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Synopsis: After reading Peter’s letter and rejecting him, you invite him inside your apartment to talk
“Sorry about him. He’s just excited that you’re here.” You said once Ned left the apartment to get the food he’d ordered. You and Peter were alone once again, with you on the couch and him sitting on the floor. He was preoccupied by a Lego set Ned had put out, but you were still thinking out the letter you’d found. The letter that informed you that you and Peter were once together, but you had his existence entirely wiped from your memory.
“It’s all good. This is honestly the most fun I’ve had in years.” Peter told you as he fitted another two blocks together.
“Really? You don’t do Lego nights with your new friends?”
“No, no. I didn’t really make any. Not the kinds that like to build Lego’s, anyways. I’m pretty busy with Spiderman stuff.” He answered you. There was no self pity in his voice, but that only made you feel all the more guilty. The more you thought about what his last four years must’ve been like compared to yours, you wanted to break down into tears and hold him tight. You had to look away from him when your eyes began to water.
“That makes me sad.” You admitted as you discreetly dabbed at your eyes.
“What does?” He wondered.
“Thinking of you going through all of this alone. I mean, Ned and I had each other, but we didn’t even know that we had lost something. You really didn’t have anyone?”
“No, but it’s okay.” He assured you. “Don’t feel sad. I made the decision to have the spell cast. I knew what it would do.”
“I don’t know if I could have done something that selfless.” You shook your head and continued to dodge his gaze. Peter watched you and could tell you were emotional and trying to hide it from him, but he knew you too well. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel any kind of remorse for a decision he made.
“Yeah, well, I guess I’m just a better person than you.” He shrugged and watched your reaction carefully. Despite forgetting him, his sense of humor still worked on you. You cracked a smile and looked at him.
“You’re funny.” You told him. “That’s something I’ve learned about you so far. Selfless and funny.”
“And humble.” He added, making you smile again.
“Right, and humble.” You nodded. You watched him build the Lego set some more as the two of you sat in comfortable silence. Peter had a million things he wanted to say to you, but didn’t want to overwhelm you, so he kept quiet.
“Gentle, too.” You said after a beat of silence.
“Gentle?” He tilted his head.
“The way you held me when you swung me home.” You explained. “You kept me secure, but it still felt respectful of my space. And you swung us back so slowly and carefully. Even… even after what I had just said to you.”
Since he still had his mask on, you watched his body language carefully to see how he reacted to being reminded of you telling him you didn’t love him. You wanted to see if it was crushing him as much as it was crushing you, or if he was more understanding. But he was too hard to read.
“You know, you never really liked swinging with me.” Peter laughed softly. “It used to scare you, understandably so. That’s why I went so slow. I didn’t want to freak you out anymore than you probably already are. I know reading that letter must’ve been a lot.”
“I’m right, then.” You smiled coyly. “You are gentle. And considerate. That’s another thing I know about you now.”
“Collecting data on me, are you?” Peter asked, grateful that his mask was concealed the delighted smile he was wearing. After the heavy conversation you’d had after you discovered the letter, he was appreciating each shred of tenderness between the two of you.
“Wouldn’t you? If someone showed up at your door and said “hey, by the way, we were together, but I was wiped from your memory”, wouldn’t you want to learn everything about them to see why you once loved them?”
“Honestly, I don’t even know if I’d believe them.” Peter admitted. “I’m actually kinda surprised that you did. You’re usually pretty skeptical and like to see things for yourself. For all you know, I could be making this all up as a really elaborate way to ask you out.”
“I didn’t even think of that.” You realized. “I just automatically believed you when I read the letter.”
“Why do you think that was?” Peter wondered as he looked over at you.
“I don’t really know. I think it just made sense to me. All throughout college, I felt like there was something missing in my life. Nothing ever satisfied me - no job, no guy, no achievement, because I always felt like I was waiting for something more. So when I read your letter, it all made sense. I knew what I’d be waiting for was actually a who. And that’s you.”
Peter could do little to suppress the onset of hope growing within him that maybe you whole heartedly believing him meant a part of you remembered him. He was quiet for a minute and felt himself getting emotional once more. He couldn’t wipe his eyes since he still had his mask on, so he nodded his head and looked down.
Peter could feel your gaze all over him, but his voice was too shaky to speak. After being told by both you and Jean that you had no thoughts of him, it meant everything to him that some part of you had felt his absence.
“Well I very grateful that you believed me.” He said once he finally trusted his voice not to crack. You smiled sadly and then looked down at your lap. Peter watched you, feeling like there was something at the tip of your tongue that you’d been holding back for the entirety of the conversation.
“Hey, Peter?” You asked in a timid voice.
“Yeah?”
“I feel really bad about what I said to you before. About not loving you, I mean.” You admitted, still keeping your eyes down. Peter swallowed and looked away as well as he mentally prepared himself to have this conversation again.
“Oh, that’s…that’s okay.” He said kindly. “I don’t want you to worry about that, okay? Don’t feel bad. It’s….everything is okay.”
“None of this is okay.” You said tearfully. “That must’ve been really awful to hear after you waited so long to talk to me. I can’t stop thinking about your face when I said it. I keep replaying it in my mind.”
Peter didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, he stood up from his spot on the floor and sat beside you on your couch. You watched him through tear stained eyelashes and moved over a little to be closer to him. Silently, Peter took a box of tissues off the end table and handed them to you.
“I really don’t want this to weigh on you.” He said finally. “What you said, it’s really okay. How could you love me? You don’t know me.”
“I think I just felt really angry in that moment. I remember you coming into the donut shop before I started school. I remember you holding that letter in your hand. You looked like you had something to tell me.” You recalled as you dried your eyes with your tissue.
“I wish I had just told you then.” Peter sighed. “I really do. I’m sorry I took that choice from you.”
You stared at him for a moment and wished you could pull his mask off and look into his eyes. You settled for the glimpse of them that you could get through the white of his mask, and found unexpected comfort in them.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Peter?” You whispered. “We could have been rebuilding this whole time. I could’ve been getting to know you this whole time. But now, I feel like you’ve been taken from me twice.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Was all he could say. You could tell he was crying too. You wiped your eyes again and then started to rip up the tissue to give your hands something to do.
“It’s strange. I don’t remember you, but I can still feel what a loss that is.” You said as if you were thinking out loud. As you looked into Peter’s eyes, he had never seen you look so lost. He decided you’d both gone long enough without connection and pulled off his mask.
“What are you doing? Put it back on. Ned could come back any minute.” You warned him as your head whipped to the door to see if Ned had returned.
“I don’t care.” Peter shook his head. “I have to tell you this.”
“Tell me what?” You asked as your eyes desperately searched his face to try and jog your memory.
“I am truly sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner. But you have to understand that it only came from a place of wanting to protect you.”
He paused as though he was carefully considering his next words. His knee was bouncing up and down, seemingly unbeknownst to him, so you put your hand on top of it. It stopped bouncing almost immediately and he instinctively put his hand on top of yours. He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles for just a second before remembering that you didn’t have that kind of relationship anymore. He quickly withdrew his hand and wiped his eyes.
“When I first went to give you the letter all those years ago, I had just come back from my aunts grave. I was carrying the weight of my lifestyle being the cause of her death. Seeing your face that day was the only thing that eased the pain. But then I saw that you still had a bandage on your face from helping me when I was fighting some people. You probably don’t remember that either.”
You reached up and touched the scar above your right eyebrow when you heard this. Something you’d always chalked up to being a birthmark or leftover scrape from childhood had been a connection to Peter this whole time.
“When I looked at you and heard how excited you were to go off to school, you seemed so peaceful.” Peter continued. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. I couldn’t complicate your life all over again and risk you getting killed for me.”
You chewed your bottom lip for a moment as you processed what he was saying. You could understand his reasoning to a point, but you still wished he had let you make the decision for yourself.
“Did I know you were Spiderman when we were together?” You asked him.
“Yeah. You figured it out.” He said with a soft laugh when he remembered the night you told him you knew his secret. You didn’t seemed pleased by that answer and frowned at him.
“But doesn’t that mean I already knew the risk? And was with you regardless?”
“You were.” He had to agree. “I guess it didn’t feel like a risk anymore after my aunt passed. It felt inevitable.”
You sighed and put your hand back on Peter’s knee. He looked into your eyes expecting residual anger, but they were only soft now.
“I understand why you did what you did. But I don’t want you to make decisions like that for me ever again, okay?” You said firmly but kindly.
“I won’t.” He nodded. “Never again. I promise.”
“Good. Because if I’m back in your life now, I need to be able to trust you.”
“You can. I’ll make it up to you.” He assured you. The faintest hint of a smile crept onto his face, so he looked down in attempt to hide it.
“What?” You wondered.
“I didn’t realize this meant you were officially back in my life.” He said in a quiet voice. You could hear a difference in his voice as he spoke, sounding much lighter than he had since he first reentered your life.
“Ned and I are, yeah.” You said simply, not understanding how desperately he needed to hear that.
“That’s, uh, that’s really great to hear.” He nodded and kept his head low so you wouldn’t see his misty eyes. He didn’t want you to see that he was all choked up over the mere fact you were someone he could talk to again.
“You could’ve heard it four years ago.” You said out the corner of his mouth. Peter let out a soft chuckle at that, making you smile as well. The atmosphere in the room finally felt a little less intense and you were able to smile at each other.
“Are you gonna remind me of that for the rest of our lives?” Peter asked you, secretly thrilled to have the beginning of some kind of inside joke with you. Inside jokes existed between people who meant something to each other, giving him hope that this would be the first of many between you.
“Almost definitely.” You assured him.
“I deserve that.” He shrugged. To his surprise, your smile fell and a very serious look crossed your face.
“You don’t deserve any of this.” You stated as you stared into his eyes. Peter blinked at the sudden candor from you and nodded his head to show you he heard you.
“I appreciate you saying that.” He said, voice quiet once again.
“I mean it, Peter.” You insisted. “No one should have ever had to go through what you’ve gone through. But you don’t have to go through it alone anymore. I’m here for you now. As long as you’re honest with me.”
“Since I’m being honest, there’s actually something else I have to tell you.”
“Oh God.” You sighed. “There’s more? What else could you possibly have to tell me?”
“You know how I came into your room the other day and told you someone bad was after you? And then we found out later that it was Jean?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“After I got you out of your apartment, we landed on a rooftop. I thought I had gotten us far enough away from Jean where she couldn’t get us, but I didn’t. She took you over at some point without me realizing. And she, uh, she kissed me.” Peter admitted. He’d been carrying the shame from the moment he’d realized it was Jean, and not you, who kissed him. In the spirit of rebuilding your relationship, he knew he had to be honest with you.
“Oh. I didn’t know that happened. Everything just sort of switched off after we left my apartment.” You frowned and tried to recall the moments between Peter rushing into your open window and you waking up in his arms on the sidewalk after Jean threw you off the rooftop.
“I assumed you didn’t know. But I wanted you to know that I kissed you back. Or, her back, I guess. But only because I thought it was you. I really thought we were safe from her up there. If I had known it wasn’t really you, I never would’ve kissed her back. Or, you back. I don’t know exactly. I just want you to know that I’m really sorry.”
“I appreciate you telling me that.” You smiled sadly at him. “And your apology. I’m pretty disgusted that she used my body like that, but I don’t blame you for it. I know you wouldn’t have kissed me if you knew the truth.”
“I wouldn’t. Ever. But I’m still sorry.”
“I forgive you, since you didn’t know. Plus, I’m sure we’ve kissed before, right?”
“Yeah.” Peter blushed. “We have.”
“I figured. That explains why I don’t remember my first kiss.” You said with a sad laugh. Peter could tell that bothered you but stayed silent to let you process it.
“Or my first time.” You realized. “Was that you, too?”
“Yeah, yeah that was me.” Peter said weakly. He was bright red now, but luckily, you weren’t looking at him.
“Damn. And here I thought I was a virgin.”
“Definitely not.” Peter mumbled.
“Definitely not?” You repeated through a laugh. “Damn, Spiderman. What were we getting up to?”
Before he could answer, he watched your face slowly drop into a frown. You slumped back on the couch and stared off into the distance but not at anything in particular.
“That’s actually hitting me pretty hard.” You confessed. “Those were two pivotal moments in my life and I have no memory of them. Or of being in love. Or, I’m sorry. Were we in love? How serious was our relationship? Your letter just said we were together.”
“Very serious and very much in love. We were that annoying couple that sat on the same side of the booth at restaurants.” He informed you. You smiled a little at that, but he could tell you were still grieving the loss of memories for those foundational moments in your life.
“Oh God. Really?” You asked in total disbelief, feeling unable to imagine yourself as one half of a couple that did that.
“Oh yes. And always holding hands. Even under the desk in class. People would make fun of us sometimes. But even when they did, you never let go of my hand.”
“I mean, that’s pretty sweet.” You admitted. “As long as we weren’t the kind of high school couple that would like bark at each other or make out to say goodbye if we had different classes.”
“No, no barking.” He chuckled. “Just holding hands. And you’d wear my debate club hoodie. You always said it was because it smelled like me, but I really think you just didn’t want to buy your own.”
“That sounds like me. I actually still have that. I thought it was mine.”
“It’s mine. My initials are on the tag.”
“Really?” Your eyes widened. “How did I not notice that? I did notice it smelled like cologne, though. But I thought that was because Ned had borrowed it or something.”
“Nope. All me.” Peter said proudly.
“What else?” You asked as you leaned your chin on your hands to look at him. You resembled a kid eagerly waiting to hear the next part of a storybook, and that made Peter eager to tell you.
“You’d come over every Friday and my aunt would make us some bizarre recipe she saw online. It was never good, and rarely edible, but you’d always pretend to like it. And then we’d sneak out and get McDonald’s.”
“May.” You recalled. “I could never remember how I knew her. Or why I spent so much time at a 50 year old woman’s home in my teens.”
“Yeah, May.” He smiled sadly. “We’d watch movies in your room a lot. You let me show you all my favorites. If you complimented something random about the movie after we watched it, I knew that meant you didn’t like it. Like, “the score was really powerful” or “the costumes were so detailed”. That’s when I’d think yep, she hated it.”
“Is that why I’ve seen all the Star Wars movies? That’s your doing?”
“Oh, yes.” He nodded. “That’s all me.”
“Keep going.” You said, thought it sounded more like a plead.
“You always had my back. Always. You don’t remember this, but before the spell, my identity got revealed to the world. You went down swinging for me anytime someone said something to me. Even though it was making things harder for you.”
“Harder how?”
“You got fired from your job. So did Ned. And neither of you got into MIT because you were linked to the “controversy” about me.” He explained.
“I can’t believe that happened. I don’t remember any of that.”
“It did. That’s part of the reason I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Which you’re sorry about.” You reminded him.
“Right, which I’m sorry about.” He nodded in agreement and cracked a smile at you keeping him in line. You frowned again and touched a gentle hand to Peter’s cheek, to which he instantly melted into.
