking Windows | @/duskholland
You’re Thor’s daughter and may have a teeny tiny crush on your classmate and fellow Avenger, Peter Parker.
Zip It | @/duskholland
Hurt | @just-jordie-things
set a year after the war, where (y/n) keeps herself too busy raising her little sister, Morgan, to have any time for things like grief or Peter Parker
So Cold | @/just-jordie-things
after the fight in Berlin, anyone who had refused to sign the accords was incarcerated. and you and Peter had been on opposite sides of the fight.
heart rate monitor | @parkerpeter24
You Say the Whole World’s Ending | @vendettaparker
Peter mourns his greatest loss.
Talking to the Moon | @/vendettaparker
When Peter’s identity is leaked, he is forced to leave you and his old life behind, shattering your heart in the process.
worth it | @miley1442111
your boyfriend abides by the workplace rules, right?
No need to hide it | @spider-man-199999
Peter thought no one remembered him after the spell, however you did, but not for the reasons he was afraid you would. Mostly fluff and slow burn romance.
Stop, part 2 | @biisexualemma
you have no control over your actions or your powers and end up hurting peter
'No location found' | im-sleepdeprived
fix you up | @/im-sleepdeprived
Crush | @webslingingslasher
you like peter, he doesn't get it. until you confide in spider-man
frat!peter | @/webslingingslasher
meeting at the grave | @electrosspidey
you and Peter, despite being strangers to one another, have a much needed talk about mays death at her grave.
we can't | @spider-pxrkers
after years of being in love, you and peter learn you can’t have children.
joke about loving you? never. | @/spider-pxrkers
you’ve always been insecure about your weight. when peter tells you he loves you, you can’t help but believe he’s kidding.
SLIM PICKINS | @shortnspidey
Safe to say your love life was nonexistent. You’d tried everything, swiping through dating apps like it was your part-time job, smiling at strangers on the subway, even letting friends set you up with guys. Still, nothing. Just awkward dates, ghosted messages, and a lingering sense that love might just be a myth. But maybe, just maybe, the problem wasn’t you. Turns out, slim pickins didn’t apply when the best option was right under your nose.
he does melt! | @thceseus
‘seeing if he melts into a kiss' trend with your best friend, Peter Parker.
it's brutal out here | @/thceseus
Peter's class is going on a field trip to Stark Industries. The catch? No one believes he's an intern at SI and no one knows he's dating Tony Stark's daughter—other than Ned and MJ. Surely nothing will go wrong, right?
Skyline | @astronomyparkers
out of time | @mgparker
in which two best friends are in love and their feelings are revealed a bit too late
Snap | @tomholland1996simp
It’s been a long stressful day for Peter, so when you come over he can’t help but get mad at certain things you do. Leading to him snapping at his girlfriend.
breathe | @starkissedtom
in which y/n and peter are forced apart by something bigger than them. but when it’s meant to be, they’ll always find each other.
i'm all yours, i've got no control, part 2 | @mxnlgmy
after a mission leaves peter shaken and unstable, (y/n)’s told to keep her distance for his safety and hers. but when he shows up at her door in the middle of the night, trembling and barely holding on, it becomes clear: this is more than just recovery. whatever’s happening to him, it’s changing everything. and he only wants one thing to feel whole again — her.
SPIDER-BOY, part two | @filmjules
where peter parker’s best friend starts calling him by a silly nickname, not knowing how true it is.
aka peter has a hopeless crush on his best friend who has a small habit of drawing on his hands and arms. who also may have a crush on spiderman.
spin the lie | @gossameres
midtown's decathlon team is back together—all thanks to liz allan. but what starts as a harmless party game takes an unexpected turn when peter spins the bottle... and it lands on you.
Tiktok is such a dangerous place for me rn because what do you mean people are already posting clips of the new spiderman movie?!? IT AINT EVEN OUT IN THEATERS YET
Take this as a warning to start avoiding social media if you want to go in spoiler free 😪
Synopsis: He believed the entire world had forgotten Peter Parker, until the girl he never spoke to in class said his name. [Gif Creds: manny-jacinto].
First Peter Parker fic in celebration of the trailer drop ✨💃
(Edited 3/31: I officially made this into a small little series, so I DEEPLY apologize for the previous mess of formatting 😭🙏)
『••✎••』
His face changed in an instant.
The easy, half-apologetic smile Peter had been wearing—sorry, my bad, let me help—froze, then cracked. His brown eyes widened, pupils blowing out like he’d been hit with a flashbang. The color drained from his already pale cheeks, leaving the faint acne scars and the sheen of nervous sweat stark against his skin. His mouth parted, lips forming a silent what? before any sound could escape.
You blinked up at him, crouched on the grimy New York sidewalk, one hand steadying your precariously tall stack of books, the other hovering over the scattered ones at your feet. The world kept moving—the rumble of the subway beneath the pavement, the wail of a distant siren, the shuffle of pedestrians flowing around the two of you like water around stones. But in the sudden, suffocating vacuum between you and him, all of that noise simply dissolved.
"Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry," he’d been saying just a second ago, a familiar, breathless rush. He’d bumped into you—a classic traffic jam on the sidewalk—and your world had tipped sideways. Physics took over. Textbooks on organic chemistry and literary theory splayed out across the concrete like a fan.
He remembered you. He was sure of it. You sat two rows ahead and one to the left in Mr. Harrison’s history class. You never spoke, but he knew you were one of the smartest kids in the room, your hand perpetually in the air while he was usually trying to calculate if he had enough web fluid for patrol later that night. He’d seen you in the halls—a quiet, focused presence that never seemed to intersect with the chaotic orbit of himself, MJ, and Ned.
You smiled, a small, polite curve of your lips as you both reached for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. Your fingers had brushed.
"It’s okay, happens all the time." You had said, gathering the last book and tucking it into your stack. Then you looked him in the eye, a brief, friendly glance of acknowledgment, and said the words that had just short-circuited his entire nervous system.
"See you around, Peter."
And just like that, the universe tilted on its axis.
You’d pushed yourself to your feet, adjusting your bag, giving him another polite smile before turning to merge back into the river of people on the sidewalk. The moment was over—a simple, forgettable bump with a vague acquaintance from high school.
Except it wasn’t.
Wait.
His lungs seized. The name echoed in the hollow of his chest, a ghost of a sound, but it was the most real thing he’d heard in an eternity. Peter. Not "hey, kid" or "that guy" or the frustrated sigh of a landlord who never knew his renter’s name. Peter. Said with the casual familiarity of someone who had always known it.
A frantic, desperate energy seized him. He couldn’t let you go. He couldn’t let you walk away and vanish back into the faceless crowd, leaving him to wonder if he’d finally, truly lost it.
"Wait!"
He shot forward, a burst of speed that felt more like a spider’s leap than a human’s jog. He caught your arm just above the elbow. It was a gentle touch, barely any pressure, but you stopped instantly, turning back to him with a look of surprise, your brow furrowed. Your books wobbled in your arms.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in a silent room. He leaned in, not caring that he was blocking the flow of foot traffic, that a businessman had to sidestep him with an annoyed grunt. All that mattered was your face, your confused eyes, and the five letters he needed to hear again.
"Wait," he repeated, his voice raspy, thin. "What… what did you say?"
Your confusion deepened, a small line creasing between your brows. You glanced from his wild-eyed face down to where he was still touching your sleeve, then back up again.
"Uh…" you hesitated, clearly thrown by the intensity of his reaction. "I just said, ‘see you around’?"
