disclaimer: imo, tom’s spiderman wouldn’t cheat but for the sake of this fanfic, that will happen :3
contains: angst
BND!Peter longed for this moment. After years of isolation, he finally had MJ in his arms again. Granted, not quite the way he wanted but she was here nevertheless. There was one problem; he also had you.
It was the second semester of his third year when Peter met you in one of his classes. It started off innocently, partners for a project, but somewhere between late night sessions and coffee dates, his quiet affection deepened into something more demanding. And it scared him.
He had kept himself away for so long, the idea of loving someone seemed unfathomable. Not only loving you, but letting you know all his secrets, his insecurities and his past.
But there you were, holding him in your arms as he spilled about he had lost everyone years ago. Peter described it as living in another world, a depressing, scary world. In that moment, all he felt was the warmth that radiated off you and the feeling of your hand softly stroking his hair.
It was well late into the night when Peter had returned from one of his patrols. You had been waiting for nearly an hour past the time he promised to be home. When the front door clicked shut, your eyes flicked up to gaze at Peter. He was still in his suit, mask off but he looked more distressed than usual.
Your initial thought was something went wrong or he let his latest case slip away. But even after pestering him, Peter didn’t want tell you what was on his mind.
“C’mon, you’ll get them next time. Don’t tire yourself out, you’re only one person.”
He fell back into his usual position, body between your legs where his head could rest on your stomach.
“It’s not—,” a quiet sigh, “it’s not that. Well it is related to that, but—.” He stops himself as if debating whether he should tell the truth.
“I saw MJ.”
Immediately the feeling of despair pooled at the bottom of your heart. You managed to scramble out a small “oh,” while your hand paused at stroking his hair.
“And I kissed her.”
Another punch to the gut. A long, excruciating, pause of silence followed by Peter sitting up and reaching to interlock your hands only to be met with you pulling back. He flinched slightly, a little surprised but understood your reaction.
“I’m really sorry. I have no excuses. What I did was wrong, I got caught up in the moment.”
He waited to see if you had any other reaction than stoicism but you didn’t. Instead, your lips tightened into a line like you were trying to hold yourself back from shouting.
“Hey, hey, look at me please. I don’t want to lose you, I don’t want to do this again. It wasn’t her, it was Jean Grey. She mind controlled Mj.” As if that made it any better.
“You still kissed her,” the worry that you buried deep in the back of your mind had suddenly come true. You had feared what would happen if MJ ever returned, or they somehow met by coincidence. But this? This was worse than you could’ve ever imagined.
Peter desperately clung onto you as you attempted to leave. His eyes watered and nose sniffled when you jerked your arm away. No amount of pleading would solve this. You had convinced yourself that somewhere in his heart he would leave some space for you, eventually parts of MJ would disappear but it was clear he loved only MJ.
You didn’t know whether to be mad at yourself for believing it could work or him for not being honest to himself.
“I might as well paint my face and join the circus with the way you think any of this would ever be ok.”
“I didn’t— no! I never said it would ever be ok. I messed up, big time. I can’t even express how sorry I am,” another desperate sigh escaped his lips.
“Don’t, Peter. I don’t want to hear it. I was a fool to think you could ever give up the girl you dated for six months, four years ago.”
He kneeled, begged, cried but none of it was enough to make you stay. The door shut with a finality.
A lego piece slips from his grasp, making a small clink as it hit the table. He had been replaying that conversation over and over that he didn’t notice until MJ said something.
MJ looked over concerned, “you okay?”
“Uh, yeah I’m fine. Just..lost in thought.” MJ nodded in response then returned to sketching something in her book.
He had MJ and Ned back. He had Frank. He even had Jean Grey, but he didn’t have you. Peter didn’t know what hurt worse, having everyone but a different version of them or never having you in his life again.
That familiar ache in his chest returned, similar to when everything went to shit four years ago. But it was more intense. Like one wrong move could explode his heart into a million pieces.
Perhaps it was always intended to end this way. You being the one who got away.