“You gave up so much for Ned and I to have normal lives. And we had no idea for all this time.” You said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Of course. I would do anything to protect you guys. Anything.”
“I can’t tell you how much I wish I had our memories.” You stayed in a hushed tone as you stroked his freckles with your thumb.
“I really wish you did too.” He said, voice beginning to waver as well. You gave him a teary smile and then wiped your eyes with the back of your hand.
“Listen, um, I know that I said before that I’m grateful for what you sacrificed for me, but that I don’t know you.”
“I remember.” Peter said quietly.
“But I’d like to.” You continued. Peter stared into your eyes for what felt like a really long time, unwilling to blindly trust that this was really you talking and not another trick.
“If that’s okay?” You added when he didn’t respond.
“Can I have four years to think about it?” He said finally, making you laugh through your tears and pull him into a hug. He hugged you back as tightly as he could and let himself trust that this was real. He buried your face in his shoulder, letting himself grow familiar with the new perfume you wore. You held him just as tightly, feeling your muscle memory kick it as you gripped the curls on the top of his head.
“No, you may not.” You said into his shoulder. “I think we’ve lost enough time.”
summary: your cute upstairs neighbour holds many secrets. you're willing to close one eye to his secrecy or the way he looks at you as if you hung the stars, till you accidentally uncover letters upon letters nedpeter’s kept in his apartment—all addressed to you.
pairing: peter parker x reader
content: slight angst, flufff, comfort, no major movie spoilers!!, yes peter fumbled by using ned as his fake name, yearner peter parker!!
Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.
Peter—clearly, Ned wasn't even his real name. Ned, the friendly neighbour from 28B who was a secretive, genius oddball—whom you suspect to be some sort of undercover agent after catching a glimpse of the ridiculously high-end tech flooding his apartment.
Overly sweet Ned, who never failed to offer a hand with your laundry basket or delivery packages, or dropping off your exact coffee order at the front door before your morning shifts, just because he could. Ned, who snaps his neck up half the time looking around with a widened, hopeful gaze when you do address him in the laundry room—as if looking for some other Ned that meant a greater deal to him than himself.
You had suspected he was likely involved in illegal activities, but when the temptation of finding his laundry basket unattended remained, you finally took the chance to return those little favours. Maybe he was the kindest stranger you've ever known, or maybe he just looked like he could use a helping hand—with how his shoulders drooped low whenever he thought no one was looking in the dingy hallways. He seemed—lonely.
Not like you were one to judge. You had always felt like a piece of you was missing, and that gaping hole behind your ribs didn't magically stitch itself closed when you grabbed your degree with crippling student loans biting at your heels, and a lousy job in the nearest soul-sucking company you could find within train distance to your apartment.
So, maybe Ned's smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes flashed more than once in your thoughts, and you decided it was time to get to know the man who lived one floor above you. You expected his smile to greet you when you climbed up the rickety stairs to his apartment, not his door left ajar with webs sticking out the hinges—or letters all addressed to you scattered across the floorboards.
You didn't know what you had expected when you walked into his mess of an apartment. More so than usual, enough for you to sense the abnormality of webs upon webs coating his furniture. Stepping into what seems to be a genuine crime scene, it's as if the culprit was one massive spider that decided to make its hive in Ned's apartment.
"Ned?" You call out, worry raised in your tone as you look around—catching no sight of him through the thick layers of webbing. His large monitor screens are all left online, files left unclosed on the window tab, with no sign of their user.
You're one step away from the monitor, tempted to call the cops when you catch sight of crumpled papers upon papers scattered on the wooden floors beneath the desk. Brows furrowed, you crouch down, brushing away the loosened cobwebs coating the papers. They are— letters.
Your first instinct as your fingers trace over his handwriting, paper crumpled at the edges, is to leave it alone as it's most definitely personal—before your eyes catch sight of your name. No—you weren't imagining it. The letters were most definitely, addressed to you.
Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.
Earlier was bad. Like, really bad. I can't believe I said 'Oh no!' to your face, like what kind of idiot does that as their first impression? Well, technically that wouldn't be our first meeting, though I doubt you'll remember me. I was anything but smooth on all the other occurences either.
Just talking with you in the hallway and carrying your boxes—I nearly forgot myself. I still can't decide if it's a curse or some cruel joke of a blessing that you moved into my apartment complex of all places. It's like the world's trying to tell me to just say the truth.
I should be going out there and telling you this instead of writing this stupid note or letter, but a letter should come in one of those fancy envelopes, so I guess I should call this a note? Anyways, I'm getting off track.
I miss being with you, and I’m so scared I’m starting to forget how it iswas between us, and talking to you again like everything was normal just—I had the urge to sit down and write to you, before I did anything stupid. So I could talk to you, in some way, without hiding behind 'Ned'. How stupid can I be, using Ned's name, like was that seriously all I could think of? I don’t know if this note will be worth anything by the end, but I think it’ll hurt worse if I just let what happened simmer in my brain.
I miss you so, so much. It feels like it's killing me sometimes, and I don't know what to do with myself now that you're here, so close to me, for what could be a really long time. I don't know what hurts worse, being apart from you or this, and I don't know what I'm going to do. You'd know what to say, and I wish you could tell me. I miss you ordering me around. I just miss you.
Love,
Your Peter.
Your heart thumps painfully against your ribcage, fingers tightening over the crinkled edges, digging deeper into the forming lines. What kind of sick joke was this? Had he known you for longer—since before you moved into this apartment?
His strange reaction when he had bumped into you in the hallway for the first time reformed in your memory, the intensity of a stranger that came off as more than usual awkwardness.
"Sorry for bumping into you—" You huff, a cramped smile peeking through the many boxes you're carrying. "Not my best line of sight right now."
Past the boxes, is possibly the cutest potential neighbour you've ever seen. With wettened curls drooping over his forehead, a towel draped around his neck, in his grey sweats and baggy hoodie—this stranger looks like a dream. Or maybe you're just in desperate help to ease the load on your arms that carries your entire future life in this new apartment complex.
"What are you doing here?"
You blink, stunned by his sudden interrogation. That was—not what you expected. You run faces through your mind, anyone you may have accidentally pissed off in the last four years of your university life, but his doesn't come to mind at all. You would remember that face.
Especially if he's staring at you like the existence of you in this cramped hallway was a signal that the world was collapsing on him and his perfect curls.
"Uhm, I live here?" You answer, shuffling the boxes awkwardly between your two palms. "Well, starting today—I do."
Your words register slowly for him, and you feel it in the strain of your arms under the boxes, as the fact that you're his actual neighbour slowly kicks in to his senses.
"Oh." His lips part in genuine anguish. "Oh no."
"Yikes." You wince. "That's a warm welcome."
He's panicking. The cute stranger looks like he's one miscalculated breath away from passing out in the hallway, and you're in no position to assist him when you're clearly winded yourself.
"No—I didn't mean—" His voice stutters, catching at the tail-ends and running out of breath. "Oh, this is not how it's supposed to go."
"No, I don't think I've ever caused genuine pain to a neighbour just from my mere existence." You snort, offering a lighter tone. "Though Margeret may disagree."
His lips quirk up slightly, involuntary even if he has no idea who Margeret—your old neighbour, is supposed to be. "No, I'm sorry. That was rude of me." He tries again, voice sincerely apologetic. "Can I please help you with the boxes to make up for it?"
You open your mouth to brush off his request, but the boxes tilt right as you make another forward step. "Fine." You oblige. "Just don't start spreading rumours about me taking advantage of your kindness. I really need a new start here."
"Had personal experience with that?" He raises a brow, almost teasing—softer than he had been earlier in his initial shock. His hands come up under your boxes, brushing over your fingers almost tentatively.
The warmth of his touch lingers for a second longer than it should, but you're too focused on the relief of the heavy weight being lifted off your palms as he carries it into his own arms, clearly handling the boxes with more ease than you had.
"Ask Margeret." You shrug, rolling your shoulders to ease the cramping. "Thanks..."
His lips part and close, realising he's supposed to introduce himself. It takes him awhile to gather the syllables of his name, before he offers it. "..Ned."
"Thanks, Ned." Your smile deepens, and he stares at you long enough, gaze tracing over the curve of your lips for it to teeter towards awkward.
He keeps doing that, registering your presence as something otherworldly, as if it was the last thing he expected in his path. Maybe the complex has few new tenants to explain his abnormal reaction.
"Oh, my door's 13B."
"What—oh, right!" He blinks, still looking stunned and turning with such an abrupt motion towards the direction of your new studio—and somehow, you're fond of it immediately.
Fond of Ned, even if your arrival seems to have jumbled his senses into a frenzy, and you have only known him for approximately four minutes.
Hey, it's Peter again!
It's two in the morning, my ribs are aching from Scorpion, and talking with you in the laundry room was easily the best ten minutes of my life since everything changed. My smile refuses to be wiped and it's been nearly an hour, and I can't sleep cause I'm thinking about you. You genuinely work better than painkillers, and I love you. I love you so much that I have never wished so desperately...
I wish I wasn't Peter Parker. That I wasn't the person who took your love for granted, who reassured you that I'd always make it back to you and that I'd help you remember. I can't even protect the people I love, not without ruining their lives just by letting them in. Being able to keep you safe from me, is the only reason that's enough to keep me from barging in and fulfilling my promise. From reminding you of what I used to mean to you, and what we used to be. I am a coward, but I can only hope that I won't be a selfish one. I've created enough reasons for why I can't stand being me, but I refuse to list another which involves hurting you.
That's enough for tonight. I just wish that if the universe ever gives me the chance to make things right, without making everything else much much worse, I just want you to know that I would never take anything for granted ever again. Over anything. Over pineapple on pizza, or the supremacy of rock bands, or the Lego pieces I stuffed under my bed, or me being Spiderman. I miss you so much, and I hope you're having a better night that I am.
Love,
Your Peter.
“Ned, are you okay?” You ask, watching as he limped forward towards the washing machine, one hand gripped right at his ribcage.
Your own batch is tumbling along, and you're seated cross-legged across your machine as he slumps forward to sit right next to you, hand going towards the cover of the conjoined machine beside yours.
“Peachy.” The crinkles of his eyes deepen, tossing you a wayward smile with a barely concealed wince. “Tripped and slammed into the washing machine yesterday.”
“That’s like the third time this month.” You raise a brow, expression contorting in concern.
“Is it?” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Must be really off my game.”
“Of making amends with the washing machine?” You tease.
“Yeah, I suppose.” His smile softens, gazing up at you.
He does that a lot, go soft at the edges, as if he’s peeling back something fuzzy over his expression—and revealing something honest.
"My advice is to make an offer." You whisper conspiratorially. "Throw in your most favourite shirt or something, and the laundry gods will be kinder on you."
He snorts, and it feels strangely familiar to talk to him this way, under the dim lighting of the flickering lamp, surrounded by the scent of detergent. You barely get to see Ned as is, not like you're expecting a practical stranger to make up much of your socialising hours, aside from the quick friendly nods and occasional 'how's your day's' when brushing past each other in the hallway.
He's a busy guy, and the laundry mat has become a sacred space where the two of you existed in each other's worlds for just a few minutes, till the timer runs out.
"I don't really have anything of mine that'll please the gods." He whispers back.
"I could give you something." You shrug non-comittally.
His gaze widens, staring at you as you dig around in your inner pocket, before tugging something out. One of your favourite scrunchies in hand, you offer it to him.
"Here." You gesture. "Just toss it in with the pile, I guarantee you that the gods will leave you alone."
His gaze flickers between the scrunchie in your hand to you. He's about to say something, brows furrowing together in brief conflict, but chooses not to divulge as his hand reaches for the scrunchie. You note the bruises forming along his knuckles as his fingers loop around the silk, and your lips press together further in concern.
By the time your gaze meets his, he's already turned his head and placed the scrunchie gently on top of his pile of clothes. When he sets the settings and presses the button, the machine runs smoothly, beeping along with yours as his clothes begin to turn and tumble without fault.
"Wow, you really do make everything better." He mutters to himself.
Your smile softens. "It's just a scrunchie."
He shakes his head loosely, his curls falling to his forehead before he turns back to face you. His gaze pours over your features, the crinkles in the corner of his hazel eyes so soft in the dimmed lighting. "No, I think it’s you."
Peter here!
I just wanted to say happy birthday to the smartest, beautiful, kindest, most awesome human to ever exist! I ran out of other big words, but you make up the whole dictionary of synonyms for amazing in every language possible. I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there, you have no idea how sorry. I have many other things to be sorry for, but this week, that’s definitely going top of the list. I should really stop with these letters, but I really wanted to give you a proper wish just this once.
It kills me that I can’t celebrate with you, and I know you’d end me yourself if you remembered my promise with the camera. You always did like the grain. You still look absolutely beautiful even without it. I’m so proud of you—for being you, and existing, and just killing it out there in the world. I did something a little sad, and not even close to what you deserve, but I bought a cupcake from Delmar's earlier, and I even have the candle right in front of me.
I wish for you to live the most happiest, fulfilling life, and that danger will never come close to you. I wish that you will achieve everything you've ever dreamed of, and that you'll have people who will look after you and love you just as much as I do. I wish—that you'll live a life worth remembering.
I love you, and I think this will be my last letter. I think it'll be nearly impossible for me to let you go, but I think it's time I accepted that for you to live the life I wished for, I have to try.
I love you,
Your Peter.
P.S. Sorry, just had to add this in one last time. You're always beautiful, and I'm not saying this because I only get to see you from a distance, but because I don't think I ever got to tell you that enough.
"Ned?" Your voice croaked out. "Is that you?"
You hear shuffling, before his left shoulder peeks out from the doorframe, slowly entering into view as he takes the lower step into the laundry room. He's staring down at you as if you've handed him an atomic bomb, and you're a sure mess, nose stuffy and eyebags swollen from crying.
"Hey." His soft call is close to making you lose it. "I didn't know if you wanted me intruding on your—"
"Date with the washing machine?" You huff, amusement dry as you turn back to look at your tumbling laundry. "By all means, join in. This current option isn't really doing it for me."
You spot the turn of his lips into a smile in your peripheral vision, before he eventually drops his weight beside you. His knee brushes against yours, and that contact registers like lightning to your senses, before he pulls back to that appropriate distance he always sets between the two of you.
You have no idea why it frustrates you so, even if you have nothing you should expect from him. Your gaze drops to his hand resting over his knee, bouncing slightly with a restless energy—and you spot your scrunchie over his wrist.
Your breath shortens, pulling your attention to his face only to find him already looking at you with unbridled concern.
"You okay?" He asks gently.
Your lip trembles, and you steady yourself as much as you are able. "Fine, just a real shit week."
"I'm so sorry to hear that." He's honest, you can hear it even without really looking him in the eye. "If you want, you can rant to me. I'm a real good listening ear. No mouthing off, just a still statue for your needs."