"No, before that. The… the last part." He could barely breathe the words out. Please. Please say it again. Let him know he wasn’t hallucinating, that the loneliness hadn’t finally cracked him open.
You blinked, slow and deliberate, as if trying to decipher a foreign language. A flicker of something like concern crossed your features.
"Peter?" you said, his name a soft, questioning thing in the city noise. "Are you okay?"
The world shattered around him.
It wasn’t a question of how. He didn’t care how. Not yet. The sheer, overwhelming fact of it crashed over him like a tidal wave. The weight of a year’s worth of invisibility, of nonexistence, suddenly lifted. Air rushed into lungs that had been starved for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe. A tremor ran through his entire body—a violent, shuddering release of tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding.
He didn’t answer your question. He couldn’t. All he could do was stare, his grip on your sleeve slackening until his fingers just brushed the fabric of your jacket. He was looking at you, but he wasn’t seeing a college student with a stack of books anymore. He was seeing an anchor. A lighthouse in a fog that had swallowed him whole.
A shaky, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips—a broken sound that held the ghost of a sob. He stared at you as if you’d just handed him the entire universe, piece by precious piece.
You, completely unaware of the magnitude of the moment—of the dam you’d just broken—just stood there. You took in the dazed look, the trembling hands, the way he was looking at you like you were a miracle.
And you just looked… concerned. Worried for the weird guy from your old high school who was currently having some kind of meltdown on a public sidewalk.
"Peter," you said again, a little firmer this time, reaching out a hesitant hand. "Seriously. Are you alright?"
And he was. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was more than alright.
It's been almost four months since I posted this beautiful series, and I still cannot believe it blew up the way it did. Makes it even crazier when you take into account that this is the first fic I’ve ever written for him and that it was never planned to be a miniseries.
Anyway, in case I don’t say it often enough, thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed the series. I am beyond grateful 🥹
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Has it been a year since I've been here? Yes! Has it been a year since I started to have a obsessing over Bucky? Yes! Do I still have it? Yes! Is it a strong? Yes! every day!
On this occasion, I found a way to celebrate, choosing my favorite story from EVERY writer I've read since I've been here.
Enjoy!
Have I gone through 1000+ fic? yes was it difficult to choose one story? yes
Synopsis: You accidentally stumble into a web-covered nightmare after being late to your best friend’s apartment for your weekly dinner hangout
WC: 4334
Category: Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, BND!Peter, Mentions of Mutations (my take on it), Reader is Peter’s BSF {TW: Choking, Memory Loss, Blood}
The way my miniseries is still getting tons of love makes me oh-so-happy. And since we’re almost a month away from the new movie, and that I’ve been LACKING on the Peter fics, I went back to my creative roots with this one 🩷✨
『••✎••』
This was it. The crushing pressure of his hand around your throat was the last thing you were going to feel. Your world, which just ten minutes ago had been filled with the mundane concern of cold fries and a possibly sulking Peter Parker, had narrowed to a single, violent point.
You were going to die here. In this mess of a room covered in... webs? Your frantic, oxygen-starved brain couldn't quite process anything beyond the primal terror screaming through your veins. To think, the worst thing you'd anticipated was Peter giving you the silent treatment for being late. You pictured his familiar pout, the way he'd avoid your eyes while you apologized, the eventual softening of his features when you offered him the milkshake you'd bought as a peace offering.
But this… this was a nightmare. A waking, breath-stealing nightmare.
You knew something was wrong when you found the door unlocked yet so difficult to push open. When it finally yielded, it was like breaking through a thick, gossamer membrane. The sight had made your stomach drop. The apartment wasn't just messy; it was cocooned. Shimmering white strands of webbing draped over everything—his desk, the window, the ceiling, the floor. They were beautiful in a horrifying way, like a spider's larder, catching the dim light from the city outside. Panic, cold and sharp, had begun to prick at you.
And then you saw him. Slumped in his desk chair, head bowed. You hadn't even registered the red-and-blue suit at first. All you saw was blood. A dark, tacky mat of it in his hair, stark against the pale skin of his temple, a trail of it snaking down his cheek. Your own blood turned to ice. The food—the greasy burger, the cold fries, the melting milkshake—all forgotten the moment your eyes landed on that crimson stain.
You had never run a day in your life, not even to catch that missed subway the fateful evening you met him, but when he wasn’t responding to your frantic calls, you rushed to his side. Your hands shook, your breath catching in ragged sobs. You reached out, your fingers hovering over the nasty gash, terrified to touch it, terrified of what it meant.
In his unresponsiveness and your hesitation, the world slowed to a near-standstill. You had no idea how much time had passed before he snapped upward.
His head lifted with an unnatural, whip-like speed. No slow rousing from unconsciousness. Just a sudden, violent reanimation. And his eyes... God, his eyes. The warm brown irises you knew, the ones that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, were gone. In their place were two vast, inky pools of black, devoid of humanity, devoid of recognition. Pure predatory instinct.
You didn't even have time to scream. You barely had time to process that his apartment looked straight out of a horror movie and he was dressed in some kind of... costume... before you were flying.
No, he was flying. In a blur of motion, he was out of the chair and on you. You hit the wall with a jarring thud that knocked the wind from your lungs, your head cracking against the plaster. Before you could even register the pain, a hand was around your throat. His grip was like iron, impossibly strong, his long fingers completely encircling your neck. The pressure was instant and absolute, cutting off your airway with terrifying efficiency.
Your hands flew up, scrabbling at his forearm, at his wrist. You might as well have been clawing at steel for all the good it did. Your feet dangled uselessly, kicking against the wall. The room swam in a haze of gray spots and flashing lights. Sounds became muffled, a dull ringing in your ears replacing the panicked, desperate gasps for air your body was making.
And so, here you were. Trapped in the gaze of those abyssal eyes and the crushing grip of the boy you knew. The boy who made dumb jokes and shared his earbuds with you on park benches. Death was a cold, impersonal thing. But dying at his hands, by the strength you never knew he possessed? That was a special kind of hell.
The blackness was closing in, a velvet curtain being drawn around your vision. A strange, calm lethargy began to seep into your limbs. The fight was draining out of you. Your body was giving up. But your mind, in its last few seconds of lucidity, refused. It clung to a single, desperate hope.
And that hope was the size of a little green mug you’d painted with him at a pottery class. You saw it resting on his desk, a splash of clumsy, cheerful color in the dim, web-draped room.
It was your last shot.
With the final ounce of strength you could muster, you went limp for a second, gathering yourself, and then slammed your knee into his abdomen with all the force you could manage from your awkward position. It wasn’t enough to get him to release you, not even close, but you didn’t need it to be. You just needed him to flinch. To break that terrifying, empty focus for a fraction of a second.
To have enough time to reach out your left hand.
Your fingers, numb and clumsy, fumbled for the mug. Your index finger brushed against its cool, painted surface. The sensation jolted through you, a grounding anchor in the storm of your own demise. You hooked your fingers around the handle and swung.
The mug connected with the side of his head with a sickening crack of ceramic on skull. The green mug, painted with lopsided sunshines and your initials intertwined with his, shattered into a dozen pieces.
The effect was instantaneous.
The crushing pressure on your throat vanished. You dropped like a sack of potatoes, your body a dead weight on the floor. Air—sweet and glorious and painful—rushed into your oxygen-deprived lungs in a desperate, ragged gasp. You collapsed onto your hands and knees, coughing violently, your throat burning as if you’d swallowed fire. Each breath was a struggle, a sharp, agonizing pull against the bruised cartilage of your trachea.