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LOWKEY 😍 i think we need more nonchalant readers ⸺ okay NOT actually nonchalant because I don't think nonchalant fits them... Emotionally stiff, of few words, VERY literal, saiki k-esque reader 🙏
actually i think those type of characters are the most chalant they're my fav i always giggle at them. not necessarily mean or 'heh... cool' more like they're just THERE, they're just emotionally stiff or unbothered which lowk opposite of me (the unbothered part) but 👅
Summary: Falling in love with your neighbour, Peter Parker, was easy. Accepting him as Spiderman? Still easy. Dealing with his change into arachnid Spiderman? Still easy. But dealing with the fact that he still loves MJ, that she still comes first? Not so easy. When he saves her over you, can you ever forgive him? (8.8k)
Pairing: BND!Peter Parker x fem!reader
TW: 18+ MDNI, NSFW; Sex scenes containing p-in-v, mentions of oral, the bed breaks;Angst; Some liberties taken with the Jean Grey possession thing; Peter has a choice between saving MJ and saving Reader and chooses MJ; Peter has to win the Reader back over; Covers their meeting, relationship and then the heartbreak just so it hurts more; dual POV; when Peter is arachnid Peter, the only one who breaks through is the Reader kind of like Natasha and the Hulk (or Cardan and Jude when he's the snake); Bruce Banner is a prof at NYU rather than Empire State for the sake of my narrative.
Credit: GIF made by @manny-jacinto
The building is strangely quiet, that’s the first thing you notice as you climb up the stairs, a stack of two cardboard boxes in your arms, chin resting on the very top of one, just enough that you can see the next stair. Because of course the elevator wasn’t working on the day that you need to move in. Because life is just like that.
“Woah, hey!” a voice calls out from behind you, deep and light in the same instance, the sound a shock from the previous silence, your body seizing, shaking, a slight jump, the top box sliding off your arms and falling, hitting the stair ahead of you with that peculiar thump of cardboard against, well, anything.
“Shit!” you hiss, looking down at the box on the step, at the one in your arms before glancing over your shoulder, looking for the owner of the voice, the one who startled you.
“Let me help,” the voice says again, this time from beside you and you turn, startling again, breath hitching but not just from fear because there beside you is one of the single-handedly most attractive men you’ve ever seen with dark curly hair, curls falling onto his forehead, partially obscuring the dark brown colour of his irises, the corner of his lips curled up into a half-smile. A kind of crooked grin that sets your heart alight.
He bends down, lifting the box from the stair in front of you, your breaths ragged for a moment more before you blink, shaking off the daze and forcing yourself to smile, the kind of practiced smile that you learned long ago for school pictures and talks with older people who always want to tell you how to live your life.
“Thanks,” you tell him and he smiles at you, a full smile, one that sets your heart alight as the two of you climb the stairs, a comfortable silence descending. He seems like the type of guy who would never push for conversation, who is okay with silence, familiar with it.
“What floor?” he asks you as the two of step onto the fifth floor landing.
“This one,” you tell him, stepping forwards, your back against the heavy metal door, pushing against it, pushing it back, swinging it open and holding it while he steps through. You step away from the door and out into the floor, stepping around him, shifting the box to one arm, reaching for your keychain in your pocket, pulling the bright, bedazzled SOURcharm from your hoodie, flipping it to grasp the key, stepping forwards and slipping it into the lock of 502.
“We’re neighbours,” he says from behind you and you turn towards him, pushing your door open, keys slid back into your hoodie pocket.
“Are you new here?” you ask him, one eyebrow arching as you step backwards into your new apartment, him following you with the last of your boxes.
“To the building?” he asks you, his voice confused, eyebrows knitting together, nose crinkling and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you step into your kitchen, setting the box down on the counter by the sink.
“No,” you call out as he follows you, setting the second box beside the first, “to New York. Because if so, you’re neighbours with the right person.”
“Why?” he asks, his voice growing suspicious. Like he suspects that you’re hitting on him, which objectively he’s attractive enough to be hit on, you are just not the kind of person to do said hitting on. “Because you’ll show me around?”
“No,” you reply, drawing out the word, making it as long and dramatic as possible, your eyes drifting around your crappy apartment, a true New York experience. “Because I’m new and haven’t you always wanted a buddy to explore a new city with? You know, experience everything with someone who also has no experience with said things? Because, honestly, it’s scientific at its base. You experience one thing and the other experiences something else and you’ll get the clearest picture of New York by comparing the two new experiences.” Your voice has risen and sped up in the way it does when you get excited, your hands moving with your words, gestures always arising when you’re interested in a topic, an experiment.