Your lips quirk up slightly at his attempt at minimising his presence, without even knowing how much it mattered to you that he came in here—or that he stood by the door for a solid ten minutes before you called him out. That he didn't leave, even if any normal stranger would.
"It's my birthday." You shrug, wiping at the tearstain at your cheeks. "And I just lost my job."
His lips part, brows pulling together—but he doesn't interrupt you.
"I was supposed to have a party today, and my college friends cancelled last minute." You mutter weakly. "Not that we were super close, but close enough that it mattered, y'know? I wasn't their first pick, or anyone's for the matter, so it really shouldn't have come as a surprise."
"No, you're—" His voice raises almost in frustration, and you meet his gaze. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, and his tone softens into an admission. "You're definitely my first pick."
Your laugh bubbles out of you, finding his statement absurd. "For what? You barely know me."
"I know you're extremely kind." He starts. "That you'd offer your favourite scrunchie to a stranger just to please the laundry gods. That you're funny, and beautiful—and my first pick for who I'd always want to run into."
You stare at him, unable to suppress your shock. He just called you kind, and funny, and beautiful—things people who've known you for longer hasn't thought to mention in years.
"That's—the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me in awhile." You confess, licking at your lips. "Thank you, Ned."
"It's only the truth." He presses. "I shouldn't be the only person to see that, and I know I'm not the only one who does."
"I don't know." You shrug uselessly. "My birthday hasn't even ended, and I feel completely unseen in my own life. I know it's a stupid thing, but I wish I had someone to take my picture, at least to comemorate that I've completed another spin around the Earth or something."
"You could use my camera." He offers almost instinctively.
"You have a camera?" You blink, before a slow smile spreads across your lips. "Of course you do. Do I need to be a tech-savvy to use those too, secret hacker?"
You're no stranger to the many monitors that crowd his apartment, courtesy to the many curious glances past the few times he's left his door ajar, into the premises of his own studio of what looked to be a completely different realm.
His smile deepens. "No, you just need to press two buttons. I could teach you how to work it out."
"You're into photography?" You ask.
His expression stiffens, thoughts trailing off. "Yeah, something like that. My aunt used to love taking physical photos, and I sorta inherited that trait. There was someone—who used to love using my film camera too. So, yeah—I guess I have some experience."
"You could teach me photography." You offer, almost tentatively. "Not just for the sad, lone birthday picture, I mean."
"Oh." He stares at you, and you see it then. Conflict—a pure, unmasked internal battle. "I—I don't know if I'm the right person."
You shrink slightly, less confident than you had been a few seconds ago. This really wasn't your day. "Right, sorry. I know you're a really busy person."
"No, I—" He winces, jaw clenching tight. "I would really love to. It's just that I'm—"
He pauses, staring at you with a nearly broken expression. Your brows furrow together, waiting for his answer—heart thumping in what could only be anticipation. Rejection is close at hand, and you hate that you find yourself waiting still, for something different. For him to fulfill something even you couldn't quite understand.
"Busy." He eventually settles on, voice trailing off in defeat.
You can't take it to heart. You don't allow yourself to, because disappointment is the last thing you wanted a taste of on a day like this. Ned was still nice enough to sit down here with you while you moped, and you shouldn't expect anything more. Even if you liked him, and the crinkles in the corners of his warm, brown eyes, and the sweet sound of his voice—more than you'd ever admit to yourself.
"That's not very creative." You mumble, presenting him with a weakened attempt of a smile. "I gave you that excuse, thief."
His own softened smile rises to meet yours, equally shattered. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you."
You know he means it, you just don't know why your heart churns so painfully when you hear those words coming out of his mouth. You don't know if you have faith in promises lately. You haven't believed in those for a really long time.
You don't know how many letters you've gone through, flipping through confessions scribbled in secrecy, of mind-spells, and magic, and vigilantes—a life you don't even remember to be a fraction of your world.
A loud crash resounds behind you and you instinctively rise, tripping over your feet—almost frightened, lashes wet at the corner of your eyes when you turn and see Ned. No, Peter—dressed in a black tank-top much too short for his defined torso and… Juicy Couture pants?
He’s clearly disoriented, and you’re not sure if it’s the chronic migraines he usually gets—or something heavier he keeps hidden past the pile of letters that’s just spilled everything. You can barely look at him without feeling like you’re going to burst at the seams, and he hasn’t even noticed your presence in his apartment.
“What is this?” Your voice eventually breaks through.
His head snaps up, expression scrunched in tension—and he freezes. That same tentative smile he always tossed to you, always sweet and somehow all-too-knowing, locks in place as his lips part—assuming you’re talking about his outfit. Or the state of his apartment, there’s just too much about him that you could never quite put a finger on.
“Wrong laundry basket.” He huffs, churning out an attempt of a laugh to play it off. “Fell asleep in the laundry room, and I didn't even think to take a look at what's inside. I promise I'm not a thief.”
“Stop.” Your stern expression is caught by him immediately, and his attempt of a smile falters. Slowly, your hand raises the letters to his line of vision. "Peter."
His gaze snaps to the letters creased between your shaking fingers. You can't remember what breathing looks like, especially not when his own chest stutters visibly beneath the tank top, as if all the oxygen's been sucked out of him.
He knows, that you know.
"Oh—no." He whispers weakly, because that is the only appropriate thing to say. You’re struck with déjà vu, back to the first time you ever crossed paths with him in the hallway, when he had looked you with so much pain—one you couldn’t decipher.
He takes a step forward towards you, both hands raised with his lips parting to come up with an explanation. You instinctively take a step back, not on purpose, but the distance you've created lands all the same.
He flinches as if you've struck him, his expression shattered to pieces of that raw agony you've felt slip up from him once or twice. That same gaping sadness beneath his gaze, that he always covered up with a bandaged smile meant more for show.
"I'm sorry." His voice breaks weakly, hands clenching into a fist before dragging back down to his sides. "I didn't mean to scare you. Oh god, this was not how this was supposed to go."
"How was this supposed to go?" You echo back to him. "From your letters, it didn't seem like you were ever going to tell me."
It didn't mean to sound accusatory, but you're high on the precipice of a reality broken to pieces, and you're unsure if you're left alone in apartment with an actual lunatic, or with a truth you weren't suppose to discover.
"No, I—" He sucks in a breath, desperation seeping into his tone. "I swear I was going to, but then I found you and you looked so—"
His hands that have begun to brush through his curls fall flatly to the sides, defeated. "So peaceful—and safe. I felt so selfish to take that away from you. To drag you back into my world, knowing that all you'd face was danger or worse."
"And the truth is that hurt the people I love." He admits, his eyes squinting together as something wet flickers over his lashes, and you can tell he believes it. This so-called truth he tells himself. "Nothing good comes out of being close to me, and I couldn't lose you."
"I had to be okay with it." His gaze meets yours, broken. "Not being in your life will always be better than a world without you in it. I had to protect you, somehow—even if it meant leaving you alone."
"It was easier before you came." He huffs out, pained. "To keep a distance before I saw you everyday, just out of reach. I can't count the amount of times I nearly told you. I was just afraid, that if you didn't remember me, I don't think I can—live with hearing it. I'm a coward, and I took the only path I knew, which was to pretend. Like everything was fine, and that seeing you from a distance was enough."
You see it, the way his brain registers his actions as protection, but you don't feel protected. You feel isolated, locked out of your own memories and faced with a man you're supposed to know, someone your body is pleading for you to recognise past the fog in your brain.
“Listen—whatever worked worked, and I can’t remember.” You breathe out, exhale shaky from your lips. “I can’t remember what we had, but I know myself. I don't let people make promises to me, not unless I trust them so much that I—If you promised you’d find me, that you’d help me remember.” Your fist clenches tighter around the letters. "You should've known that I'd never be okay with leaving you alone to deal with this—"
"How could you know that?" He snaps.
You blink, stunned.
"I mean—you never had a normal life from the moment you met me." He goes on. "You never experienced a life without hoping I'd make it back home safe, without looking over your shoulder when I became the world's public enemy, or having to deal with stitches and blood and worrying about survival—instead of school!"
"You don't see the difference but I do." He confesses. "You're living a good life now, and I already screwed it up by entering it again."
"Peter." You cut him off, nearly pleading. "Stop it."
His jaw locks, lips clamping shut before he lets out a huff, one closer to a panic attack than frustration. "I'm sorry." He mutters, clenching his jaw. Something wet pries behind his lashes, and he runs his palms over them, covering his face. "I don't want to fight."
Your heart cracks a little, because there's something so heartbreakingly earnest in the way he says it, as if he's beating himself up over a million thoughts you can't uncover. Your steps inch closer, almost instinctively your body knowing the rhythm at the sight of a distraught Peter before you even have the chance to piece together the 'why'.
"We're not fighting, Peter." You reassure him, your hands tentatively lifting to rest atop his palm.
He freezes, unable to comprehend your touch. You peer through the gaps of his fingers, and find his gaze staring back at you, fractured and pained.
"I knew something wasn't right." You sigh. "I felt it this whole time. Like there was an absence of something—someone important. It gnawed at me, that emptiness, and it nearly drives me insane some nights."
He recognises the feeling, you know he does with the way his expression draws tighter—in understanding, in regret.
"I wish you came to me." You whisper. "I wish you told me, so you wouldn't have to go through this alone."
His lip trembles, as if he never expected you to hear the truth and stay. As if you'd pick the exit over him, when he clearly needs you now.
"If I had promised I'd be there for you, you should've let me keep that promise." You scold gently. "Even if it meant starting over. You’re not meant to deal with life alone, much less one as heavy as yours.”
His gaze is shaken, staring at you with his pupils blown wide. Waiting for reality to hit, or for you to take back your words—but you remain. You stand there, close enough for him to feel you. You don't falter.
Something in Peter gives—shatters completely, and it’s a mere blink before his arms are completely wrapped around you, squashing you into his chest. His fingers are shaking, trembling—a relieved exhale pressed against your shoulder blade before he buries himself deep into the crook above your collarbone.
“I missed you.” Wet tears pool at your skin. “So, so much. It felt like I was dying a little inside every single day, knowing I wasn't keeping your promise. I couldn't—I really tried letting go and it didn't work, not when you mean everything to me."
"I know you don't remember me or what happened between us but—" His voice shakes, muffled from his tight hold. "I love you and I’m sorry—I’m so sorry for everything.”
You can't answer him, not with the words he wants or deserves to hear with full honesty backing it, not without the memories you used to share. Yet, the hold of him is familiar, the way you run your fingers through his curls like memory work. His entire body caves in deeper to your touch, as if he’d been waiting this whole time since your arrival to let himself fall into you.
"From the first day I saw you." You admit. "I felt like I was meant to know you, Peter. I wouldn't have given you my scrunchie if it didn't mean something, if I didn't want to tie myself to you in some way."
Pulling back slightly so he meets your gaze, you find yourself mesmerised by the familiarity of him, the way his gaze pours over you automatically as if memorising you is all he wishes to do.
"I want to get to know you, Peter." You confess. "And I want to do it without you pushing me away, pretending like my life is happier without you when laundry nights are what I look forward to the most, because of you."
His breath halts, short-circuiting with your words. Something bright and warm bleeds into his face, and you recognise it to be happiness. Genuine, unconditional relief—before his forehead presses against yours, his lashes fluttering to a close as he embraces you.
"I can do that." He mutters softly. "I'll do anything you ask me to."
It's nice, to be held so tightly and finally feel whole. To have that gap in your chest you've never truly stitched up fade into something mind-numbingly warm and fuzzy, in the arms of the one person your body still commits to memory, past even some stupid mind spell.
“Also.." You murmur, still wrapped in his embrace. "Seriously, what is this outfit?"
A surprised chuckle escapes his lips, a little wet-sounding as he clears his throat. "I wasn't lying about the laundry mishap. I swear I don't dress like this normally."
You hum. "I don't know, I kind of like it."
The silence stretches for a brief second. "I'll buy more if you want me to."
a/n: this movie was everything i needed. much more peter parker fics to come!
likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated! <3333
summary: peter’s new arachnid senses often leave him disoriented—hibernating and waking up in places he doesn’t recognise. it’s a small problem, one he's willing to deal with on his own, till he wakes in your apartment with his arms wrapped around you.
pairing: peter parker x reader
content: no bnd movie spoilers (feel free to read if you haven't seen bnd), FLUFF, clingy! peter parker, comfort, light banter, arachnid! peter, peter goes through it, yearning
Peter hates most of the new developments that arrived with the enhanced levels of his arachnid half—and migraines are definitely top of the list. Particularly the ones that start early in the morning, muffling his senses and rendering him a zombie slob for the entire start of the day. He stirs in his sleep, a soft, pounding ache burrowed in the back of his skull. It's an irritating sensation, one he's already grown familiar with, worsening the overheating, the sensitivity that comes with his overloaded senses, the pull of nerves behind his eyeballs.
His nose burrows deeper into a comforting scent, arms tightening around something soft. Letting out a dragged sigh, low against his throat, the pain fades into something barely noticeable. A sort of relaxed relief that hasn't hit him in years, with his entire body growing slack and heavy, the kind that only comes after a restful sleep. One he hasn't achieved since—his gaze peers open, blinking heavily as his eyes adjust to his surroundings.
The first thing he catches sight of is a familiar bundled sight of hair, and the curve of a shoulder. He must be dreaming. The sunlight stings the sensitivity of his eyes, and he blinks harsher in an effort to recollect himself. His brows furrow as he loosens a hand, parting from his tight grip to run his fingers gently over the loosened hair.
He wasn't dreaming. Somehow, he was laying in your bed, hugging you like an oversized koala.
"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.
You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.
The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.
What has he done?
"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.
Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.
"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"
Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?
“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”
Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.
Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.
"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."
"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."
Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?
He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.
His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.
“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.
He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.
He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.
There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.
“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.
Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.
“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”
His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.
“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.
Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.
“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”
His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.
“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”
Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."
A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.
"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.
Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.
Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.
"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.
He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.
He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.
You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?
Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.
You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.
"Don't go." He whispers.
Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.
"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.
He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."
You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.
He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.
"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."
His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.
"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."
He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.
"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."
The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.
"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.
"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.
You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.
Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.
You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.
Apparently, today was its much-needed day.
Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.
Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.
"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"
He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.
Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.
Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.
Okay, sure. You could work with that.
He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.
Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.
He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.
You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.
"Spidey." You whisper.
He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.
"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.
His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.
"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."
His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."
"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."
His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.
"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."
It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.
You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.
It gets demolished within seconds.
As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.
You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.
Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.
"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.
His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."
You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.
"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."
His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.
"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.
If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.
"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.
Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.
“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”
It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.
"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.
If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.
You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."
Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"
His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”
Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.
He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.
He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.
"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."
His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.
You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.
"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.
He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.
The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.
It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"
"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."
The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.
You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"
"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"
"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."
You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."
"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."
"That's not true." You hum.
He blinks slowly, processing your words.