Through the haze of tears and oxygen deprivation, you heard a sound. A groan. And it reminded you that he hadn’t made a single noise the entire time he was attacking you—no grunts of exertion, no sounds of effort. It had been a silent, terrifyingly efficient assault.
You looked up.
Peter was stumbling back, one hand flying to the very spot where the mug had struck him—the gash you’d seen earlier. The fresh impact had ripped open what was likely a poorly tended wound, and fresh, bright blood welled up between his fingers. But it was his eyes that held you captive. The abyssal black was receding, the unnatural emptiness draining away like water down a plughole, leaving behind the familiar, startled brown you knew so well. They were wide with confusion, pain, and then dawning horror.
He looked from the blood on his hand, to the shattered green ceramic on the floor, and finally to you. You, crumpled in a heap on his floor, one hand still instinctively cradling your throat as you continued to cough and wheeze.
Realization crashed over his features, a tidal wave of absolute devastation. His gaze dropped to your neck, where the red, mottled imprint of his fingers was already beginning to bloom against your skin.
"No," he breathed. The word was a shattered whisper, barely audible over the ragged sounds of your own breathing. He stared at you, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated self-loathing. "Oh, God. No, no, no..."
You attempted to say something, to tell him you were okay, that you understood, but all that came out was a pained croak. The simple act of trying to speak sent a fresh wave of fire through your windpipe. You squeezed your eyes shut, a fresh tear escaping and tracing a path through the grime on your cheek.
He didn't wait for you to speak. He was already stumbling backward, a frantic, erratic motion that had him colliding with the opposite wall. The impact didn't seem to register. He slid down it, leaving a smear of his own blood on the faded wallpaper, until he was on the floor, mirroring your posture across the room.
He looked small. Defeated. The sight of him in that red-and-blue suit, looking so utterly broken, sent a confusing jolt through your pain-fogged brain.
"I... I did that," he choked out, his gaze fixed on the purple and red marks painting your neck. His hands flew up, as if to ward off an invisible attacker, and he stared at them as if they were alien things, contaminated, monstrous. "I... I could have..." He couldn't finish the sentence. The words died in his throat, replaced by a shuddering, horrified sob that wracked his entire frame.
And in that moment, all of your own fear, your pain, the lingering phantom pressure of his fingers—it all receded, washed away by a tidal wave of concern so fierce it took your breath away all over again. You saw the blood matting his hair, the way he held his side, the tremor running through his hands. You saw the webs cocooning the room, not as a horror-movie set piece, but as a symptom. A sign of something terribly, terribly wrong.
You pushed yourself up, your muscles screaming in protest. Every movement was agony—a dull throb in your head from where you’d hit the wall, and a sharp, searing fire in your throat with every swallow. You ignored it. You crawled the few feet separating you, ignoring the way your jeans stuck to the floor with something you chose not to identify.
"Peter," you tried again, your voice a raw, damaged whisper. "It’s okay. I’m okay."
You lied on the second part, but truth felt secondary to the way he was crumbling before you. He flinched as you drew closer, his entire body shrinking in on itself, a cornered animal expecting a deserved punishment.
"Stay back," he rasped, turning his face away from you, pressing his bleeding temple against the cool plaster of the wall. His shoulders shook with silent, violent tremors. "Please. Just... stay away from me."
You stopped, your hands hovering in the space between you. You could see the fine tremors in them too, adrenaline leaving a tremulous after-effect. The food bag, with its cheerful red-and-white logo, lay toppled near the door, the contents spilling onto the web-strewn floor like a sacrifice left at an altar. The sight was a grotesque parody of the simple hangout you'd planned.
"No," you said, the word stronger this time, pushed past the burn. You didn't move closer, but you made your tone firm, an anchor. "I'm not going anywhere."
He didn't respond. He just kept his face hidden, a statue of self-flagellation carved in blood and spandex. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by your ragged breathing and the faint, distant wail of a city siren. The webs around the room caught the light again, a gossamer prison he had woven for himself. They weren't random. They were defensive. A barrier. It didn't take a genius to connect the dots: the injury, the suit, the strange strength, the webs, and that terrifying black-eyed trance.
You knew who he was. The knowledge settled in your gut not as a shock, but as a sad, inevitable truth. Of course. Of course it was him. The boy who was always late, who had bruises he'd laugh off, who looked at the world with a quiet, heavy responsibility that never quite left his eyes.
"Peter," you whispered, your own voice cracking. "Look at me."
A shudder ran through him. He shook his head, a minute, desperate gesture against the wall. "I can't."
"You have to."
"I hurt you." The words were muffled by the plaster, but the weight of them hit you like a physical blow. "I looked at you, and I didn't... I didn't see you. I just saw... a threat. And I..." He broke off, a guttural sound of pain tearing from his throat. "I can’t… I can’t look at what I did to you."
You swallowed, a painful, deliberate action. "That wasn't you. I don’t really know what that was, but it wasn't you."
You risked closing the last few inches. You sat on the floor beside him, not touching, just being there. A presence. A refusal to leave. Your proximity seemed to fracture whatever fragile control he had left. He finally pulled his head from the wall, and the sight of his face nearly broke you. The blood from his temple had smeared across his cheek, mingling with tracks of fresh tears. He looked younger than you'd ever seen him, and impossibly older all at once. He was the boy from the subway, and he was a stranger covered in scars you couldn't begin to comprehend.
His eyes darted to your neck, then immediately away, as if the sight burned him. "Don't say that. Don't try to make this okay. It's not okay. Nothing is okay." His gaze, wild and lost, scanned the room, taking in the chaos he’d created. The webs, the blood, the shattered pieces of the stupid, happy mug.
"It's getting worse," he whispered, the confession seeming to tear a hole in the very air between you. "The... the mutation. It’s... changing. I don't sleep. I get these... rages. Blind spots in my head. I wake up and things are... different. Broken. Or..." He trailed off, his gaze finally, reluctantly, landing on you again. "Or worse."
You followed his line of sight to your own hands. They were scraped and swollen from your fight against the door, from your fall. The beginnings of bruises were already blooming on your forearms. Physical evidence of the last twenty minutes. Your life, irrevocably altered.
"Peter," you said, your voice still a raw, painful thing, but steady. "We need to get you to a hospital."
"No." The denial was instant, sharp. The same reflexive fear you’d seen so many times before when he’d brush off a scrape or a bruise. But this was different. This wasn't a scraped knee from a bike fall; this was a gaping head wound and a nervous system that was actively trying to kill him. "They can't... they can't know. What if... what if it happens there? I could hurt someone. A doctor. A nurse. I can't risk it."
"Pete—"
"You need to leave," he cut in, pushing himself back against the wall, trying to create more space between you. "Please. Just go. Get checked out. Tell them you were... I don't know, mugged. Anything. But you can't be here. I'm not safe."
The hypocrisy was staggering. He was sitting there, bleeding, barely conscious, actively falling apart, and his primary concern was your safety. The same safety he had so brutally violated minutes ago. It made your chest ache with a fierce, protective sorrow. He was so far gone he couldn't even accept help.
"I'm not leaving you," you stated, leaving no room for argument. The words rasped in your abused throat, but they were solid. Unwavering. You pushed yourself up, ignoring the way the room tilted, and made a decision. The hospital was a non-starter for him, which left only one other option. You.
You were what he had.