But this guy…he doesn’t look annoyed by it, rather the way his lips are curved into a smile that seems soft if a smile can be such a thing, suggests that he…he might like it.
“Yeah,” he whispers, one hand reaching up to brush his curls back from his forehead, showing eyes the colour of melted chocolate glimmering in the dim lighting of your apartment, “I’m new.”
“So,” you say, both eyebrows arching as you peer at him, “buddies?” His smile widens, dimples showing in a way that makes your breath hitch, but you ignore it, simply reaching your hand forward for his. You’re good at ignoring things especially when they’re related to your feelings.
“Buddies,” he agrees, taking your hand in his, the callouses on his skin rubbing against yours in a way that is strange, but not unpleasant. His grip is firm, his hand is warm and the smile he gives you bright. He’s like sunshine in a person.
“Well,” you tell him, letting go of his hand and walking towards your door, putting it between your body and him, using it as a shield against emotions you’re going to need to tamp down, ignore, shove past and aside. “Thanks for your help.” He nods, stepping out of your apartment and turning, eyes narrowing as you begin to close the door.
“Peter!” he calls out, the words loud and echoing in the hallway, his face flushing a deep red, face shifting into embarrassment as he continues, his voice barely audible, barely a whisper as he says, “my name…it’s…it’s Peter.” He sounds so nervous as he says it that a small smile blooms across your face as you look at him, at the way he’s glancing down and away from you, cheeks flushed bright red.
“My name’s Y/n,” you tell him and he looks up, the motion abrupt and rapid, so fast you worry that he’s going to get whiplash.
“Nice name,” he whispers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he waves, watching as you close the door, the sound of the latch clicking ominous and final. Not really, because no sooner have you closed it than have you wrenched it open again, seeing him still standing there, looking slightly frozen.
“You want to find a place to get hot dogs?” you ask him and he startles, like you did on the stairs, nodding and you nod once, back at him, ducking back to your kitchen, pulling your wallet from your bag and tucking it into your pocket before slipping out and closing your door, locking it behind. “Let’s go, buddy!”
“Sooo,” you say, your legs hooked over the fire escape ledge, your hot dog in one hand, the other pressed against the metal grate beneath you.
“Sooo what?” Peter asks, his mouth slightly full, the sounds of the words off and you glance over at him, a smile threatening to form on your face at the way mustard is smeared on his cheek.
“Um…you have a little something,” you say, taking the napkin from your lap and leaning forwards, wiping it away, his eyes locked on you, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, hard. “Anyways,” you continue, looking away from him, back to the New York City skyline, the napkin set to the side, “I was going to ask what you do.”
“I, um, I’m going to NYU,” he says and you look back at him, a smile blossoming on your face, the kind of smile you have when you’re genuinely excited, when something has genuinely made you happy. A smile you’ve kept smiling at Peter.
“Me too,” you tell him, your voice light in a way that it rarely is, in a way it hasn’t really since you packed up all your stuff to move alone to the city of your dreams. The city that’s strange and rings with a hollow sort of loneliness, except for right now on a fire escape ledge, the skyline twinkling like stars. “What are you studying?”
“Engineering,” he says, his voice quiet, unsteady, just a little unsure, his gaze turned away from you as he sets the wrapper from his hot dog down beside him, brushing his hands together, brushing crumbs off of them.
“What’s your specialty?” you ask him and he glances back at you, surprise glimmering in his warm eyes, eyebrows knitting together, lips quirking up just a bit like he’s pleased that you’ve surprised him.
“Hold up,” he says, “what are you studying?”
“Engineering,” you tell him, your smile growing wider as the surprise shifts to a pleasant kind of shock in his eyes, like he didn’t expect to have something in common with you. “Specifically,” you continue, “biomedical engineering focusing upon neuroengineering.”