"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."
He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.
"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.
The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"
"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”
He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.
It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.
“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”
"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."
Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."
"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."
"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."
His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.
"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."
Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.
It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.
"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.
You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.
"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."
His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."
"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"
He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."
His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."
Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."
"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."
You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.
He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.
"Spidey." You call out.
He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.
"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."
He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."
Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.
You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.
You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?
Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.
You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.
"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."
"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."
Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."
"Why?"
"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.
You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."
His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"
"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.
"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.
"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."
You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?
You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.
Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.
Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.
"Peter. Peter Parker."
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summary: after bribing peter parker’s landlord to let you wait in his queens studio (if you could even call it that), an unexpected entrance abruptly exposes his biggest secret. (4.9k)
content warnings: smut 18+ (MDNI), unprotected p in v, shower sex, peter parker being a hot mess, fluff, language, anxiety, descriptions of superhero related injuries.
authors note: to all my requests i see you guys and i will be working on them asap rocky.
you leaned casually against the water-stained doorframe while a thick-set man in a grease-stained undershirt struggled with a janky, rust-covered keyring.
oppressive heat had risen to the top floor, making the narrow hallway feel like a sauna, but you didn't really mind too much.
peter's landlord—usually a notoriously grouchy man who spent his evenings yelling at tenants about water bills or smoking foul cheap cigars in the entryway—was currently beaming at you like you were a long-lost saint who had personally come to grace his building.
"i tell him all the time," the landlord grunted, breathing heavily as he finally caught the right tarnished key.
he jammed it into the stubborn lock with a loud, metallic scraping sound that echoed down the quiet stairwell. "i say to him, 'peter, you are never here! you work too much, you sleep too little, but at least you have good taste in girls!' he is always running, running, coming home at three in the morning... late on payments because he forgets what day it is. but for you? a nice girl who goes to university? i will open the door."
you let out a dry chuckle, adjusting the heavy leather strap of your vintage tote bag over your shoulder.
"you're a lifesaver," you said, as you reached into your bag and pulled out a small wax paper bag that smelled overwhelmingly of sweet sugar and dark espresso. "i brought you two of those cinnamon pastries from the italian bakery down the block. they're still warm."
the landlord's stern, lined face melted into absolute, unadulterated delight. he snatched the bag with a booming laugh that rattled the apartment doors further down the hall, holding it like a prized trophy.
"you see? you are an angel!" he waved a dismissive, heavy hand toward the open apartment door, the hinges groaning in protest. "go, go inside. sit down. tell that foolish boy if he misses rent this month, i will have to kick him out, unless you bring more of these pastries!"
"deal," you smirked, stepping past him into the cramped attic space as he clicked the door shut behind you, leaving you alone in the quiet, dusty room.
you and peter weren't officially dating yet—a frustrating, agonizing fact that you both spent an absurd amount of time dancing around. you had met when he stumbled into your place of work three months ago trying to sell a stack of vintage camera manuals for pocket money.
since then, you had become an inseparable, addicting habit.
he would walk you back to your dorm after late-night study sessions at esu and you would trade easy banter that somehow made the crushing noise of new york city feel quiet.
but neither of you had made the first real move. you were stuck in this charged, comfortable orbit, circling each other like two planets terrified of the crash, both waiting for the other to blink first.
you took three steps into peter's tiny attic apartment—mindful of the steeply sloped ceiling that cut low across one side of the room—and let out a slow, heavy breath.
it wasn't necessarily filthy but it was just extremely chaotic.
a radiator clunked rhythmically in the corner like a dying clock. the tiny makeshift kitchenette tucked beneath the angled rafters held a half-disassembled camera sensor alongside three empty coffee mugs. a faded, mustard-yellow armchair was piled high with clean, unfolded laundry.
"jesus christ, parker," you muttered under your breath, a faint, helpless smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "what am i going to do with you.”
you walked over to the narrow counter, set your heavy tote bag down with a thud, and pulled a fresh cigarette from your pack. leaning against the low window sill, you lit it with a sharp, satisfying flick of your silver zippo. the metallic clink echoed in the small space.
you took a slow, deep drag, filling your lungs with nicotine as you looked around the crowded studio. blowing a lazy plume of smoke toward the peeling wallpaper, you walked over to his mattress—which sat directly on the floorboards in the lowest corner of the eaves with no bed frame. its gray sheets were tangled in a messy knot from a restless night's sleep.
you used the toe of your leather boot to nudge aside a stack of engineering textbooks on the floor, clearing a path before sitting down on the edge of the mattress. pulling out a heavy reading assignment from your tote bag, you settled in to catch up while you waited for him to show up.
twenty-five minutes passed in quiet, domestic peace.
you were midway through a dense chapter, absently twirling a braid around your index finger, completely lost in the academic jargon, when the small skylight window tucked high into the angled roof suddenly rattled violently in its wooden frame.
you barely had time to look up from your book before the skylight slammed open. a shower of dust and loose paint chips rained down from the rafters as a muscle-bound figure tumbled awkwardly through the tight frame, landing hard against the warped floorboards with a heavy, painful crash that shook the entire roof.
"man... note to self," a painfully familiar voice grunted, thick and heavy with raw exhaustion and deep pain, followed by a wet, hacking cough. "swinging with an injured rib is an absolute, top-tier nightmare—"
the figure hauled himself up into a kneeling position under the sloped ceiling, pulling at his full-face mask, dragging the thick, tight fabric up and off his head with a suction-like sound.
messy, sweat-slicked brown hair stuck wildly to his forehead. he panted heavily, his broad chest heaving as he rubbed a dark purple bruise forming along his left ribcage, before casually tossing the red-and-black fabric onto the floorboards—where it landed right at the toe of your boot.
peter looked up.
you were sitting squarely on his bed, holding a burning cigarette between two silver-ringed fingers, completely caught off guard.
peter froze instantly. the color drained from his face in a terrifying flash, leaving him paler than a blank sheet of printer paper.
the silence in the cramped room stretched out—suffocating and so loud you could hear the ash from your cigarette gently dropping onto the floorboards.
you stared at his face—at his wide, panicked brown eyes and the cut along his lip—and then down at the form-fitting, red-and-blue suit stretched tightly across a broad chest and heavy shoulders slick with sweat and alley grime. the spider emblem on his chest was scuffed and stained with soot, but it was glaringly obvious.
you blinked once.
twice.
then three times.
your mind, usually so quick with a sharp, sarcastic bite, completely short-circuited. you sat there, frozen, staring at peter parker—the guy who stuttered over his words when you caught him staring across the table—dressed head-to-toe as... spider-man.
"i—" peter stuttered, his voice jumping an entire octave into panic. he scrambled backward so fast he knocked his knee violently against his desk, sending a tower of metal film canisters tumbling across the floor in a loud, chaotic cascade. "hey. hi. what—how did—how are you—what are you doing here?!"
you opened your mouth to say anything but no words came out.
your brain was frantically trying to connect the dots, running at warp speed: peter. spider-man. spider-man is peter. peter is spider-man. you just sat there completely dumbfounded by the sheer impossibility of the man kneeling before you.
"it's—it's a costume." peter squeaked frantically, his hands flying up to cover his bare, muscular chest like a scandalized victorian maiden caught without her corset.
he stumbled backward over a stack of books on the floor, waving an arm wildly in the tight space, nearly clocking his head on the low ceiling beam. "for... halloween. early halloween. for a kid's party. yeah. i do kid's parties on the weekend. spider-man was sick today, so i filled in—"
you stared at him, your brain slowly creeping back online as the sheer ridiculousness of his words hit you, breaking through the wall of shock. "a... kid's party?" you finally managed to rasp out, your voice flat, bewildered, and genuinely lost for words.
"yes! kid's parties!" peter rambled on, his words tumbling out at a hundred miles an hour, his face turning bright, scorching red as he gestured wildly under the angled roof. "i do entertainment. i do flips. it's totally a normal new york gig thing. you know how hard it is to pay rent these days.”
"peter..." you said, blinking slowly, still trying to process the sheer absurdity of the lie and the staggering reality standing in front of you. you lowered the cigarette, your eyes locked entirely on his panicked face. "it's... it's august."
peter stopped dead in his tracks. his arms slowly lowered to his sides. his mouth hung open in a silent 'oh'. he looked down at the bright red chest piece unzipped to his navel, then back at you, the frantic energy slowly draining out of him until he just looked utterly, completely exposed.
"right," he muttered, running a shaky, sweat-damp hand through his messy hair. he stared at the floorboards, looking like a man walking to his own execution. "august. yeah."
you took a long, slow drag of your cigarette, letting the nicotine settle your racing pulse and steady your hands, before turning around to stub it out in a chipped, empty mug on his nightstand.
you stood up from the bed, your boots clicking softly against the floorboards as you stepped over the scattered film canisters, walking slowly over to him.
the closer you got, the more you realized just how large he really was—how the spandex clung to dense, hard muscle you never knew he had hiding beneath his oversized thrift-store sweaters.
"your landlord let me in, by the way," you said softly, your voice finally catching its usual steady rhythm. you kept your gaze locked on his, refusing to let him look away. "he likes cinnamon pastries. and he said you're running late on payments because you keep forgetting what day of the week it is."
peter let out a ragged, trembling exhale. he didn't move an inch; instead, he just stood there, bare-chested where the suit was unzipped to his waist, bruised, dirty, and breathing heavily.
he looked at you with wide eyes—vulnerable and completely exposed, waiting for the inevitable moment you would turn around and walk out the door forever.
"you're... you're not yelling," peter whispered, his voice dropping into a low, shaky quiet. "you're not screaming or running out the door."
"i don't even know what i'm supposed to say to you right now," you admitted, stopping right in front of him. you looked up at his face, taking in the smudge of soot on his high cheekbone, the small, fresh cut near his jawline that was still bleeding sluggishly, and the sheer intensity in his eyes. "i mean... spider-man? really? i thought you were just really clumsy."
a breathless laugh escaped peter's throat, though his hands were trembling slightly at his sides, curling into tight fists. "i am really clumsy."
"no," you corrected softly, reaching out. your fingers gently touched the dark purple bruise blooming over his ribs, feeling the heavy, rigid muscle beneath the slick suit. "clumsy people trip about or drop accidentally drop things. you get thrown through brick walls."
peter flinched at the touch, a low hiss escaping his teeth, but he didn't pull away. instead, he leaned into your hand, watching your face with a sudden, desperate stillness.
"does it hurt?" you asked gently, dropping any lingering shock for a moment of quiet concern, your thumb lightly brushing the edge of the swelling.
"only when i breathe," peter muttered, his voice dropping into a rough rasp. he looked down at your face, his gaze lingering on your lips, tracking every detail of you like a man dying of thirst looking at water.
the proximity was driving him insane. "i was so scared," he admitted softly, his walls finally crumbling as his hands instinctively reached out to rest heavy on your hips, tentative at first, then firming their grip. "i thought if you found out... you would look at me like i was a freak. or that you would walk away and never speak to me again."
you looked up at him, taking in the defined lines of his chest and the dangerous strength radiating off him—the same guy who spent hours drinking terrible gas-station coffee at the record store just to talk to you about vintage camera lenses.
it was impossible to reconcile the two halves, but standing here with his hands burning through your clothes, it all made a terrifying kind of sense.
"peter," you murmured, letting your hands slide up his chest, feeling the intense heat of his skin beneath your palms and the heavy thud of his enhanced heartbeat against your wrists. "you run around the city in spandex fighting crime. you're completely out of your mind. but i'm not going anywhere."
"and for the record," you added, your sarcastic edge returning just enough to break the suffocating tension in the room, "you look like you just went three rounds with a wrecking ball. you're covered in queens’ alley grime, parker. turn the shower on before you bleed on your floorboards."
a soft laugh huffed out of peter's chest—a sound of pure, unadulterated relief.
"shower's through there," he rasped, gesturing vaguely toward the narrow adjacent bathroom.
"i know where it is," you said smoothly, taking his broad hand and pulling him along. "and i'm not leaving you to pass out under the stream."
the bathroom was tight—just about big enough for two people to stand in. you reached into the shower, twisting the brass handles. the plumbing groaned through the plaster walls before hot water burst from the showerhead, instantly filling the space with a thick wall of white steam.
you kicked off your boots before stripping off your jacket and settling it carefully on the dry counter outside the door. you pulled your t-shirt over your head and stepped out of your trousers, leaving you down to your underwear in the humid heat.
peter watched you with a blown-out, helpless intensity. his hands trembled slightly as he peeled off the remnants of his torn suit, kicking it into the corner until he stood entirely exposed and exhausted before you.
you grabbed his hand, leading him beneath the cascading spray.
the impact was immediate.
the steaming water hit your skin, washing away the tension of the reveal. peter closed his eyes with a low, aching groan as the hot water hit his overworked muscles, his head tipping back against the damp tiles.
you reached for the bar of soap, working up a rich, thick lather between your palms. "hold still."
peter opened his eyes, watching you with a quiet, fierce reverence as you stepped up close.
you raised your hands, gently rubbing the soapy lather into his neck and around his jawline, carefully washing the soot away.
when your fingers brushed near the small cut on his temple, peter flinched instinctively, a soft hiss catching in his throat.
"sorry," you whispered, softening your touch, using your thumb to rinse the soap away with warm water.
"it... it feels really good," peter rasped, his voice thick with emotion. he didn't care about the sting; he was staring down at you, his shoulders blocking out the harsh light of the tiny bathroom, mesmerized by the way water glistened against your collarbones. "usually i just collapse on the floorboards and hope i wake up in time for class."
"well, you're an idiot," you hummed softly, sliding your hands down over the dense, hard muscle of his back.
you mapped out the flex of his spine, feeling the incredible, dangerous strength humming just beneath his skin despite the deep purple bruising over his ribs.
peter leaned heavily into your touch, letting out a ragged exhale, resting his wet forehead against your shoulder as you rinsed the suds from his chest. he breathed in the warm scent of your skin, mixing with the steam.
"thank you," he whispered into your neck, his voice rough.