You held up a hand, a gesture of peace, and slowly walked toward the bathroom. The floor was tacky in places, and you had to carefully step over several thick strands of webbing. The small window in the living room offered a clear view of the Queens skyline, a glittering, indifferent universe to the private hell in this tiny apartment. How many nights had he sat here, alone, fighting this battle without a single person to notice?
The bathroom was mercifully free of webs, a small, tiled oasis of normalcy. You turned on the light, and the stark fluorescence made you flinch. Looking in the mirror was a mistake. The face staring back was a stranger’s. Your eyes were wide and bloodshot, rimmed with dark, puffy circles. A deep, nasty purple bruise was already spreading from where your head had hit the wall. But it was your neck that made you gasp.
A necklace of violence. A perfect, five-fingered ring of dark, mottled red and purple was etched into your skin. No wonder he couldn't look at you. No wonder he was so shattered. You gingerly touched the tender flesh, wincing as a bolt of pain shot down your spine. The raw, burning sensation when you swallowed was now matched by a deep, muscular ache. You were a walking, breathing testament to what he was capable of. What he feared he was becoming.
You turned away from the mirror, your resolve hardening. You couldn't fall apart now. You grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink—a dusty, half-empty box with cartoon Band-Aids and a near-empty bottle of antiseptic. It would have to do. You also grabbed a clean towel and a washcloth, tucking them under your arm.
When you returned to the living room, Peter hadn't moved. He was still curled against the wall, a statue of misery. The sight of the pathetic little medical kit in your hands seemed to break something else in him. A fresh wave of tears welled in his eyes, and he shook his head, a desperate, silent plea for you to stop. To leave. To not try and fix this.
"Stop," you said, your voice a gentle but firm command. You knelt in front of him, close enough to help, but not so close that you were crowding him. "You're bleeding all over your wall, Parker. Let me help."
He didn't fight you this time. He just watched you with those big, broken brown eyes as you dampened the washcloth with warm water and some antiseptic. His whole body flinched when you reached out, but he didn't pull away. He let you gently dab at the gash on his temple. He closed his eyes, and a single tear escaped, tracing a clean path through the blood and grime on his cheek.
The cut was worse than you'd thought. Deep, and probably in need of stitches, but for now, you could only clean it. You weren’t in the headspace to watch tutorials on suture techniques. You were just trying to hold on to the boy in front of you and make sure he didn't bleed out on you.
"So, the whole 'friendly neighborhood' thing is a pretty big understatement, huh?" you said, your voice soft. You were trying to lighten the mood, to break the tension, but it fell flat, landing in the space between you like a lead weight.
Peter didn't laugh. He just flinched again, a full-body shudder this time. "Don't," he whispered, his eyes still squeezed shut. "Please don't joke about it."
"You're right. Sorry," you said quietly. You focused on your task, rinsing the cloth and coming back to clean the last of the dried blood. "Is this what you do every night? Get mauled and then go home and redecorate with... well, this?"
He didn't answer for a long moment. He just breathed, each inhale a little shaky, each exhale a little too controlled. You could see the faint, blue-tinted outline of his collarbone through the tear in his suit, and the skin there was mottled with bruises that painted a story of a brutal fight. The suit itself was shredded at the shoulder and stained with something dark that wasn't blood. Soot, maybe. Or something worse.
"That’s… new. The webs," he finally admitted, the words barely audible. "Started a few weeks ago. I don't even... I don't remember doing it. I just wake up, and it's like this. Or I'll be trying to sleep, and my hands will just... shoot them. I had to buy a new mattress last week because I webbed the old one to the ceiling." He said it with such a flat, hopeless resignation that it hurt more than if he had been crying. It was the sound of a man documenting the slow, inevitable decay of his own mind.
You finished cleaning the wound. The bleeding had slowed, but it still looked angry and deep. The best you could do was press a piece of gauze against it and tape it down as best you could. His skin was clammy under your fingertips. You worked in silence for a few more minutes, the only sounds the distant city hum and the quiet tearing of medical tape.
"Why didn't you tell me?" you asked, the question escaping before you could stop it. It wasn't an accusation. It was a raw, wounded whisper. You thought of all the times you'd hung out, the stupid movies you'd watched, the way he'd expertly dodged your questions about a new bruise or a sprained wrist with a clumsy, unconvincing lie. You thought of how blind you'd been. How willing you were to accept the lie because the alternative was too complicated, too terrifying.
"Would you have believed me?"
His question, so quiet and direct, caught you off guard. You opened your mouth to say yes, of course, but the word wouldn't come out. And it wasn’t just the physical pain in your throat that stopped you. It was the ugly, honest truth. Would you? If he had sat you down one afternoon, over cheap coffee in a diner, and said, "Hey, by the way, that hero everyone in New York has complicated feelings about? The one who swings from buildings and occasionally gets accused of property damage? That's me. Also, sometimes my brain short-circuits and I try to strangle people I care about," would you have accepted it? Or would you have smiled awkwardly, made an excuse, and slowly backed away, convinced he was having a psychotic break?
The silence was your answer.
He gave a short, bitter huff of a laugh that was more air than sound, a pathetic, self-mocking thing. "Yeah. That's what I thought." He finally opened his eyes, and the sheer desolation in them was a physical blow. "Who would? What do you even say to that? 'Hey Peter, cool superpowers, too bad they come with a side order of homicidal rage'?"
You finished taping the gauze, your hands moving with a steady, practiced calm you did not feel. The sterile white patch was a stark, temporary bandage on a problem that went bone-deep. "I wouldn't have said that," you whispered, your throat protesting.
"No? What would you have said?" he challenged, a flicker of the old, defensive Peter sparking in his exhausted gaze. "Would you have run? Called the cops? Or just stopped answering my texts until I got the hint—?"
"Do you know Captain America?" you asked, the question seeming to come from nowhere.
Peter blinked, utterly thrown. "What?"
"Captain America," you repeated, your gaze unwavering. "You know. Stars and Stripes. The guy on the recruitment posters. Have you ever met him?"
He stared at you, his mind clearly struggling to pivot from the abyss of self-loathing to your non-sequitur. "I... yeah. Once or twice. Briefly. He's... why?"
"His best friend," you continued, ignoring the confusion warring with the despair on his face. "The one they called the Winter Soldier. Did you know about him before everything went down? Did you know he was a brainwashed assassin who'd spent the better part of a century being used as a weapon?"
"I... I read the files," Peter said slowly, his brow furrowed. "But what does that have to do with—"
"Everything," you cut him off, your voice gaining a sliver of strength, the edges still raspy but the core of it solid as steel. "Because when it all came out, when Steve Rogers found out that the person who had murdered countless people, who had tried to kill him a dozen times, was just... broken. A good man who'd had things done to him, he didn't run."
You leaned in a little closer, your gaze boring into his, forcing him to listen, forcing him to see the parallel you were drawing. "He fought for him. He risked everything for him. He went to war against the world to protect one person who wasn't in control of himself."
Peter was silent, his jaw slack. He was looking at you like you'd just started speaking in tongues.
"So you want to know what I would have said if you'd told me?" you asked, your words deliberate and punctuated by the painful throb in your throat. "I wouldn't have run. I would have risked the same once I believed because that's what you do when you see someone who's hurting that badly, Peter. You don't run away. You stay. You help."