“A brain girl,” he says and you nod, the smile pleased as you turn away from him, back to the skyline of the city that never sleeps. The city you used to dream of as a kid. You lean back, your back slumping against the grated brick wall of the apartment building, your wrappers set aside, hands in your hoodie pockets, gaze trained on the blinking, twinkling lights of the city. “I’m in biotech,” he says and you let out a low whistle as he turns back to look at you, his body leaning forwards against the railing. “What?”
“And I thought I was a nerd,” you tell him and he tosses a balled up napkin at you, one which you swat away with a laugh, one light and bright that has him pausing, just looking at you like one looks at an oasis in the desert. “What?” you ask, a familiar heat flooding your face the kind that comes from embarrassment. Or the fear of it. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No,” he whispers, scooting himself back over the grating to slump beside you. “I just haven’t had something like this in a long time.”
“Well,” you tell him, letting your head rock to the side, rock to face him, eyes blinking once before focusing on him, tiredness seeping into your bones, to your eyelids, “you have it now.” The smile you give him is hesitant, but he returns it, taking your hand in his, palms against one another, his fingers closing around the sides of your hand, a slight, gentle squeeze given.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I do. We do.”
“Yeah,” you agree, your gaze darting away from him, flutters in your stomach that are unfamiliar, but also familiar. “We do.”
Peter knows that he should stay away from you, that he should avoid you if he knows what’s good for him. That all knowing you will cause is danger, put you in harm’s way the way it did Ned and MJ, but he doesn’t want to stay away from you. You, the girl who didn’t look at him for a one-night stand, but a friend. Someone to experience New York City with for the first time.
You were lonely, but braver than he’s ever been and you were so…enthusiastic about the comparing of experiences that how could he ever say no to you. He just couldn’t. There’s just something about you that drew him in and the late night talks that keep happening, legs dangling over the fire escape, whispers carried to one another on the breeze, watching as New York lives on, gleaming and twinkling, just make him want to stay more.
Like last night, when you fell asleep beside him and he lay you down, your head on his lap, his hand smoothing down your hair over and over while you slept on, safe and content beside him. He’d whispered to you then, even though you couldn’t hear him, that he should stay away, but he just couldn’t seem to close the door on you.
“You know,” he’d said, “I should stay far away from you and keep you safe but…something about you keeps drawing me back. Like I can’t stay away from you, pretty girl.” That’s what he’s called you in his head, pretty girl, because you are. You’re pretty and you’re nice and you’re smart and you laugh too loud and too long and it’s just perfect and he knows in some way that he’s falling even when he wishes that he wasn’t.
Because he’ll just bring harm to you. That’s the nature of his life, isn’t it?
But can’t he have a friend? Does he have to be alone? he wonders as he swings his legs over the edge of his bed, standing up on slightly shaky legs, tired from the fight yesterday and the classes he rushed to get to.
“PETER!” he hears you call, your voice echoing through the thin door of his apartment, palm flat, slamming against the door and he sighs, an annoyed sounding sigh even when he’s not really annoyed, but happy, excited. Excited in the way you make him because you live and you’re dragging him along with you.
“What?” he rasps as he pulls the door open, the clock reflecting 5:00 AM at him from its perch beside the door. You’re fully dressed, jeans and boots and an Olivia Rodrigo t-shirt on, a trench coat thrown over, arms crossed.
“It’s Saturday,” you tell him and he closes his eyes, sighing again, this time real as he leans his forehead against the door, tired and sore and so not in the mood for this.
“I’m aware.”
“Then you’re aware of the fact that we’re looking for the best place to get breakfast,” you say, one eyebrow arched in the way you have when you’re annoyed, your hips canting, weight resting on your left foot, right loose.
“Right,” he sighs, pushing himself off the door and holding up four fingers to you, closing the door, saying, “four minutes!”
“I’ll be waiting!” Maybe that’s what keeps drawing Peter in, the fact that you wait, that you never push, that you plan. That you’re so different from MJ, the girl he still loves, can’t entirely forget, can’t entirely erase no matter how hard he tries. Most of the time he still remembers that goodbye, holding her tight, but when he’s with you…he can see that there is a future. One where he’s okay.