"shut up, parker," you murmured, your cool composure softening completely. you smoothed his wet hair back from his face, cupping his jaw with your damp palm. "i've got you."
peter raised his head, looking down into your eyes. the unbothered, grounding reality of you standing there—treating his rough edges with such effortless ease—completely broke whatever remaining thread of restraint he had left.
his hands slid down your back, wet and burning hot, gripping your waist tight enough to pull you against him under the thundering spray.
before you could fire back a witty remark, his mouth crashed down on yours.
the kiss was desperate and electric. gone was the hesitation. this was a man claiming your mouth with a needy, starved intensity that set your entire nervous system on fire.
you tangled your fingers into his wet brown hair, tugging him closer as his tongue slid past your lips, drinking you in like he had been starving for months.
he tasted like hot rain and mint, moving against you with dizzying urgency.
peter let out a low groan deep in his chest. with terrifying, effortless ease, he hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you completely off the slick tile floor.
you let out a breathless gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, pinning yourself against him.
peter backed you straight against the tiled wall of the shower, the cool porcelain against your back contrasting sharply with the searing heat of his body pressed against yours.
his chest heaved violently against yours, his muscles flexed with the agonizing effort of holding himself back. you wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, pulling his head back down. "don't stop."
peter let out a rough, breathless laugh against your skin. "okay."
he hooked his fingers into the damp fabric of your underwear, sliding them down your wet skin and tossing them out of the shower stall, leaving nothing between you.
when he aligned himself and slid slowly, deeply inside you, a sharp, loud gasp was pulled straight from your lungs. your eyes flew open, your back arching off the wall as the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him filled you completely.
peter closed his eyes, burying his face in the crook of your wet neck with a ragged, trembling sigh of pure relief. his arms wrapped securely around your back, holding you effortlessly up against the wall so you wouldn't slip on the wet tile.
he moved slowly at first—a sweet rhythm that made your toes curl against his calves. every slide of his hips was deliberate, heavy, and intense, dragging low whimpers from your lips that were almost drowned out by the thundering rush of the showerhead above.
"god..." he choked out, his hips driving forward with a steady, punishing force. the heavy spray of hot water and the cramped space were maddening, building a pressure low in your stomach that threatened to spill over. "tell me if it's too much..."
"it's not too much," you panted, your hands sliding down his wet back, feeling his muscle flex with every deep roll of his hips. "peter... don’t slow down. please."
your cool demeanor shattered completely into breathless pleasure. you arched up to meet every thrust, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as the hot water poured over both your faces.
hearing you unravel under him broke him, and the gentle rhythm evaporated. his pace turned urgent and utterly desperate.
he pinned one of your hands beside your head, lacing his fingers through yours, his grip both warm and crushing. his other hand cupped your hip, angling you to take him even deeper.
"hey, look at me," peter asked softly, pulling back just enough to look into your glazed eyes through the mist.
you forced your eyes open, meeting his brown ones.
"you're mine," he panted, setting a ruthless rhythm that hit that deep spot inside you over and over again, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your limbs. "say it. please tell me you're mine."
"yours, peter," you whimpered, your voice cracking as your head rolled back against the tile, white-hot pleasure crashing over you in terrifying, glorious waves. "fuck, peter... yours—"
the sound of your voice calling his name pushed peter over the edge. he let out a low, guttural groan from the depths of his chest, his hips driving deep one last time as his entire body shuddered violently against you.
he buried his face against your neck, holding you so tightly to his chest under the hot stream of water that you could barely expand your lungs, his muscles locking up rock-solid as he completely undid himself inside you.
you held him close, riding out the trailing, blissful waves of your own release as the shower continued to pour down around you both.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
peter's mattress was a chaotic disaster of blankets and discarded clothes.
he was lying on his back, completely naked under the thin, faded gray sheet, with your head resting comfortably over his heart.
his skin was still incredibly warm, smelling faintly of soap and clean water. his hand was lazily tracing mindless, soothing patterns on your bare shoulder.
you reached out toward the nightstand, grabbing your pack of cigarettes and your zippo. you pulled one out, popping it between your lips, and flicked the lighter open.
before the flame could even touch the tip, peter's hand reached up, gently but swiftly snatching the cigarette right out of your mouth with reflexes that still slightly startled you.
"hey," you protested softly, turning your head to glare at him with a sleepy, satisfied smirk. "give that back."
"no smoking in bed," peter said softly, a smitten, incredibly lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he tossed the unlit cigarette onto his nightstand, entirely unapologetic. "it's a fire hazard. plus, my attic doesn't need smoke added to the mix."
"your apartment is an obstacle course, parker," you hummed, resting your chin on his bare chest, watching his stomach muscles reflexively twitch under your touch. "how do you function up here? there are camera parts on your eating counter and three different open notebooks on the floor."
peter groaned playfully, throwing his arm over his eyes as a bright flush spread across his cheeks. "i've been busy. saving the city doesn't leave a lot of time for organizational systems. plus, web fluid is notoriously hard to get out of the floorboards."
"i'm bringing a toolbox and some actual shelving next time i come up here," you teased, trailing a finger down his sternum. "it's embarrassing. spider-man defeated by basic storage."
peter snorted, pulling his arm away from his face to look down at you. his eyes were so soft and so ridiculously smitten that it made your throat feel tight.
"you're coming back next time?" he asked quietly, the teasing entirely dropping from his voice, replaced by a vulnerable edge that touched your heart all over again.
you let out a genuine laugh, reaching up to lightly pinch his chin, forcing him to look at you. "obviously, parker. who else is going to keep you from running yourself into the ground?"
peter smiled—a real, breathtaking smile that lit up his entire face. he shifted, pulling you higher up his chest until your lips were just inches apart under the low, shadowed roofline.
"so," you murmured, your voice dropping low, tracing the line of his jaw. "spider-man, huh? you still owe me an explanation for the kid's party thing. because that was the worst lie i have ever heard in my entire life."
"i panicked!" peter whined softly, though his hands smoothed over your waist, holding you close and completely contradicting his defensive tone. "i thought you were going to panic and tell everyone or... i don't know, never look at me again. you're the coolest person i know, and i'm... i'm just me."
"i considered throwing my book at your head," you admitted smoothly, ignoring his self-deprecation. "it's heavy enough to give a superhero a concussion. you're lucky i have restraint."
"i'm glad you held back," peter whispered, leaning in to press a warm, lingering kiss to your lips. he pulled back just far enough to brush a stray braid away from your temple, his thumb tracing your jawline with infinite, worshipping gentleness. "i'll clean the desk up. i swear. i'll even buy real furniture so you have somewhere proper to sit."
"start with buying a bed frame, parker," you smirked against his mouth, shifting your weight slightly on the unforgiving floorboards. "my back is going to kill me tomorrow."
peter laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated straight through your chest and made you smile into the kiss. "deal. right after i buy my landlord more cinnamon pastries to keep him from kicking me out of here."
he wrapped his arms securely around you, pulling the blanket up over your shoulders, burying his nose in your hair with a long, deeply contented sigh. he held you like he was never going to let you go.
"stay tonight," peter whispered into your neck, his grip tightening just a little bit, completely sincere. "please."
you smiled into the dark room, letting your eyes drift shut as his heavy heartbeat set a comforting rhythm beneath your cheek.
"i'm not going anywhere, peter," you murmured softly, letting sleep finally pull at your edges. "now go to sleep. you look like you got hit by a truck."
"an intergalactic rhino, actually," peter mumbled sleepily, his breath evening out as he held you close. "much much worse than a truck."
Remember in Thunderbolts when Yelena confessed to Alexei that she felt so alone and drepressed. That the only things she was able to do was going to work, stare at her phone and think about all the bad things she has done.
In the intro the Brand New Day we see Peter going full SpiderMan mode (working), stalking Ned on his social media (staring at his phone) and constantly visiting May's grave (thinking about the bad things he has done).
Black Widows were trained to easily read people, so the moment Peter walked into Yelena's "office" she clocked the same depression that tormented her for so long. Her comment about him being a "sad man" wasn't thrown randomly, she knew that it was true.
That is why she was geniuly happy when she saw him with friends; because it was having friends what ended up saving her and she truly believed that it could save Peter too. She was right.
peter parker x reader
tags/warnings: fluff, kissing, language, heights, reader is pretty much gender neutral except for a "that's my girl"
words: 1k
more peter here
“You know we don’t have to do this, right? It’s not, like, a requirement of our relationship?”
You peer down from the ledge of the building, fingers trembling in Peter’s hand. The cars look so small from up here—the taxis are merely yellow dots in a sea of concrete.
You turn to Peter, a smile tugging at your lips. He still hasn’t put the mask on; his fluffy hair rustles in the breeze and he looks at you with bright, questioning eyes.
“I know,” you say, “but I feel like I just gotta try it.”
Doubt briefly flashes across his face. Behind him, the purple sky blankets a forest of dark buildings with windows flickering like candles.
“Then we’re gonna have to get a little, uh, closer than this.”
He watches your face expectantly, brows creasing upward. When you nod, he takes your arms and wraps them tight around his shoulders, then he bends a little, reaching around the backs of your thighs to hoist you up. You collide with a gentle huff and squeeze your legs around his waist.
“You’re absolutely positive you wanna…”
You’re so close you can feel his breath on your lips. His eyes drift down, and the rest of his sentence falls away.
“Yes, Peter. Focus.”
“Okay, okay,” he blinks. One of his arms snakes around your waist while the other tugs the mask over his face. And suddenly—he’s different. There’s a heightened confidence that sweeps over him as you stare into those big white lenses. “Need a countdown?”
“I don’t think so,” you breathe, a nervous tingle starting in the tips of your fingers. It spreads through your limbs, and you press your nose into Peter’s neck. The red synthetic fabric is smooth on your skin. “Just… go for it.”
“Alright,” he says, and you feel your body turning with his as he positions himself right at the edge of the roof. “Just tell me if you want to stop, okay? I won’t be offended if you hate it—”
“Peter, you’re psyching me out—”
You hear the gentle whoosh of a web releasing from his wrist, and then you’re falling. Your insides twist, your heart drops like a heavy stone thrown in a pond, and the wind whips your face hard enough to make your eyes water.
A scream begins in your stomach. Your abdomen tenses, and it works its way up your throat. You’re just about to let that shriek free when a voice frantically clamors in your ear.
“You’re okay, you’re okay, I swear.”
You tighten your arms around Peter’s neck. You’re getting awfully close to the ground— those taxis are no longer little dots. They’re nearly close enough to reach out and touch with the toe of your shoes. Shouts and delighted gasps erupt from the sidewalk below you—
“Peter!”
You clamp your eyes shut, then feel yourself rising back up, launching through the street.
“I got you. Just—” a grunt, “breathe.”
You can only manage to punch out ragged, shallow breaths. Every muscle quivers against his. Why was it that you wanted to try this? What were you even thinking? Does he seriously do this every single—
“Hooooh.” He sighs, loud and dramatic. “Do that with me. C’mon. Hooohhhh.”
You crack open one eye, just barely. The wall of an apartment building looms in the distance, ten storeys of neatly stacked windows. It’s hurtling towards you. No—you’re hurtling towards it.
You bellow out, emptying your lungs in a rough groan just like he’d told you to. Then you feel your body tugged to the left.
“That’s right— exactly! There you go.”
Fuck, what is happening?
You’re vaguely aware of falling, falling, falling, flinging upward—a brief moment of suspension in the sky—then plummeting again.
After a few more dizzying swings, Peter groans. “Sweetheart, you’re hanging on a little—ngh—tight.”
“Because I’m slipping!” you blurt, pulse raging. Thousands of tiny electric shocks zip through your veins.
“You’re not slipping,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “You could let go and I’d still have you.”
You let your arms loosen a little, finding yourself no less secure than you were a second ago. “Sorry, sorry.”
The wind shifts. It no longer feels like a whip at your cheeks—just a pleasant breeze. The fear in your chest settles, and—
“See? It’s like dangling from one of those big carnival rides,” Peter soothes you with a murmur. “Just… higher.”
You lift your head from his neck, squinting until you can make out his brown eyes through the lenses. They’re creased with a grin. The city turns into a prismatic blur of lights in the background.
“Yeah,” you agree. Except for the shock of the initial fall, everything dwindles down to the comforting sensation of being gently rocked through the warm evening air. His movements are smooth, the transitions from web to web seamlessly blurring together. Your head falls back onto his shoulder. With a soft sigh, you relax into the safety of his hold, enjoying the steady up and down.
He must be able to feel the drop in your heart rate, the slowing of your breath. “There’s my girl,” he whispers, before the swinging sensation comes to a halt. An easy, somehow petal-soft close.
His palms settle on your waist as he tries to set you down, but you squeeze him harder with your legs, frowning. “Wait— what are you doing? I was just getting used to—”
“We’re just taking a break,” Peter laughs, “we’ll go again, if you want.”
You relent, letting your legs go slack and fall from his body. Your feet plant on concrete—another rooftop, you realize.
“Can we?” The words slip out with a hopeful squeak.
Peter slips the mask off, fluffy curls springing from beneath the fabric. He gives his head a shake to loosen the tendrils from his brow.
“Yeah, of course. Just—” he takes a gentle hold of your jaw, tilting your head. His eyes fall to your mouth. “In a minute.”
His lips press to yours, soft and warm. Mindlessly, your hands shoot to tangle in his hair, and he gives a nearly inaudible whimper that makes you clutch him a little closer. He breaks off with a dazed sigh, a sweet blush dusting his cheeks. Then he returns to you with added urgency, strong arms winding back around your body.
“Maybe more than a minute,” he says, fitting the words between your fevered kisses.
It had become a habit, though K would never admit it. You would hear the quiet knock, open the door, and there he was, as if he'd always been meant to stand in your hallway. In his heavy coat, sometimes soaked from the rain, with an unreadable expression on his face. Though his eyes always betrayed how badly he wanted to be there.
Some nights you talked about everything and nothing. And some nights you sat in silence, the comfortable kind, yours. Some nights he simply lay beside you, rigid at first, until your hand found his beneath the blanket. Then you could feel some of the tension leave him. He always held on, never too tightly, as though he expected someone to ask for it back.
Tonight was no different. Rain tapped softly against the windows, and your apartment was dark except for the city's neon bleeding through the curtains. You lay facing each other, close enough that your knees touched. K was awake. You could tell by the way he stared at nothing.
"What's wrong?" you asked quietly.
He was silent for so long you almost thought he wouldn't answer. Finally, his low voice broke the silence beside you.
"This... I don't know what this is."
You smiled sadly. So that was what had been bothering him…
"I think you do."
"No." He shook his head slightly. "I know what it feels like. But feelings don't make things real."
The words landed heavily between you. The need to name things was tied to making them exist. You knew that urge was strong in him. Sometimes he wanted to name things that were obvious, and sometimes things even you couldn't put into words. That was the K you knew.
He looked at your joined hands. "I come here. You let me stay. You smile when you see me. I sleep here." His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your knuckles. "It feels...borrowed."
You frowned. The first few words had filled you with warmth, but borrowed carried something unbearably sad.
"As if..." K's jaw tightened. "I'm living inside someone else's life." He finally looked at you. "And eventually someone is going to remember that it wasn't meant for me."
Your chest hurt.
"K..." you whispered, tightening your fingers around his.
"You'll wake up one day." His voice remained painfully calm as he continued slowly. "You'll realize you deserve someone real. You'll realize I'm just..."
He couldn't even finish the sentence. Because what was he? Just a replicant. Just temporary. Just something manufactured. He wasn't real, not the way you were. And even though being close to you made him happier than he knew how to express, there was always that voice in the back of his mind.
It's only temporary, K. Don't get used to it. Don't let yourself hope.