A fat, glistening tear finally escaped and rolled down his bruised cheek, tracing a path through the blood. It was followed by another, and then another. The careful dam he had built around his pain, around the secret he had carried alone, finally broke. The shuddering sob that tore from his chest was ragged, violent, and it seemed to shake the very foundations of the room. It was the sound of a person coming apart at the seams.
You didn't hesitate. You moved the last few inches and wrapped your arms around him. It was awkward and painful with you both on the floor, but you didn't care. You pulled him against you, your chin resting on his shoulder, ignoring the rough, scratchy texture of his suit. He was stiff at first, a board of resistance and self-loathing, but you held on. You pressed your cheek against the torn fabric of his suit, ignoring the lingering smell of smoke and city grime.
"It's okay," you whispered into the fabric, the words a broken promise you were determined to keep. "I've got you..."
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This masterlist contains some (+18) content so minors do not interact. The fics are NOT MINE i´m just recommending them bc i loved reading them all <3
CREDITS TO ALL THIS AMAZING WRITERS!
LOGAN HOWLETT
𓃦 After an argument with Logan, you both stop talking to each other -Link @mcrdvcks
𓃦 Logan first time-Link @bpmiranda
𓃦 Logan and the resident therapist for the mutant school grow closer due to Logan’s resistance to her emotional manipulation powers. A friends with benefits situation naturally leads to falling for each other -Link @violetflowerswrites
𓃦 You're a stripper and old man!logan comes into the club where you work- so you decide to show him a good time -Link @cruel-as-sin
𓃦 A few months into working back at the mansion and Logan still can't keep his hands off you -Link @bumpkinspice0
𓃦 Logan likes to mark you -Link @mcrdvcks
𓃦 Spooning Logan with his calloused hands -Link @robo-writing
𓃦 Logan has a jealous episode during the holiday party at the X-Mansion, finally confessing his love for you -Link @wchswift
𓃦 After an offhand comment from your father shakes your confidence, you find yourself spiraling into self-doubt -Link @mcrdvcks
𓃦 You were the perfect student of Scott's. But after you've came back form university, you've changed and Logan can't stand it -Link @howlett-dekarios
𓃦 You and Logan get into a fight and Laura tries to get the two of you to see the errors in your ways -Link @mcrdvcks
𓃦 You try to retrieve your stuff from Logan's place -Link @baka-bakeneko
𓃦 After failing your last mission you start to over train yourself in secret but Logan notices the bruises and cuts and wont leave you alone about it -Link @rosenclaws
𓃦 You've been thinking of Logan, awake and asleep. Logan notices when you take a nap together -Link @baka-bakeneko
𓃦 After an incident involving Jean and Scott at Alkali Lake, the team tries to figure out what happened and how to help their teammate -Link @mcrdvcks
𓃦 You, Wade and Logan go out to karaoke night to bond further. NSFW -Link @baka-bakeneko
𓃦 When you, Domino, Logan, Deadpool and Cable went on a chaotic mission and Cable accidentally hurt you, Logan’s protective fury comes out, escalating team tensions -Link @wchswift
𓃦 Old Logan as a bartender -Link @bpmiranda
𓃦 Generational gap | Being in a relationship with old!logan can be exhausting -Link @bpmiranda
𓃦 Sometimes all it takes is one look. One gesture. One word. One action. To remind them that not everyone sees them the same, and It's enough to send a person over the edge -Link @happy74827
𓃦 Wade is distracted during a mission so afterwards all 3 of them fuck in the Honda -Link @gallavichsreddie1128
𓃦 Well, logan did promise you he’d come again… but this time, you bring him home, and he’s going to take care of you -Link @cruel-as-sin
𓃦 If I had the chance -Link @benispunk
𓃦 Old Logan overhears a conversation between you and your coworker -Link @lostinlovingrevery
𓃦 You own a small bakery in Westchester. One day, Logan comes in for an order for the X-Mansion. After that he becomes a regular—something he persistently denies -Link @mcrdvcks
𓃦 The night in the Honda Odyssey with Deadpool and you as a Wolverine variant -Link @sixpounder
𓃦 Logan Knotting -Link @sunsburns
𓃦 You can’t stand each other, so it’s a mystery to you and Logan why you’re sent out together on an assignment. To make it worse, you’d have to act much closer than you really were -Link @gothgoblinbabe
Summary: When Howard Davis, a friend of Carter's father, stops by the hospital and asks if Carter is dating anyone, you're surprised that Carter says your name... because you're not dating. A tense dinner with Davis leads to Carter's confession.
Pairing: John Carter x fem!reader
Word count: 4.9k
Warnings/tags: inspired by s1 ep23. med student!reader, she and carter are in the same year. mentions of carter's upbringing, wealth, family, etc. davis is a HO! classism, sexism, babygirlism (carter). friends to lovers.
divider
“I’m totally making him pay me back for pizza last week. He said he didn’t have twenty bucks!”
Malik is at the nurses’ station, complaining to Lydia, who’s shaking her head.
“Who?” you ask, not looking up from your chart.
Malik scoffs. “Carter. Dude’s loaded.”
You look up in surprise. “Since when?”
“Since birth! His dad’s worth, like, two hundred mil. Can you believe he told me he’s broke?”
“That’s how the rich are,” Lydia says wisely. “My second ex-husband was a lawyer and he never wanted to pay for anything. I just know he’s looking up at us right now.”
You’re used to the nurses’ gossip; sometimes it’s unfounded, so you’ve learned to check your sources with Carol and Jerry to know what’s true. You take your chart to the front desk and return it to the stack. You lean on the desk, drumming your fingers.
“Hey, Jerry.”
He nods. “Hey. Woman with a head lac in Curtain Two. Shattered a vase and cut herself.”
“Okay. Do you know where Benton is?”
Jerry snorts. “Sure. He’s tending to His Highness, Howard Davis.”
“Who?”
“We have a medical wing named after him.” He rubs two fingers together. “Y’know?”
“Oh. Wow.”
“Yeah, and get this: Carter went to school with his son. Davis called him Johnny.”
“Johnny?” You grin. Carter is so not a Johnny.
“Yup.” Jerry pops the ‘p.’ “Swift came in and had me call Chicago’s greats just ‘cause Davis had a little cut on his hand.”
“Well, I’m glad we’ve got our priorities in order,” you say, laughing.
“Sure. Wish I had a medical wing to donate.”
The phone rings. You take that as your cue to go tend to the woman behind the curtain. She’s deeply apologetic, even though you assure her that this is what you’re here for. You need to up your procedure count anyway. You’re pretty sure Benton will give Carter the surgery internship next year, but Mark Greene had told you that he’d be thrilled to have you back in the ER. It’s not your first choice, considering you want to be a chief of surgery one day, but you switched hospitals halfway through your rotation this year. You’re lucky to be offered anything at Cook County in the first place.
Besides, you like it here. You like the doctors, the staff… you like Carter too, even if he can be a little bit of a pain during times like these, when you have to compete for opportunities. But he’s been nothing but nice to you since you arrived, and he’s shown you all the ropes he could.
And he’s rich? Jesus. You wonder why he’s even here. Surely, he could do anything, right?
“Okay, Mrs. Maldonado,” you say, finishing the woman’s stitches. “You’re all set. If you feel dizzy or nauseous, return immediately, okay?”
She thanks you and apologizes one last time before going to be discharged. You return that chart to the desk, then head for the stairs, on the hunt for Benton. He’d hinted at a chance for you to scrub into a hernia repair, and you want to make sure he hasn’t forgotten.