“Why NYU?” he asks you, his hand wrapped around yours, the two of you walking on a path in Central Park, raincoats on, the sky grey and overcast, clouds hanging low, swollen with impending rain. “I mean,” he continues when you look back at him, your expression quizzical and so, so pretty that his breath catches in his throat, “why not MIT if you had the grades?”
“I did have the grades,” you tell him, tipping your head up, eyes closing for a moment as you breathe in the smell of the rain. He knows that you do this often, that you like the stormy weather, has watched you climb out onto the fire escape when it rains to just stand there, arms wide, the rain soaking into your clothes. “I got into MIT, Yale, Stanford, Harvard, Columbia and Cornell, plus of course, NYU. But as a kid,” you pause, your head tipping back down, gaze falling on the cracked pathway, the lines of breaking. “As a kid, I dreamed of New York and NYU because…I don’t know…I just felt that it was right.”
“Gotta say,” Peter says, squeezing your hand, breath hitching as you look over at him, lips curled into a soft smile, the kind you reserve for him, “that I’m glad you chose NYU.”
“Me too, buddy,” you tell him, knocking your shoulder against his, his skin tingling, feeling alive in a way it hasn’t really. It’s felt like rubber stretched over bone and now it feels like skin, like he’s alive.
But is it selfish to love you?
“Hey! Puppies!” you cry, tugging him along behind you, taking off towards the animal shelter set-up, puppies tumbling over one another and as he follows, as he watches you scoop a wriggling rottweiler mix into your arms, as he watches that puppy lick your face, eliciting a giggle, one that rings through the park and his heart, he finds he doesn’t care if it’s selfish to love you because he’s fallen anyways.
And he can love you from afar, be your friend. It doesn’t change that.
It won’t.
It can’t. Right?
The stadium is packed full, your baseball cap pulled low, a newly bought Yankees jersey on, Peter beside you, his body radiating heat as the game goes on. You don’t entirely understand what’s going on having never been a baseball fan before, but it’s the Yankees and it’s iconically New York so you dragged Peter with you after saving up for the tickets.
It’s been six months of being buddies with Peter and it’s a sweet kind of torture because every minute that you spend with him, the more you learn about him, the more you feel for him. You don’t know if it’s love, if it can be quantified as such but it’s something. It’s something and you know you should stop hanging out with him, just give your heart a break, but something about him means that you can’t stop.
He just keeps drawing you back in. You’ve gone shopping with him, picking out books for one another based on vibes. You’ve spent hours together poring over engineering books and formulas, doing homework side-by-side and every time, there’s that moment when he looks at you with pupil-blown eyes and you think maybe, just maybe but then the moment passes and you curse yourself every time.
You curse the heart that just can’t stop hoping. It hurts to hope yet it doesn’t stop.
“HOLY SHIT!” Peter yells, standing up and pulling you with him, a baseball flying up at you and you shriek, lifting your hands to bat it away from you, but rather your fist closes on it and you’re left staring at the baseball in your hand. “YOU CAUGHT IT!” he cries and then his arm is around your shoulder and for a moment you can’t breathe because to breathe is to smell him, his uniquely Peter scent of vanilla and sandalwood and nutmeg.
The casual touch is the worst part of this torture.
“What…what do I do with it?” you ask him and he looks at you, face incredulous before he curls your fingers tighter over the ball, the fingers that had opened, holding the ball out to him like an offering.
“You keep it,” he tells you and there’s another moment. Another one where you think maybe, just maybe, his gaze dropping to your lips, his lips parting, but then he blinks and turns away, neck muscles rigid and you can feel that deflating, that crushing. That loss of hope.
“Will do,” you whisper, your eyes on him, on the line of his neck, of his jaw. Of him. You really hate hope.
The street is lit by the streetlights, dark descended while you were still in the stadium watching a game you didn’t really understand, holding a ball you didn’t mean to catch in your hands.
“Let’s go here,” you tell Peter, the two of you looking for a place to eat something sweet, a bakery just off to the side with lights blazing.
“No,” he says. “They suck.”
“You’ve been there?” you ask him, lips curving up as you look at him, watching as his expression blanches, eyes go wide, calculations occurring in that wonderful brain of his.
“Yeah,” he says and then he tugs on your arm, pulling you towards a dimly lit diner, an overhang in red and black obscuring a sign that glimmers, refracting at you. “And this place is good.”