Instead of answering right away, you reached for his face. He almost flinched, but not away from you. From hope. Your fingers rested against his cheek. You stroked it gently, and he let out a quiet sigh.
"K. Look at me." You said it softly, and he obeyed. His eyes met yours. "Am I real?"
"Of course you are," he answered without hesitation.
"My hand?" Your fingertips traced gently across his face. "This apartment? This bed? Everything around us?"
"Yes."
"The rain outside? The noises behind the wall? The ticking clock?"
"Yes."
You nodded. "Then look at me again."
He did. It hurt to see what was in his eyes, and at the same time it made you want to give him everything he deserved.
"This..." You leaned forward and kissed him softly, long enough for him to melt into it without realizing he had. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. "That was real."
K closed his eyes.
"So are we," you whispered.
His brow furrowed immediately. "We don't even know what we are."
"No." You smiled. He didn't understand that smile, but he felt as though he could look at it for the rest of his life. "We never named it. But every time you come here, every time you stay, every time you reach for my hand, you choose me."
You squeezed his fingers. "And every single time... I choose you."
His breathing hitched. "You don't know how long this lasts."
"I don't. I don't know what might happen. To you or to me." You shrugged. "No one is promised a long, happy life. Not humans. Not replicants. No one. But you have to understand that I don't care whether this lasts fifty years or five minutes. I'm not giving this up because I'm afraid it might end."
You smiled through the sting behind your eyes.
"You're real to me. Every touch, every word, every glance... And whatever this is..." You brushed another kiss against the corner of his mouth. "it's real too."
For the first time that evening, something cracked. Hope, small and fragile, settled quietly in his mind. It was dangerous. In this world, in this city. K knew that better than anyone. What existed between the two of you went against everything that was supposed to be possible. And yet he wanted to hold onto it, because it made him feel so incredibly alive.
His forehead rested against yours again. "You're asking a lot," he said quietly.
"I know," you answered.
His voice became almost inaudible. "I've spent my whole life expecting to lose things I was never supposed to have. And now you're telling me I can have everything... I can have you."
"And it's true. You're not borrowing me, K. I'm yours, and I always will be. For as long as you'll have me."
His eyes searched yours. Another long silence. Then, very quietly, you asked the question he'd been avoiding ever since he walked through your door.
"So..." You laced your fingers with his. "Are you giving up?"
His gaze fell to your intertwined hands, then back to you. For the first time since you'd known him, he answered without hesitation.
"No." His thumb brushed over your knuckles again. "So don't you dare give up on me either."
You smiled.
"I just told you." Leaning forward, you kissed his lips again. "I never will."
“For the first time that evening, something cracked.
Hope, small and fragile, settled quietly in his mind. It was dangerous. In this world, in this city. K knew that better than anyone. What existed between the two of you went against everything that was supposed to be possible. And yet he wanted to hold onto it, because it made him feel so incredibly alive.”
spiderman ryland who keeps his mask on during sex😮💨
(reminded me of that scene in bnd with peter in the bath)
I had to take a moment because THE BATH SCENE😩😩 firm believer of MASK STAYS ON!!! Anywayyyyyyy let’s get to Spidey Grace😮💨
Ryland enters you, your walls stretch to accommodate him. Your hands instinctively brace against his bare shoulders. He takes a sharp intake of air as your fingers dig into the fresh, bloomed scratches he endured during his last fight. Your eyes flutter shut the moment he bottoms out with a deep groan.
“Eyes on me, babe” His voice strains with the effort of holding back. His hips lift, pulling himself almost all the way out, teasing you. “Y-you wanted t’see me like this, right?” he breathes, the words coming out slightly muffled.
Usually, you would be able to read his expression and see exactly how he holds himself back just to tease you. This time, you are blind to his face. There is the vibrant red fabric and black stripes covering his features. However, you can still see his eyes. Through the tiny holes of the white, shielded lenses connected to the mask, his blue eyes blinks slowly, locking onto yours.
“Ry, please” you whine, your arms slinging around his back to pull him close.
Wordlessly, he thrusts into you again, moving a rhythmic pace. His slightly faint grunts mix with your moans.
His head dips toward yours, hovering barely an inch away. “Wanna kiss you” he whimpers, the mesh of the mask grazing your lips with a soft, tingly friction. He shifts his weight, finding an angle that makes your breath catch in your chest.
“Is this okay?” His voice cracks slightly, muffled. He leans his head into the crook of your neck, the textured fabric of the suit scratching gently against your skin. He doesn’t slow down, his focus on your body responding to his.
Your fingers find the edge of the mask at the nape of his neck, a silent plea for more. “Pl-please, wanna see you” you breathe out, your voice catching as the intensity peaks.
He lifts his head, allowing the white lenses of the Spiderman mask to lock onto your gaze. He adjusts his hold on your thighs on either side of him, his movements momentarily stilling as he looks at you with an intensity that you feel even through the lenses.
“Y’gonna take what I give, yeah?” he pants. There’s a commanding edge to his tone that sends a shiver of excitement through you. Ryland feels you clench around him, and he smirks behind the mask.
“You li-like that, baby?” he asks, his voice thick with effort.
“Mhm” you manage to exhale as you lean into him, wanting to feel him move.
He cocks his head, his clothed nose brushing against yours in a gesture that is both playful and intense. “Words, baby” he mutters, nudging you.
“Yes” you force the word out of yourself breathlessly.
The smugness radiating from him is palpable even through his masked face. He lets out a low, satisfied hum and rams into you with a sudden fervor that makes everything else disappear.
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peter. p x reader — giving your poor virgin roommate a handjob 𑣲⋆ (post!BND events)
SMUT MDNI 18+
⋆˚꩜｡ Peter padded in from the hallway wearing nothing but gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. His hair was still damp from the quick shower he’d taken after swinging back to your cozy shared apartment from a late patrol—his skin carried the faint scent of your body wash because he’d run out of his own again.
He always borrowed yours. Always forgot to replace it.
The sight of him like this—lean muscle, faint bruises from whatever fight he’d been in, that shy half-smile he gave you whenever he caught you looking—had become dangerously familiar.
You were on the couch in an oversized band shirt and some fitted biker shorts that weren't very visible under said shirt; legs tucked under you, scrolling through your phone. Peter hesitated in the doorway like he always did, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to take up space even though he’d lived here for three months now.
“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked without looking up.
“Stuff uh...ran late,” he answered, voice soft. “Some guy tried to rob a bodega on 9th. Got back around two.”
You finally glanced at him. His eyes flicked down to your bare thighs, then away so fast it was almost comical. The crush had been obvious for weeks—long before he moved in.
It started when you were still just neighbors across the hall, running into each other at 3 a.m. with trash bags, half-eaten food to share, laundry. You’d offered the spare room after one too many late-night conversations on the stairwell, and he’d accepted like you’d handed him the moon—he got the space upstairs for his gear and systems and got this cozy spot with the pretty neighbor for when he wasn't occupied with that.
Now he was here every night, every strange hour, and the tension had only grown thicker.
Peter sat on the opposite end of the couch, careful to leave space between you. His knee bounced. He kept stealing glances. You set your phone down and turned toward him.
“You keep doing that,” you said.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you want to say something.”
His ears went pink. “I—I don’t. I mean, I do, but it’s stupid.”
“Try me.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit that made the muscles in his arm flex. “It’s just… you’re really pretty. And nice. And you let me live here even though I’m a mess and I come home at weird times and I eat all your cereal.” He laughed once, short and self-deprecating. “I keep thinking about you. A lot. More than I should.”
You shifted closer. The couch cushion dipped under your weight. Peter’s breath caught when your knee brushed his thigh.
“How much?” you asked.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Enough that I can’t focus on anything else. Enough that I—” He stopped, swallowed. “I’ve never… I mean, I’ve thought about it, but I’ve never actually—”
You didn’t let him finish. You leaned in and kissed him.
Peter froze for half a second, then melted into it with a desperate little sound. His hands hovered at your waist before settling, fingers trembling against the hem of your shirt.
The kiss started soft, exploratory, but quickly turned hungry. He tasted like the cinnamon toothpaste he always made comments on hating—yet never buying his own. When your tongue slid against his he moaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating straight down your spine.
You climbed into his lap without breaking the kiss. His cock was already hard beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, pressing hot and insistent against your core. Peter gasped when you rolled your hips, grinding down on him once, slow and deliberate.
“F-uuuuck—” he whispered against your lips. “I—I’ve never done this before.”
“That's okay..” you murmured, kissing along his jaw. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, i don't mind it.”
You tugged his sweatpants down just enough to free him. His cock sprang up, long and flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. The head glistened in the low light from the string lights you two hung up the first week he moved in. Peter’s breath hitched hard when your fingers wrapped around him, stroking from base to head in one smooth motion. His hips jerked up involuntarily.
“Oh my god!” he breathed. “That feels—fuck—really good.”
You kissed him again, swallowing every shaky gasp while your hand worked him in steady pumps. Your thumb circled the sensitive ridge beneath the head on every upstroke, smearing the steady bead of precum.
Peter’s thighs tensed beneath you, muscles quivering. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to potentially leave marks, but he never pushed or pulled—just held on like you were the only solid thing in the room.
You stroked faster, twisting your wrist, pressing your body down so he could rut up into your fist. Peter’s kisses turned sloppy, open-mouthed, desperate. He kept making these loud, broken noises against your tongue—little whimpers and half-formed pleas. His cock throbbed in your grip, balls drawing tight.
“I’m—I’m gonna—” he warned, voice cracking.
You didn’t stop. You kissed him deeper, stroked him through it, and felt the first hot pulse of cum spill over your fingers.
Thick ropes painted his stomach and your hand while Peter moaned into your mouth, hips stuttering, whole body shaking. You kept stroking him gently through the aftershocks until he whimpered from oversensitivity and you finally eased off.
Peter slumped back against the couch, breathing hard, eyes glassy. You kissed his forehead, then his temple, then the corner of his mouth.
“You okay, Pete?” you asked softly.
He gave you that dazed, lopsided grin—the same one he wore after he met you at late times like this—his voice high in pitch and airy, “Yeah. Way better than okay.”
Summary: After starting a new job, you find yourself enamoured with the guy in the cubicle next to yours.
Warnings: 18+, smut, dry humping, f receiving oral, face sitting, multiple orgasms, kissing, Adam comes in his pants, sub!Adam, softdom!reader, first date awkwardness, coworkers to lovers, Adam is a pathetic dork, lust at first sight for reader, photos from pinterest, let me know if I missed anything
Word count: 5.2k
A/N: I've been charmed by a blond man. God help me.
It had taken almost no time at all of you working in HR before you found yourself desperately and hopelessly in love with one of your colleagues. Something that was probably a human resources issue in itself. Almost funny.
On your first day you had been given a very brief tour of the office by Suzie, your boss, before you were being dumped on another employee for training.
"This is Adam. He can show you the ropes." And then Suzie was gone, disappearing into her office to arrange another seminar for the team to take at some point in the near future. You'd quickly learn that seminars were a big thing in this HR department.
Left staring down at this hulking blond guy sat in his cubicle, you tried to be friendly as you introduced yourself. "Hi."
"Hi." Adam was polite, taking the handshake you offered him, but awkward. It was clear that he hadn't been previously informed he was supposed to be training a new hire.
Even though you were standing and he was sitting, it was impossible not to notice how big he was. Tall and broad, with shoulders that practically consumed the entirety of the space in his cubicle. You tried not to ogle him and focused instead on attempting to be a good new employee.
"Um, I think Suzie said something about you showing me the computer system?"
She actually had said nothing of the sort but Adam was blindsided by your sudden appearance, so you decided to be kind and offer him an easy solution.
"Oh." He blinked and stood up, towering about as high as you had expected him to. "Right, right. I'll just, uh, I'll just go get you a chair."
"Thanks."
But he had already zoomed out of the cubicle and around a corner. You waited quietly for him to return. And when he did, you found him to be an excellent teacher. He was patient when you needed him to repeat things or explain stuff again. He was kind when you said you didn't quite understand something. He would let an awkward joke slip into the conversation here and there to put you at ease. As much as Suzie had surprised him with this training scenario, he really was the perfect person for it.
When he had taught you about as much as he could, he showed you to an empty cubicle. Which happened to be the one right next to his. He assured you that you could ask him for help if you needed it, and then you were left to your own devices.
As it turned out, Adam was irresistible.
Totally dorky and kind of pathetic. Clumsy and apologetic, even if something wasn't his fault. Tall and broad, as you'd noted during your first encounter with him, taking up more room than he was comfortable with. You were doomed from the offset. And you realised pretty soon that he was definitely never going to make the first move.
On your second day, you decided to treat yourself to a coffee on the way into work. Nothing fancy, just something you liked from this coffee shop that you passed. When you got to your cubicle exactly four minutes before your shift officially started, you found Adam already in his cubicle next to yours.
He greeted you with a smile and a polite nod. "Hi."
"Hi." You replied and sat down in your chair, coffee cup placed on your desk.
The good mood you were in was quickly soured when your computer refused to let you log in.
ERROR: USERNAME NOT RECOGNISED
With a huff, you tried again.
ERROR: USERNAME NOT RECOGNISED
You sighed and looked down at the post-it note that was stuck to the edge of your computer monitor. You were typing in your username correctly, you were sure of it.
You glanced at the wall that you shared with Adam, wondering if it was too early in the day to be bugging him with an issue you were having. After a moment's ponder, you just bit the bullet and pushed your chair back so it rolled enough for you to see around the edge of the cubicle wall.
"Hey, Adam?" You uttered softly, feeling like a nuisance.
"Hm?" He looked up at you, small smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
"The computer's saying it doesn't recognise my username. Can you help me please?"
He grinned. "Oh, sure."
And then he was scooching his chair around to slide into your cubicle. You watched him as he situated himself at your desk, took one quick glance at the post-it with your login and then typed it all into the computer without a hitch.
"There you go." He waved his hands at your computer screen, like a magician showing off a magic trick.
"What the hell?" You squinted. "I'm sure I did it right."
"Did you type 'HR' in capital letters?"
"No." You looked at the sticky note. "It's not in capital letters on there."
"Yeah, Suzie forgets to write the capital letters sometimes." He shrugged like it was a common occurrence that was no big deal. "Now you know."
"Oh. Well. Thank you, I appreciate the help." You smiled at him, taking in his long blond hair for a moment. He really was something to look at. Reminding yourself how inappropriate it was, you looked away again.
"Anytime." He started to roll away in his chair but his foot got caught on one of the legs of your desk and he bumped into it instead, sending your cup of coffee flying over the edge and all over the front of his pink shirt. "Oh!"
Your eyes widened in horror and you surged towards him. "Are you okay?"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He shook his head and looked at you panicked. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. It was an accident. I'm so sorry."
"Adam, Adam." You tried to say his name calmly, reaching for the napkin in your purse that they'd given you with the coffee. "It's fine. Are you okay? Is it hot? Did it burn you?"