But Benton comes out of the elevator before you can go upstairs, flanked by Carter and who you assume to be Davis. His hand is wrapped, and he’s talking animatedly about horses. Benton looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. He raises his eyebrows at you.
“Hi, Dr. Benton,” you say quietly. “Can I still scrub into the hernioplasty?”
“Yeah, fine. One sec.” He turns to Davis, who has stopped talking, and is now studying you. You smile, and he smiles back, but it’s not warm.
“Mr. Davis, it was a pleasure,” Benton says. “I hope your hand heals fast.”
“You did excellent work,” Davis says, patting Benton’s shoulder. “It was good to see Johnny again.” He gestures to you. “And you must be the girl who got Johnny’s heart!”
Your eyebrows lift. “I’m sorry?”
Carter is slicing his throat with his hand behind Davis, shaking his head urgently. Play along! he mouths. Your gaze flicks from him to Davis.
“Uh…”
“Oh, don’t be shy. Johnny told me all about you. Dating another medical student, well, I guess that figures. I told him he should catch up with Katrina, my daughter, but he can’t with you keeping him honest. Tell me, where did you go to school?”
“I went to Illinois State for my undergrad,” you say.
Davis looks you over. “Uh-huh. I see. And you two are in the same program?”
“That’s right, sir,” Carter says. “That’s how we met.”
You open your mouth to correct him, but Benton, by all the graces of God, interrupts.
“I’m really so sorry, Mr. Davis, but I need my students back. They’re scrubbing into a surgery. You understand, I hope.” Benton doesn’t sound sorry at all. You love it.
“Oh, sure, sure.” Davis waves his uninjured hand. “Of course, Dr. Benton. Keep up the great work, you and John. Johnny, I’ll see you and this young lady for dinner tonight, yes? Seven sharp.”
“We can’t, unfortunately, as I mentioned before, sir. We’re on-call till midnight,” Carter says, rubbing his hands like he's washing them. A nervous habit. You've noticed that Carter's hands get cracked and red on colder days like these; you've been meaning to give him a pocket lotion, identical to the one you keep in your coat. “We’re not able to get off early.”
“For one night! I think the hospital can survive. Benton, can you let these kids go for a few hours?”
Benton smiles flatly. “Of course, Mr. Davis. We can survive.”
“Fantastic! Johnny, I’ll send the car. You know how that goes.” He nods at you, a little stilted. “And you. Don’t worry about wearing your scrubs. I’m sure it’d be too much trouble for you to change. Johnny’s always dressed up, aren’t you, John?”
Carter rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh—habit from my dad, I guess.”
Davis laughs like that’s the best thing he’s heard in a decade. “You’re right about that! Well, I’ll see you soon. Take care.”
He pats Carter’s shoulder and leaves. Carter shoves his hands deep in his pockets, avoiding both your and Benton’s gaze.
“Didn’t know I’d stolen your heart, Johnny,” you say, hands on your hips.
“Oh, there’s a lot you don’t know about him,” Benton says. “Carter here liked riding horses before he came to slum it with us, didn’t you?”
Carter sighs. “Dr. Benton, can we have a minute?”
Benton rolls his eyes. “Both of you finish your charting, and then I’ll see you for the hernia.” He points to you. “Got it?”
You nod. “Got it.”
“Great. We should be finished by the time the car arrives, Mr. Carter.”
Carter winces as Benton walks away. You tilt your head.
“I need to talk to you,” he says.
“Uh-huh. Since when are you loaded and dating me? All in one afternoon? Should I expect a ring tomorrow?”
“I’m not loaded, my parents are.”
“Yeah, that’s what rich kids say to attempt modesty. You raced horses?” you ask.
“I didn't race, it was dressage. With an Icelandic pony. Look—”
“A pony? I thought ponies couldn’t be ridden.”
“Some are bred to be ridden. Can I just explain?”
“Wait, I have another question. Is caviar really worth the hype? ‘Cause it looks like those decorative beads that they sell at Pier One, and I’ve always thought it was really weird how obsessed some people are with eating animal embryos and babies.”
Carter pinches the bridge of his nose. “Um, I haven’t had it in a long time, but from what I remember, it was only okay. Can we talk now?”
He doesn’t wait for you to respond, herding you into an empty on-call room. He turns on the light and closes the door. You sit on the bed and watch Carter pace a few times before speaking.
“Okay, so, I went to school with Mr. Davis’ son, Greg, as you might have heard. And Davis started talking about Katrina, his daughter, who’s a year younger than Greg and I.”
“Greg and me,” you say.
Carter stops pacing. “What?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Greg and me’ ‘cause it wouldn’t make sense if you said ‘Katrina is a year younger than I.’ Well, I guess you could say that, but it sounds really weird, like strangely archaic and formal—”
“Seriously? Now?”
You shrug. “Okay, whatever. I guess I expected more from—where’d you graduate? Vanderbilt?”
“Brown. If this is you trying to soothe my nerves, it’s not working.” Carter's a little unkempt, which isn't unusual after a full shift, but you're only three hours in. His stethoscope is slung unevenly around his neck. You reach up to pull one end down so it's even. He blinks at you.
“You’re right,” you say solemnly. “This requires drastic measures. I’ll tell Alfred to fetch the smelling salts immediately, Mr. Wayne.”
That gets a laugh out of him, and you smile, happy he’s a little less tense. Tense Carter is never fun to witness. He sits next to you on the bed. You pat his back, encouraging him to keep explaining.
“Davis was asking me about my life and… y’know, women in my life. He started talking about Katrina, and how she’s ‘managing a bank, but she’s still unmarried! Ain’t that a damn shame!”’
You grimace. “What century is this guy from?”
Carter scoffs. “Not ours or the last. He’s really old-fashioned. He told me that Katrina’s visiting him in Chicago for work and he’d love for us to catch up, and I… I panicked.” He groans, running his hands through his hair and tugging the ends. “I’m sorry. Your name was the first I thought of. I said we’ve been together for a year.”
“Why don’t you just go out to dinner once with Katrina and then tell her you don’t feel a spark, or whatever?”
Carter blows out a slow breath. “No, that wouldn’t work. She’s… God forgive me, honestly, I don’t like saying this about people, but she’s crazy. She set this girl’s hair on fire in her junior year because the girl slept with Katrina’s boyfriend. Katrina was drunk, but…”
“Yeesh,” you say. “I take it there was no disciplinary action?”
“The dean tried, but Davis just threw money at him, and it all went away. Katrina was back in school a few weeks later. Even Greg would warn his friends not to get involved with her. She was out of control for years, and I can’t imagine she’s much different now.” He looks at you, eyes big and pitiful. “I’m really sorry. Maybe we can say we have to be quarantined for tuberculosis or something.”
You hum. “We could. Or we can just go to dinner for a few hours and then Jerry can page us back to the hospital. That way, Davis won’t hound you to meet him again.”
Carter’s eyebrows lift. “You’re taking this really well, considering I just threw this at you.”
“Oh, well, you had a fantastic reason. Johnny Carter is never caught unawares!”
He shakes his head. “I always hated when he called me that. I never felt like a Johnny.”
You bump his shoulder with yours. “Yeah, sorry. I think it’s either John or Carter. Do you have a middle name?”
“Truman.”
“Yikes.”
He snorts. “My dad’s John Truman Carter Jr. So…”
You smile slowly. “Oh, Carter. You cannot tell anyone else that. They will literally never let you live down John Truman Carter the Third.”