“And how would you know that?” you ask him, tone leading, high-pitched in the way it is when you know something and you’re trying to pry what you already know from someone.
“Um…well…uh,” he swallows hard, gaze focused solely on the diner as the two of you run across the street, rushing just as headlights come up to the side, the two of you stepping onto the cracked and falling apart sidewalk as the car rushes past, a breeze blowing by you.
“You’re from New York, right?” you ask him and he looks over at you, shock writ upon his features as he pulls the door open, the two of you stepping into the diner, knocking dust and street litter from your boots on the mat.
“How’d you know?” he asks and you roll your eyes, sighing as the two of you cross to a table, him sliding in on one side of the booth and you frozen for just a minute. A part of you wants to sit beside him, but you know you shouldn’t, but as you go to slide in across from him, he pats the seat beside him and you slide in beside him, your side pressed against his, heart racing, racing, racing.
“No one just finds all of those places on the first try,” you tell him. “Plus…you have this look about you, like the city isn’t a marvel, but rather home. I don’t have that.”
“So, you just knew?” he asks, his elbow on the table, cheek resting on his palm, attention locked upon you. “You just knew?”
“I told you I’m smart,” you tell him and he smiles at you, your body alight with feelings and sensations and you look away from him, picking up one of the grease-covered plastic menus, the red binding fraying, plastic cracking in a way that tells you this place is good, well-loved.
“What will it take to earn your forgiveness?” he asks and you glance up at him, eyebrows knitting together, your heart climbing into your throat as you look at him, at the way he’s looking at you. Looking at you like you matter.
“You don’t have to earn it, Peter. I’m not mad, just curious. Why’d you lie?”
“Because you were so…enthusiastic and I…I was enamoured by it and didn’t really want anyone else to be your buddy.” You swallow hard, your throat thick, tears stinging your eyes because of what can never be.
“Oh,” you whisper and he takes your hand in his, the one beside him, interlacing your fingers with his, resting the joined hands on his thigh.
“Do you want to go out with me?” he asks you, stare intense and you can feel your skin heating up, flushing, heart racing and you swallow hard again, mouth just a little bit dry.
“Aren’t we kind of already?” you ask him and you like how he ponders what you’ve said, his stare changing, shifting as he considers.
“I guess so,” he says. “I mean, we spend all our time together. We might as well just make it official.”
“Official?”
“Will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, his cheeks a bright red and you nod, the gesture fast and excited and then he’s letting go of your hand, shifting, hands coming to rest on your cheeks, pulling you to him and pressing a soft and lingering kiss against your lips.
It’s a kiss that tastes of first chances, of hope and promise.
It’s a kiss for the ages.
“I don’t want anything to really change between us, Peter,” you whisper one night, your body curled into him on the fire escape, the two of you watching the skyline of New York, entranced by it.
“Then it won’t,” he whispers and you lift your head from his chest to look at him, at the way his face is relaxed, his body safe and warm and not tense like it sometimes is.
“Promise?” you ask and he nods, leaning forwards, his lips pressing against yours, open-mouthed and hot, tongue sliding in like a promise, his grip tightening on you like he never wants to let you go. Never wants to lose you.
“Promise,” he vows, breaking away from the kiss, his forehead pressing against yours, his eyes closing like you’re his safe space.
You think you just might be.
“Jesus!” you cry out, your back arching off the bed as Peter thrusts in for the first time, sliding in with ease, but the stretch still burns a little bit no matter how long he spent with his face buried between your legs, wanting to make this first time with him the best. It’s a good kind of burn though, a good kind of pain.
“’m sorry,” he breathes out, hips rolling slow and steady, the rickety bed still creaking beneath him.
“Don’t be sorry,” you whisper, your nails digging into his back. “Just go harder.” He looks at you, concern etched upon his face before he nods and it’s like he’s had restraint and then just lets go, driving in and out of you with force you didn’t really know he had.
It’s hard and fast and relentless, stimulating every part of you as he drives in and out, your body moving with the force, his lips hot on your neck and chest as he sucks hickeys into your skin, marking you, the bed creaking and creaking and creaking.