He took the napkin from you and started dabbing at his shirt, as if it was going to help clean up almost a full cup's worth of coffee from the light pink material. "No, I'm okay. It wasn't hot."
You let out a sigh of relief.
"I'm sorry about your coffee."
You snorted out a laugh. "Don't worry about it, it's just coffee."
He glanced up at you then, eyes all big and round. He looked utterly pathetic. You ignored the stirring in your abdomen.
"Um, do you have a spare shirt with you or...?"
He looked back down at his shirt then. "No, but it's okay. I'll dry off soon enough."
Ignoring the slight whine in his voice, you plastered a smile on your face. "Well, thanks for the help!"
The scenario played on your mind until lunch. You hadn't dared ask Adam for anymore help, despite the couple of hitches you'd encountered, and had vowed to just figure stuff out for yourself from now on. Falling a tad behind on emails, you chose to just eat at your desk. The sandwich you'd prepared wouldn't make too much of a mess anyway. You noted in the back of your mind that Adam went out for lunch, asking you if you wanted anything before he left, and realised that a small reprieve from him would be appreciated.
When he returned twenty minutes later, you were surprised to find a coffee cup being placed on your desk next to you. You looked up in shock, intrigued to find Adam towering over you.
"To replace the one I spilled this morning. I think I got the order right. Sorry if I didn't." He had his own coffee cup clutched in his other hand. VL w/ OM. Vanilla latte with oat milk.
"Oh. Thank you. Um, thank you." The nice gesture had you scrambling for words. "You didn't need to do that."
He shrugged casually and smiled. "I wanted to."
God, you were fucked.
After that, it became pretty obvious to everyone else in the office how head over heels for Adam you were. To the man himself, it wasn't even something that seemed to cross his mind.
Sarah, one of your coworkers, insisted that you should just ask him out. You reminded her that he didn't even seem to register when you flirted with him, just choosing instead to blush and run away. She reaffirmed that he liked you, pointing out that he would unconsciously lean into you when you were talking to him. How he always chose to sit next to you during team meetings. How at every training seminar he would pick you to partner up with. How often he checked in on you.
With that last one, you argued that it was just because you shared a cubicle wall and because he had been the one to train you on your first day. Sarah had given you a very doubtful look. She didn't even bother to remind you of the daily tradition that you and Adam had stumbled into accidentally. After he spilled your coffee on your second day and brought you a replacement at lunch, you had brought him a coffee the next morning as a thank you. Vanilla latte with oat milk. He insisted that it was too kind of a gesture. You waved him off. He then brought you another coffee at lunch. And the cycle continued every day after that.
In conclusion, you and Adam were friends. But you desperately wanted more.
Adam was kind and funny and very cute and extremely into swords you found out. More times than you could count, you'd peeked around the wall you shared with him and found him looking at pictures of swords online. He always closed the tab when he caught you watching him. You made sure to tell him that you wouldn't tell Suzie what he was doing on the clock.
A few months into working in the HR department, it became dire.
Your chest ached at the mere sight of him, your stomach burst into butterflies at the sound of his voice, your knees went weak whenever he smiled at you. Which was a lot. Adam loved to smile. Sarah liked to say that he especially loved smiling at you. You would just laugh and shake your head. Though you did wonder whether there was some truth to it.
It was at the end of a long Tuesday when you finally took the leap. Everybody in the office had gone home other than you and Adam, the both of you behind on emails. The entire department was dark, other than the two lamps that sat at yours and Adam's desks.
It was late when you eventually managed to reply to your last email of the day, packing everything away in your purse and clicking off the lamp on your desk.
You leaned against the cubicle wall to look at Adam. "Got much more to do?"
He turned to look at you. "Only a few. Are you done?"
"Yeah." You smiled tiredly at him. "Want me to keep you company?"
He shook his head. "Nah, it's okay. I won't be much longer. Have a good night."
"Okay, don't stay too late. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow." And then he was looking at his computer again.
You turned on your heel to leave but something tugged in the centre of your chest and it suddenly seemed like now or never. So you leaned against the cubicle wall again.
"Hey, Adam."
He turned again in his chair to look at you, a bright smile on his face. "What's up?"
You took a deep breath. "Do you want to go out with me sometime?"
His eyes widened but the smile didn't drop. And he said nothing.
So you clarified. "Like a date."
Still nothing.
More clarification. "Not like a date. Just a date. Do you want to go on a date with me?"
That finally got through to him. "You want to go on a date with me?"
"Yes." You nodded, shifting on your feet. "Very much."
He blinked. Then he blinked again. "I would like that."
A burst of astonishment rippled through you, a part of you had been sure that he was going to turn you down. But you quickly composed yourself. "Great. Are you free this weekend?"
He nodded. "Yeah, totally free. What did you have in mind?"
Ah. You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. You scrambled for the first idea that crossed your mind. "Uh, dinner and a movie?"
"Sounds good. I can pick you up if you want?"
This was going so smoothly, you tried to hide your utter glee. "Cool. I'll text you my address and timings."
Turned out, planning a date with Adam was extremely easy. You berated yourself for putting it off for so long.
The next day at work continued on just the same. You brought Adam morning coffee, he brought you post-lunch coffee. Shy smiles and meaningful glances were exchanged during the day's seminar. You may have faked needing help with something on your computer at one point just to have him crowd in next to you in your cubicle. He pretended like he didn't know that was what you were doing.
The rest of the week was much of the same. On Friday, when you eventually told Sarah that you'd asked Adam out, she was ecstatic. It took a lot of coaxing to stop her from accidentally announcing it to half of the office. She insisted on the two of you going late-night shopping after work to pick out an outfit for you. At the sight of her eager expression, you agreed despite not needing any new clothes. You didn't entirely know why you were surprised when she dragged you straight into Victoria's Secret and immediately started pointing out lingerie sets that she thought Adam would "lose his mind over" if he saw you in them. You told her that you had no plans to sleep with him on the first date. Though in the back of your mind you knew it wasn't completely off of the table.
By the time Saturday evening rolled around, you were buzzing with anticipation. At ten minutes to six, you were sat in your apartment waiting for Adam to come and pick you up. Neither of you had actually chosen a movie to see, deciding to just show up to the theatre and see what was playing. You figured a bit of spontaneity would distract from any potential awkwardness.
Adam arrived early, buzzing the intercom at eight minutes to six. You applauded yourself for being ready early. When you met him out front, you noted the flush on his cheeks matched the pink shade of his shirt. He looked nice, though not that different from usual. His shoes seemed shinier, maybe polished. And you were thankful that he'd put in a little effort but not too much, as you had done the exact same.
You greeted him as you closed the door to your apartment building. "Hi."
"Hi." He returned, grinning at you. "How are you?"
"I'm good." You trotted down the few stone steps until you were next to him. "You?"
He hesitated for a moment, like he was contemplating his answer. "Good too. Excited to be spending the evening with you."
You looked away from him nervously. Barely two minutes into the first date and you were already a mess over him.
Adam was a gentleman and opened the passenger-side door of his car for you, slamming the door gently before racing around to the driver's side. When he was in his seat and behind the wheel, he barely glanced at you before he was leaning over the centre console into the back of the car. You wondered what he was doing for a brief moment before he was presenting a small bouquet of flowers to you with a flourish.
"These are for you."
You beamed. "Thank you, they're beautiful."
He looked as if he was going to say something but then changed his mind, instead just starting the engine. The drive to the movie theatre was quiet, neither of you really knowing what topic of conversation would be good. Generic small talk was had, asking about each other's days, but considering you'd only seen each other the day before not much else could be said.
When you got to the movie theatre, you left the flowers in his car, and went to go see what they were showing.
A new comedy you hadn't heard of. A horror which didn't really seem to be Adam's thing. An action film with Jason Statham. The Princess Bride.
Just as you were about to ask him which one he wanted to see, he spoke. "I love The Princess Bride."
That had it then. Adam bought the tickets, even though you argued, and got you a bucket of popcorn to share, despite your protests. The screening of The Princess Bride was pretty empty so you and Adam practically had the whole back half of the theatre to yourselves. Which was good considering Adam liked to mumble along with his favourite iconic lines.
When he caught you watching him, he blushed slightly under the dim lighting. "Sorry. Is that annoying?"
"No, it's cute." You whispered. "Keep doing it."
He inhaled sharply. "As you wish."
Aw man, you were so screwed.
During the last twenty minutes of the movie, you watched as Adam's hand slowly inched over the armrest between you before stopping about a hair's breadth from yours. You waited a moment to see if he'd make the move. He didn't. So you did it for him, closing the last bit of distance and slipping your hand into his and locking your fingers together. You didn't fail to notice the relieved sigh he let out.
After the movie was finished, the two of you held hands all the way to the diner next door where you only let go of each other so you could sit on opposite sides of a booth. You briefly chatted about the movie, only pausing to order food - a burger for Adam and a stack of pancakes for you.
Once the waitress had walked away, you suddenly had an epiphany. "Wait, is that why you like swords so much? You're big into fantasy?"
"What?" He garbled, choking on a mouthful of his coke.
You frowned. "I know you know I see you looking at pictures of swords online when we're at work. So is it a fantasy thing? Or is it history?"
"Huh?"
You rolled your eyes. "The Princess Bride and Lord of the Rings? Or Romans and Medieval Europe?"
He hesitated before answering, taking a long pull from his coke. "Um... both, I guess."
"So like legends and mythology? King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table."
Adam shrugged. "I just like swords."
"Do you collect them?"
A clear war was raging in Adam's mind. Like half of him wanted to change the topic completely and the other half was screaming at him to tell you all about it. He settled for a middle ground. "No. But maybe someday. For now, I just like looking at them."
You nodded along and moved onto different things. You spoke about what you liked to do for fun outside of work, Adam told you about his roommate's affinity for rom-coms. Conversation didn't stop as your food arrived, both of you taking turns to pause from eating to speak. You liked the way Adam spoke about things, you liked the way he listened to you, you liked that he offered to share his French fries, you liked the way he turned a rosy shade of pink when you started playing footsie with him under the table.
For dessert, Adam ordered chocolate cake and you got yourself a second milkshake after deciding that none of the pie options on the menu were grabbing you. You offered to pay for the two of you, stating it was only fair as you had been the one to ask him out and he'd driven and paid for the movie, but he insisted on paying for dinner too. When he explained why, you were softened.
"You were brave and asked me out first. I've been too scared to do it for weeks."
And then he drove you home, hand interlocked with yours on your lap when he didn't need to use it. The drive back to your apartment building was far too short and you found yourself extremely disappointed when you pulled up outside. So you continued your bravery streak.
"Want to come inside for a drink?"
"Okay."
Adam was polite when he entered your home, taking his shoes off and leaving them by the front door before taking a cautious seat on the edge of your couch.
You eyed him fondly. "Make yourself comfortable. I've got some wine."
You could feel his eyes on you as you disappeared into the kitchen, taking the flowers he'd gotten you with you to put them in a vase. You reemerged half a minute later with a bottle of wine and two glasses, perching yourself on the couch next to him where you poured out a glass for each of you. Adam spoke swiftly, obviously nervous about being in your apartment. You let him ramble, feasting yourself on the sight of his flushed cheeks and dilated pupils as you drank through a glass and a half of wine.
When Adam was done with his first glassful, you took it from him and placed it on your coffee table. You found yourself impatient. Before he could thank you, you cut him off by kissing him.
"Hmmf." He let out a noise of surprise against your lips before relaxing. "Mm."
After a moment, you pulled back a couple of inches. "Is this okay?"
He nodded rapidly. "Yes, yes. Very okay."
With a smile, you cupped his face in your hands and pulled him to you to kiss him more fully. Adam's hands hovered awkwardly between you for a moment before one landed on your thigh and the other on your waist. It didn't take much for you to realise that he was letting you take complete control. He was letting you set the pace, letting you decide how open or closed the kisses were. That combined with the soft little noises he was making as you kissed him, made you think that perhaps Adam enjoyed being the more submissive one.
He was very reactive to little things. Like when you swiped your thumb gently over his cheek, he moaned. And when you took that opportunity to slide your tongue into his mouth, he whined. Licking your tongue against his, you discovered that he tasted like the chocolate cake he'd had for dessert. During the little breaks you'd take for air, you observed the glazed-over look in his eyes paired with his flushed cheeks. One short glimpse of his dopey smile had you pushing him to sit back on the couch and swinging your leg over his lap to straddle his thighs, where you found him to be hard already. He looked all too elated with the sight of you on his lap.
You kept kissing him, sucking on his tongue and tugging at his bottom lip with your teeth. Adam kept up his choir of whimpers and moans, his hands drifting to sit gently on your hips.
When you experimentally rolled your hips forward into his, you were pleased to hear the cry he let out. But you still checked in. "Too much?"
His grip on your hips tightened. "No. Keep going. Please."
You considered making him beg for it but concluded that may have been too much for a first date. So you did as he politely asked and rolled your hips against him again. He let out a high-pitched moan into your mouth which you drank up greedily. Making out and dry humping was a lost art in your opinion so you kept the pace slow, wanting to prolong it. But with Adam's twitching pelvis and assortment of whines, you figured that he was probably going to come in his pants sooner rather than later. That image had a fiery hot spark lighting in you and suddenly the thought of making Adam come in his pants was more appealing than dragging out the grinding.
You teased him for a little longer, slowing down the rocking of your hips and smiling at the whimper he let out, before picking up the pace again and pushing yourself harder against him. The sounds he was making were delicious and as he chased his high he started licking hotly into your mouth, curling his tongue against yours. It didn't take much before he was cresting right over that edge and holding onto you firmly.
"I'm gonna- I'm gonna- I'm go-" He cut himself off with a long groan, hips bucking quickly upwards into yours.
You kissed him through it, feeling him throb beneath you. "Good boy, that's it."
He whined at the pet name, pelvis thrusting again in response. He was every bit as pathetic as you had initially thought. You were looking forward to exploring that more.
He let you kiss him more as he came down from his high, relaxing beneath you. But once the euphoria had passed, he pulled away from you.
"I'm so sorry." He turned his head to look away from you, embarrassed.
You grabbed his face in one hand, squishing his cheeks and making him pout, and turned his head so he was looking at you again. "Don't apologise. Please." You kissed him, sliding your tongue into his mouth once again.
He replied, words muffled against your lips. "I just didn't expect it to happen so fast. I'm sorry."
As sorry as he said he was, it wasn't difficult to notice how lost he was in you again already. His mouth opened eagerly to let your tongue in, head tipped back to give you control, hands squeezed your hips, eyes rolled back in his head as you started to kiss along his jaw and down his neck. He was putty in your hands.
His cum seeped through the material of his pants, leaving a sticky patch on your clothes. But you didn't care. It just meant that he couldn't leave your apartment anytime soon unless he wanted the whole world to see the cum stain coating his crotch.
"Adam?"
"Mm?" He hummed lightly, distracted by the feeling of you sucking a hickey into his neck.