He flops back onto the bed horizontally. “Tell me about it. I thought I could graduate without anyone finding out about my family. I don’t want anyone to treat me differently just ‘cause he has money. I’m still the same guy you all know.”
You lie down next to him, propping your head on your hand. One of his suspender straps has slipped down his shoulder, so you pull it back up. You smooth his tie.
“You’re still Carter to me,” you say. “But the suspenders make a lot more sense.”
He smiles and looks down at his shirt. You’ve never noticed how long his lashes are; this close, you can see that they cast shadows on his cheeks.
“My dad made me wear them for most of my life. Never thought twice about it, honestly.”
“I think they’re dashing. Do they get the ladies hot? Do said ladies snap them against your skin?”
“Oh my God,” he says, cheeks pinking. “No comment.”
“That’s absolutely a yes!”
“New subject. Are you sure you want to do this? I can find a way to get you out of this. You shouldn't have to suffer just because of my stupid mouth.”
Carter’s mouth isn't stupid at all, though you don't say so. He's got a perfect mouth, actually. It's pink and when he smiles, his mouth turns upside-down, which you didn't expect the first time you met him. When he shows his teeth, it's even better. Carter has the cutest grin. You look at his mouth now, how it's pulled into a frown. You want to trace his lips until he smiles again.
“I don't mind,” you say. “He's a super important guy, right? Donated a lot to the hospital? We should keep him happy.”
Carter scowls. “This is exactly what I didn't want to happen. I thought the days of meeting my dad's friends and listening to their ridiculous, out-of-touch problems were over. I chose my own path, and I still can't escape them.”
He presses his palms to his eyes. You take a moment to look at the shape of him: his long legs bent over the edge of the bed, his striped white shirt tucked into his pants, the lean lines of his torso. His chest rises and falls quickly.
You savor moments like these, despite his freakout. Carter's the only one who makes you feel like a person at work. He sat with you last month when you lost a little boy in emergency surgery and held your hand while you cried. He's brought you countless bagels and coffees and vending machine chips. Sometimes you just sit together, when you have a second to spare.
“Carter.” You touch his chest. It's warm. He runs so warm, and it surprises you every time. “It'll be fine. You're still on your own path. One dinner won't derail your independence.”
It's beginning to click now, why Carter takes mistakes so personally, like he's failed himself over and over. Why he was desperate to move out, why he never speaks about his family, and why he never has any plans for the holidays. He's mentioned his brother's cancer once to you, nothing else.
He lifts his hands. “I know. It's just, Davis can be a little much. You shouldn't have to deal with it.”
“I can be couth. Address the one percent.”
“I didn't mean it like that. You're amazing. He can be brash. There's a reason Greg moved across the country to be away from him.”
“I think I'll be okay,” you say. “Don't worry, Carter. You will owe me, though.”
Carter nods like he was expecting that. “Of course. Anything you want.”
“I have to think about it.” You hop off the bed and extend a hand. “C'mon, Kentucky Derby. We need to get back to saving the world.”
Carter takes your hand and stands. “That doesn't even make sense. I didn’t race.”
“Well, I don't know any famous dressage competitions. That's outside of my tax bracket.”
The hernia repair goes well. Benton lets you go with minimal grumbling, maybe because he realizes that Swift will be on his ass if Davis complains. You change out of your scrubs, Davis’ comment still ringing in your ears. You dress professionally when the occasion calls for it, and you always have a set of work clothes in your locker. Mostly, you wear scrubs or t-shirts you don’t mind getting blood on.
Benton has never commented on it, nor has Mark, so you stuck to it, prioritizing comfort and hygiene over anything else. It’s a hospital, not Fashion Week.
There’s a knock on the door. “Hey, almost ready? I think the car’s outside.” Carter.
But as you change and look yourself over in the bathroom, you’re wishing you had the means to make more of an effort. Your hair is styled efficiently, out of your face, protecting it until the next wash. Your face is plain, skin free of jewelry. It’s too much of a work hazard with grabby or drunk patients, and you sweat frequently, running around the way you do.
You lean in to inspect your skin, the hair on your face, natural discoloration around your features. The change of clothes helps; you’re in a nice pink blouse and dark pants. The last time you wore this was for a meeting with Morgenstern about a scholarship opportunity.
“Is this okay?” you ask, trying to sound casual.
“Yep, ready!” You smooth your shirt down and grab your stuff, opening the door.
Carter’s got his coat on, in his usual digs, but there’s no reason for him to worry about appearances. Now that you know about his family, it’s easy to imagine him in a room full of elites, wearing a sports jacket and drinking expensive scotch or champagne. Hate it or not, you’re sure Carter’s really good at mingling with people like that. He was one of them. Is.
“You look nice.” He smiles, but it’s a little confused. “You didn’t have to change, though.”
“No one wants me in my stinky scrubs,” you say breezily, turning to put on your coat so you don’t have to look at Carter.
He sighs, and when you look at him, he’s frowning. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Carter, don’t be a silly goose. You said the car’s waiting, right? Let’s go.”
He reluctantly follows you out, through the hospital, and into the cold February air. You tuck your scarf tighter around your neck. Carter takes your hand and points at a black towncar.
“I think that’s it.”
Carter touches your wrist gently, and you look at him.
The seats are soft and leathery. You’re almost afraid to sit, worried you’ll ruin it. Carter chats with the driver, and if he’s nervous about dinner, it doesn’t show. You watch the city blur past, content to let Carter take the lead. At work, you’re clever and ambitious, and you and Carter have even gone toe-to-toe a couple times.
The medical field is already difficult enough; going into surgery as a woman is about twelve times harder. Benton respects you… you think he does, anyway. He’s tough on everyone, which comforts you. But you know most surgical residents aren’t like him. There’s a certain demographic that enters this field.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “I’m fine, Carter.”
He laughs a little. “Probably shouldn’t call me Carter at dinner. None of my girlfriends called me Carter.”
At least now you have no conflicts. You’ve accepted how you feel, you just bury it.
It’s just pretend, just for tonight, but Carter calling you his girlfriend sends a jolt of electricity through you. You’ve seen and even met a few women he’s dated, or, more accurately, had flings with. He’s affectionate, clingy when he thinks he has privacy.
For a while, you hated how your body reacted to the sight of him with women. Carter is technically your competitor, and liking him is only a distraction. Now you’re friends, but it was frustrating at the beginning, trying not to like him. Carter’s sweet, which made it worse.
“John, then.” It’s unusual coming out of your mouth, but it’s nice. “I guess you should call me by my first name too.”
He nods. “For sure. I told Jerry to page us at eight.”
“Only an hour?” You grin. “No faith in me?”
“No faith in me,” he says. “I’d rather do a hundred rectal temp checks.”
“Oh my God, it can’t be that bad!” you say, laughing.
“No, it won’t. I haven’t done this in years. I’m just intolerant, I guess.”
The car pulls up to the establishment: Gibson’s, an upscale American bar and grill. Carter gets out and comes around to your door so you don’t have to slide across the street. He opens the door and takes your hand, helping you out.
“Such a gentleman,” you say.
“Sometimes,” he says, a little bashful. His cheeks are flushed with cold. “Remember, we’ve been dating a year. We met at school.”
“Got it.”
Carter links your arm with his. You walk in together. Carter gives his name and helps you out of your coat to give it to the coat check attendant. You rush to unwrap your scarf, and Carter pats your shoulder, a silent message. Relax. You slow down. You deserve to be here too. You were invited, after all.
You’re brought to the table, where Davis is already seated. He waves, calling Carter over. Carter pulls your chair out for you, then pushes you in. He takes his seat next to you.
“I’m so pleased you could make it,” Davis says, like you had a choice. “Nice having a break from the hospital, eh?”
“We like our work, but it’s nice to have a break,” Carter says diplomatically. “What’s good here?”
“Oh, don’t worry, I already put an order in for three ribeyes.” He points at you. “It’ll knock your socks off.”
“Mr. Davis, we appreciate that, but she doesn’t eat red meat,” Carter says.
Davis squints at you. “Since when? Some fad diet?”
“No, it’s just a personal choice. We see a lot of heart problems in the ER, so I’ve been cutting back. But it’s okay, I can—”
Carter interrupts your excuse. “Mr. Davis, surely you understand. She’d really prefer to eat something else.”
Davis sighs like he killed the cow himself. “Sure, fine. A little beef does you some good, you know. John here loves steak! Should’ve found yourself a steak-lover, Johnny.”
Carter just presses his lips together. You awkwardly fold your hands in your lap as Davis waves over a waiter to give you a menu. You order quickly, not wanting to prolong the tension.
“So, tell me, what do your parents do?” Davis asks.
“My mother is a teacher, my dad was a mechanic. He retired.”
“Hm. They must be glad you’re becoming a doctor.”
“Yes, they’re very proud,” you say.
“Costly, though. You must be drowning in debt.”
You stutter, surprised at his bluntness. “Oh, um, I was fortunate enough to get some merit scholarships, and other aid, but yes, it’s expensive. I have loans, but who doesn’t, right?”
Davis is silent. Right. No one at this table shoulders loans. You glance at Carter, who looks exhausted already.
“Katrina’s on the board for PNC Bank,” Davis says. “No decent guys at work, though. You’d think that the higher you go, the better the options, but no luck.”
“I’m sure she’ll find someone,” Carter says.
“Has she tried those matchmaking services?” you ask. “I had a friend who got married through one of those, and she’s happy.”
Davis raises an eyebrow. “My daughter can find a good fellow on her own.”
“It was only a suggestion,” Carter says. “The Maynors did the same thing with their daughter.”
Davis hisses through his teeth. “Yeah, I remember. That’s because Alexis Maynor had nothing going for her. No looks, no charm, not even a viable career. I suppose if you’re that desperate, you have to rely on those kinds of things.”
Jesus. If this is how Davis is, you’d hate to meet either of his children.
“So, a teacher. What does your mother teach?” Davis asks.
“She teaches high school biology.”
He raises a brow. “And she didn’t want to become a doctor herself?”
“I think she liked teaching more. She likes the kids and the schedule.”
“Ah, well. Not everyone can do. Some must teach.”
You tuck your tongue into your cheek, trying not to snap. “Respectfully, Mr. Davis, all of history’s greats would never have become great without a good teacher.”
“And yet we never hear about them,” Davis says, chuckling.
The waiter arrives then with your food—truly wonderful timing. You wish you had a clock to know how much longer you have to put up with this. Hopefully not long. You can weather through it; he’s not much worse than the smarmy classmates and older doctors you’ve dealt with.
“So Johnny, when are you getting married?”
Carter’s cutting his steak with laser focus. He glances at you, then clears his throat. “We haven’t really discussed it, sir.”
Davis guffaws. “Johnny, I didn’t mean you two. Oh, I’m sure you’re a splendid girl,” he says to you. “But Johnny, you need a family woman. Someone who’ll take care of you at home.”
“I take care of myself just fine,” Carter says, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “And we’re very happy together.”
“Two doctors? Your schedules will never work. You’ll fall apart within a year. Not to mention, Jack and Eleanor wouldn’t approve.” He waves a hand at you. “Surely, you can find someone more your speed, huh?”
Your eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
“Someone who shares your background! You can’t have much in common, besides the hospital. What are you specializing in, anyway? Pediatrics? Gynecology?"
You can’t believe it. Davis saw you right next to Carter and Benton. He saw Benton speak to you, address you as his student. And he… what? Assumed you were lost?
You take a slow breath. In, out. “No, actually, I’m studying surgery. I want to be a chief of surgery.”
“A female chief of surgery, wow. Someone’s got big dreams. Johnny, this is what I mean—you don’t want a girl who’s competing with you for the same spot.”
Your and Carter’s pagers beep then, and you’d laugh at the timing if Davis wasn’t turning an interesting shade of red. Carter turns the alert off.
“You know what?” Carter throws his napkin onto his plate and stands. Several people’s heads turn.
“Mr. Davis, you’ve been unbelievably rude tonight. Just because you’re a friend of my father’s doesn’t mean you have any right to judge what I do or who I love. This woman here is fantastic. Her. Right here.”
Carter thrusts a hand at you. You lower your eyes briefly, not wanting to see Davis’ irate expression. But then you look at Carter, and his intensity steals the air from your lungs.
“I’m in love with her! I’d be proud to call her my wife someday. She’s a great doctor, and if she became chief, it would be well-deserved. I am more than my family. I barely see my parents these days, and even if I did, I wouldn’t give a shit about what they think. This is my path. My life. She’s in it, in a big way, and you aren’t.”
“That’s the hospital. We have to go.” He pulls out his wallet and tosses a few bills onto the table. “For our share. And by the way? Katrina’s a bully, and so are you. That’s why she can’t get married.”
Carter helps you out of your chair, then rests an arm around your back as you go to the coat check. Soon enough, the restaurant resumes its usual bustle, letting you leave in peace. Carter’s quiet the whole time. You follow him outside where he tries to flag down a cab in vain.
“Carter,” you say softly.
He checks his watch and grumbles, failing to wave another cab. “What, do they have somewhere to be?” he mutters.
“John.”
Carter looks at you, mouth twitching at the name. “Yeah?”
You sigh. “You should go back. Apologize. He’ll complain to Swift. What if you get kicked out?”
“He wouldn’t go that far,” Carter says. “My dad’s a jerk, but if he ever found out Davis was the reason I got dropped from the program, he’d go after him.”
“Still, it wasn’t—I’m not worth all that trouble. You can still smooth things over. Say you had a hard day, say we fought or something.”
Carter blinks at you. “Not worth—what are you talking about? Of course you’re worth it. He was totally out of line. That shit he said about your mom? God, who the hell does he think he is?”
“It was out of line, Carter, but you and I are just friends. We were pretending, remember? It’s not like any of that stuff about you loving me is true.”
Carter glances at the road, the pavement, anywhere but your eyes. Your heart thumps in your chest.
“Carter?” Your voice is weak. “Is it?”
“There’s a reason I said your name,” he says, and bites the inside of his cheek. “It was… wishful thinking.”
You take a careful step forward. It’s freezing. You want to be wrapped in Carter’s warmth.
“You’re in love with me?”
He nods, staring at his shoes. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you say, not daring to breathe in case you fill your lungs and it all melts away. “I just thought of a way you can pay me back for tonight.”
The look Carter gives you tells you that he knows what you’ll say, but he needs to hear it anyway. “How?”
“Kiss me.”
He takes your face in his hands tenderly, thumbs rubbing your cheeks. He kisses you, his mouth warm and firm. Not stupid. His bangs tickle your forehead. You close your eyes and push his bangs back, raking your fingers through his hair. He makes a pleased sound and pulls you closer. You’ll never be cold again.
Carter pulls back just enough to rest his forehead on yours, nose bumping your cheek. “You are worth it.”
vaporwave
dailybridgerton
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
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