"You do realise that my goal was to make you come in your pants, right?"
"Oh?" He responded though it didn't sound like he had entirely taken in what you had just said.
Satisfied with the dark spot you'd left on him, you returned to kissing his plush lips, loving the way he moaned when you slipped your tongue into his mouth. "You're so vocal."
He went rigid for a second. "Is that a bad thing?"
You chuckled into his mouth, ignoring his question for a moment. "No. I like it."
"Oh, good." One of his hands smoothed up the length of your back and landed on the back of your head, pressing your lips tighter against his. The two of you just kissed for a couple more minutes, lips and tongues languidly sliding together, but Adam broke it after a while. "I want to return the favour."
You huffed, annoyed he'd stopped kissing you for this. "There's no favour to return."
"Humour me." He smiled against your mouth, not opening his eyes.
You finally pulled away from him, finding it difficult to resist the way he chased your lips. "Okay. What do you have in mind?"
He smiled at you shyly and that was how you found yourself sitting on Adam's face on your apartment floor.
One hand braced against your couch and one hand slapped over your mouth to conceal the lewd sounds you were making, as you ground yourself desperately against Adam's face. His lips were latched onto your clit as his tongue eagerly flicked over it. With how hard you were rocking your hips on his face, you would've felt bad if Adam's eyes weren't closed in absolute bliss. His hands gripped your thighs tightly, fingers pressed deeply into your skin.
Every few seconds you'd throw your head back in pleasure but would then remember how much you wanted to keep your eyes on Adam beneath you. He was a sight to behold, face buried between your thighs, blond hair sprawled out on the floor around his head like a halo.
His eyes suddenly opened, making contact with yours, and one of his hands abandoned your thighs and instead chose to take hold of the hand you had over your mouth and pull it away so you let out sounds more freely. Needing to hold onto something as a distraction, you threaded it through Adam's hair and tugged, gasping when he moaned into your pussy. His free hand trailed over your torso, palming your tits and pinching your nipples. While he stayed fully clothed beneath you, his cum-stained pants drying on his crotch, you sat on his face completely naked.
He sucked on your clit, tongue circling around it before he started to flick it back and forth over it more quickly than before. Your thighs tensed, clamping around his head, as your hips jolted faster against him.
You fixated on a spot on the wall directly in your eye-line as you felt your orgasm approaching. "Oh fuck, Adam. Just like that. Just like that. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
Adam had exactly zero intention of stopping.
He was also an excellent listener. While most men took the phrases "just like that" and "don't stop" as an invitation to switch up whatever they were doing, Adam did exactly what he was told and kept going precisely how he was instructed to. He watched you keenly as you mewled on top of him, rapidly approaching that peak.
Then you suddenly froze, ragged scream escaping your throat, thighs trembling on either side of his face, cunt contracting around nothing, beads of sweat prickling the surface of your skin. Rapt fascination as you bucked your hips against his face a few more times, softer moans leaving you as you rode through the afterglow. And then you slumped against the couch next to you, satisfied smile on your face.
But Adam wasn't done. After avidly licking up and down the length of your pussy, he returned to flicking his tongue over your clit again.
You flinched slightly at the sensation, the stimulation being almost too much to bear, but didn't move away. Still you gave a half-hearted protest. "Too much, Adam."
His eyes spoke volumes without him actually having to say anything, as he gave you a disbelieving look. You had just started grinding yourself against his face again after all. But he did pause for a moment, waiting to hear enthusiastic consent from you before he continued.
"Oh, god." You whinged. "Don't stop."
He was happy to keep going. That was how you found yourself coming on Adam's face twice on the first date. You regretted not letting Sarah convince you into buying that nice lingerie. Though you figured you didn't need it given the position you had managed to get yourself into without it.
Once you were satisfied for the second time, you finally climbed off of Adam and rested yourself against the ouch next to you. He stayed where he was on the floor for a moment, looking completely blissed out with a glistening chin and mussed-up hair, a hazy look making his hazel-brown eyes glassy.
"You taste so good." He hummed and then he was surging up to sit next to you, immediately capturing your lips in another kiss.
You were all too happy to reciprocate, cupping his face in the palms of your hands. "Want to go on a second date then?"
He nodded his head eagerly, nose brushing against yours. "Yes, please."
A/N: Let me know what you think, reblogs and replies are always appreciated!
warnings: established relationship ; jealousy ; protective Holland March ; humor ; fluff ; Holly March being the smartest person in the room
Holland March [ The Nice Guys] x Reader
For over a week, Holly had been driving her father absolutely crazy. The amusement park that had just opened outside the city was the place all her friends had been talking about, while her father considered it completely ridiculous. "You want me to voluntarily pay to suffer? Sit in traffic? Stand in crowds surrounded by screaming kids? Have you seen those prices? It's insane."
Despite all of that, on Saturday morning, right after breakfast, the three of you headed there anyway. The entire drive, Holland complained. About the weather (too hot), the traffic, the crowds, the children, the prices, and the fact that he was far too old for places like this. It wasn't until your hand rested gently on his thigh that he let out a dramatic sigh. "We'll be there in a minute."
For someone who complained every thirty seconds, he never actually said no to Holly. Holland paid for the bumper cars, cotton candy, and even spent twenty dollars on six chances at the shooting gallery so Holly could win an enormous teddy bear with a suspiciously judgmental expression. "It has your face," Holly told him. "It absolutely does not." "It looks exhausted." "I am exhausted." She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her lemonade.
With every passing minute, the temperature climbed higher, but Holly looked as if she had endless energy. Holland's shirt had long since stuck to his back, and every ride she dragged him onto felt, in his opinion, like another step toward an untimely death. Then Holly pointed at the biggest roller coaster in the park, towering over everything else. People were already screaming before they even reached the first drop.
"Absolutely not." Holland shook his head immediately. "Come on, Dad!" Holly grabbed his hand. "No." "Please?" "No." "You promised." You shot him a knowing look, unable to hide your smile. "I promised we'd come here. I never promised I'd let myself get killed." She folded her arms. "You said we'd do what I wanted." He looked at you for support, but found none. You simply raised both hands innocently. "I'm staying here." "Traitor."
You watched them disappear into the queue. Holland glanced back over his shoulder, wearing the expression of a man marching toward his execution. Finding an empty bench beneath a tree, you sat down with your cup of lemonade, enjoying something you hadn't experienced all day. Silence. A few minutes later, someone approached. "Mind if I sit?" You looked up, a man around your age gestured toward the empty end of the bench. "Go ahead."
He thanked you before sitting down. For a while neither of you spoke. Then he glanced toward the roller coaster. "Not your thing either?" You laughed softly. "My boyfriend got talked into it." "Ouch." "He'll survive." The conversation drifted naturally after that. You talked about the weather, the ridiculously long lines, and how outrageously expensive everything was. Perfectly harmless.
Halfway through the roller coaster, Holland finally forced himself to open his eyes. The ride slowed to a stop. People applauded. Holly climbed out looking absolutely thrilled. "That was awesome!" "I saw God," Holland muttered, struggling to convince his legs to function again. "You screamed." "I absolutely did not." She rolled her eyes. Then Holland looked across the park, his expression changed instantly. "Who's that?" Holly followed his gaze.
You were still sitting on the bench, chatting with some guy, smiling as the conversation carried on. Holland stopped walking, his jaw tightened. Holly looked at him suspiciously. "Dad." "Who's that guy?" he muttered. "I don't know." "Why is he talking to her? Why is she laughing?" Holly stared at him. "Seriously?" He had already started walking.
You noticed Holland first, mostly because he wasn't walking - he was marching. Still pale from the roller coaster, his hair was a complete disaster, and one hand clutched the enormous stuffed bear. He stopped beside the bench. "Hey." You blinked. "Hey?" His smile looked painfully forced. "So... how's it going over here?" The man looked confused. "Fine?" "Great."
Holland didn't move, didn't even blink. He just stood there, looking like a man only barely keeping himself under control. The stranger glanced between the two of you. "Friend of yours?" "My boyfriend," you answered, absently turning your cup of cold lemonade in your hands. Holland immediately rested a hand on your shoulder. "That's right. We've actually been together for quite a while." "I know," you replied slowly. "Good. Just making sure everyone remembers."
The stranger finally stood. "Well... I should probably go find my brother." "Good idea," Holland replied a little too quickly. The man offered you a polite smile before disappearing into the crowd. The second he was gone, you turned toward Holland. "Really?" "What?" he asked, feigning complete innocence. "You scared him off." "I didn't scare him." Holly dropped onto the bench beside you and looked at her father. "You absolutely scared him. You looked like you were about to challenge him to a duel." "I was being friendly." Holly burst into laughter.
Holland frowned. "He was flirting." "He was talking." "He laughed." "People laugh during conversations." "He made you laugh." You crossed your arms. "So that's the crime?" He opened his mouth, then closed it and opened it again. "Maybe." Holly let out an exaggerated groan. "Oh my God. You're jealous." Holland didn't answer. As if acknowledging it was beneath his dignity.
Later that evening, the three of you walked back toward the car beneath a California sunset. Holly happily listed her favorite rides while the oversized teddy bear somehow ended up tucked under Holland's arm once again. Without saying a word, he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. After several quiet steps, he cleared his throat.
"He wasn't funnier than me." You looked at him. "I talked to him for maybe ten minutes. So... no." "You hesitated." "I didn't." "You definitely did." You leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I came here with you... and I'm going home with you." He tried very hard not to smile. "Yeah... but I still didn't like him." Several feet ahead, Holly groaned loudly. "I can still hear you two, you know." Holland shrugged. "Good." Holly rolled her eyes.
Maybe her father made impulsive, poorly thought-out decisions more often than he should. But there was one thing she was absolutely certain of, he loved you. You made him smile, you made him try, you made him a little more put together than he'd ever managed to be on his own. And if he occasionally acted like an idiot anyway… Well, she could live with that.
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Upon seeing an all too familiar frown morph on your face, Telemachus tried to brush off the growing ache forming in his chest. He grasped your wrists, trailing his touch down to rub small circles onto the back of your hands. “It won’t be as long as last time, I promise”. He brought them up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on each one.
Your heart twisted watching the gesture. Eyes welling with tears as you gazed at him, you voiced, “you just came back…”. You had been tending to your weaving when he came into your shared chamber to break the news. The distance never became easy. If anything, it had become harder to say goodbye, fearing one day may be the last time you see him.
“I know”. His voice was hardly above a whisper, subdued underneath the unseen weight each departure held. “I know I have”. He tipped your chin up when you averted your gaze, trying to prevent any droplets from breaking through the barrier. Concern washing over his features, Telemachus felt his own eyes glaze over. “Athena will see to it that I come back to you again”.
He held your cheek, placing your other hand over his heart for balance. “You know I’ll do everything in my power to make that happen, yes…?” You wordlessly nod without hesitation, seeking grounding in his words. Embracing his forearm, you clung to him.
“When do you have to leave?”
“Tomorrow night”. As soon as he spoke, you drew your blurred vision to his chest, a few stray tears escaping in response. He caught the ones he could, gently swiping them away with his thumb. “My love…”. Telemachus pulled you into his hold, pressing your head against him while stroking the nape of your neck. You melted into the hug, wrapping your arms around his lower back for closeness. “Please, don’t be upset. You won’t be left alone for long…”.
You two stayed in that position for a moment, softly breathing as you absentmindedly caressed each other. After a few minutes, your tears stopped. Pulling back to peer up at him again, you took that opportunity to look over his features, engraving them within your mind’s eye once more. Telemachus did the same, a faint smile ghosting his lips while he did. Keeping a grasp on your cheek, he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours before placing a kiss on your lips. He placed several more pecks, beginning to walk you towards the bed.
Tugging on his garments, you urged him to remove his clothes. Once he did, his attention was drawn to your dress. It pooled around your ankles in one go, allowing you space to step out of the barrier. He followed as you crawled onto the bed, pulling him into your embrace. Reconnecting your lips, Telemachus settled in between your legs, gliding his length through your folds. You moaned, head spinning with need from his actions. Raking your nails across his broad shoulders, you locked your legs around his hips, bringing him flush against you.
He twitched at the feeling of your arousal coating the underside of his member. Breath hitching as he parted, he squeezed the soft flesh of your thighs, rubbing his hands up and down. Continuing the slow drag of his hips against you, his lips landed on your cheeks, affording both the same level of care and attention. Pausing once he reached your ear, he uttered, “there isn’t a day that goes by without you on my mind”. Mewling when his tip nudged your clit, your stomach stirred, hearing the longing in his voice.
You prompted him to look at you, soothingly tracing his jaw as he did. Lining himself with your entrance, Telemachus inched inside, gliding along your warmth until he was fully sheathed. Maintaining measured eye contact, no words were exchanged yet enough was said through your bodies. He rested his forehead among yours, making sure you felt every emotion rooted in his veins alone. Pulsing around his length, your heart clenched when he started moving. Vision wavering now, you released a broken moan. The stretch alone was enough to send a spiral of pleasure through your core.
Curling your hand in his hair while grasping his cheek, you sealed your lips together. Groaning into your mouth, he set a steady rhythm rocking in and out. You briefly detached, grazing your nose against his to murmur, “I’ll be right here waiting for you”. The feeling that erupted in his chest was bittersweet. Telemachus couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you again but your unyielding faith that he would always come back was woven tight around his heart. Your words only spurring him on, he repositioned his hands under your thighs, shifting them at an angle.
Increasing the pace of his hips now, you had trouble keeping your eyes open as a sharp pang of arousal spread in your stomach. The lewd sound rising in volume from his calculated thrusts drifted into your ears. Releasing a shaky moan while the beginning signs of your orgasm bloomed, your grip on his jaw fell. No matter how much time has passed, Telemachus never grew tired of studying your expressions. Learning exactly what leaves a lasting imprint on you was one of his vices. Through hooded eyes, he watched your lips quiver and your brows furrow, deciding now would be the perfect moment to send you to that state.
Leaning within earshot, he grunted, tightening his hold on your thighs. A string of groans followed as you dropped your hand, clawing down his abdomen. Eyes fluttering shut at the sound, you released a sharp moan. Head falling back into the pillows now, every deep, precise stroke he gave fueled the heat swirling in your stomach. Thighs trembling in his grasp now, your back arched while waves of pleasure trickled throughout your body. Mind drifting into a haze, you ran your nails through his curls, pulsing around his length.
Your own orgasm triggering his, Telemachus tensed, burying himself to the hilt before spurts of cum coated your walls. He encircled your body, finding your lips to give you another kiss. Reluctantly parting for air, he turned his attention to your cheeks, placing several lingering pecks on you. A warm smile spread across your face at the feeling. Pulling back to peer at you clearly, he voiced, “I love you”. Wrapping both arms around his shoulders again, you soothingly rubbed your fingers along his skin.
“I love you too”
Thank you for reading, feedback is always appreciated!
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