Honestly, the warning signs were all there, but you were too fucked out to notice and Peter was too obsessed with the feel of your walls clinging to him, to the taste of you on his tongue and the way you cry out his name, but the bed creaks one more time as Peter thrusts in and then it feels like the ground has given way, the bed breaking, landing on the floor with force.
“Shit,” Peter whispers, pausing in his rhythm, hands running over your body, not to turn you on, not to make love to you, but to check for injury. “You okay?” he asks and maybe it’s the way he asks, but you can’t help but let out a small giggle, one that grows as he looks at you with such horror on his pretty face. “Why are you laughing?”
“We broke the bed,” you tell him, your voice high, a giggle itself.
“And that’s funny? Because I’m still inside of you and you laughing is not doing much for my confidence,” he tells you and you’re still giggling as you lift one hand to his cheek, his head moving into your hand, pressing in.
“I just think it’s funny that we broke the bed, Peter. We were already going to get noise complaints,” you tell him and his expression darkens, but not in an angry way, rather a horny way.
“We’re gonna earn those noise complaints,” he tells you and that’s all the warning you get before he’s thrusting back into you without abandon, your back arching up and into him again, the giggles turning to cries of his name.
It’s later, after, the two of you curled into each other on his broken bed when he rests his hand upon your cheek that he whispers, “I love you.” It’s like the world has stopped, your heart in your throat, tears stinging your eyes, but the good kind of tears.
“I love you too,” you whisper and he pulls you even closer against him like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together, just burrow into you.
And it’s the best sleep you’ve had in ages. The first time you’ve ever felt safe.
Peter’s tired as he swings into his apartment, ready to just peel his suit off and fall into his bed, the attic apartment better for his arrivals, better because it goes unnoticed, it’s not right next to your apartment. He can’t drag you into this if you don’t know.
He lands in his bedroom, hands drifting to his mask, pulling it off and preparing to toss it onto his bed when he shrieks, a figure sitting on the bed, arms crossed.
“Who the fuck are you?!” he yells, shooting a web at the figure only to hear your muffled groan of distaste. “Pretty girl?! Is that you?!”
“Yeah, it’s me,” you tell him, voice flat with distaste, your figure pushing off the bed, rising and walking towards him, expression irritated, arms stuck to your torso by webs.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice gentle as he walks to you, pulling the webs from off your body, tossing them aside, his hands, still gloved in his costume, resting on your upper arms, grip warm and your expression softens.
“I figured out that you were Spiderman weeks ago and I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, but you haven’t and I was tired of waiting so I…you know, broke in.”
“You broke into my apartment?” he asks and you nod, your hand coming to rest on his cheek where a bruise is forming from where the bad guy hit him. He hisses as you touch it, your touch achingly gentle but the skin so sensitive.
“I wanted answers,” you tell him and he walks the two of you backwards towards his bed, pulling you onto his lap, your body curling into him, fitting to him in a way that makes his heart ache in good ways and bad, guilt seeping in.
It’s a guilt that made him write a letter weeks ago to MJ, one to never be sent. He feels this deep guilt because he worries that he moved on too soon. But when he’s with you like this, feeling alive, feeling loved when to the rest of the world he’s naught but a ghost, he doesn’t feel guilty at all. He feels like he’s right where he belongs.
“Are you mad?” he whispers and you look at him, shock and hurt on your face as you press a soft, gentle, tender kiss against his lips, the taste of your cherry lip gloss slipping into his mouth.
“Never,” you whisper and he relaxes, your hand tracing shapes on his still suit covered chest. “It’s just…can you tell me everything about Spiderman or…” you trail off, your gaze falling away from him, brow furrowing and he lets go of your thigh to reach up, pulling your face to him, making you look at him, his lips pressing against yours in a harder kiss, one that says forever. That says everything he needs it to say.
“I don’t want to have secrets from you,” he whispers and then he tells you everything. He tells you about his parents, the spider bite, the first villain, the meeting of MJ and the Europe debacle; Aunt May’s death, the other Spidermen, the erasure of himself from everyone’s memory.
He doesn’t know what he expected when he finished, but it wasn’t this, the way you hold his cheek so tenderly, so preciously, like he’s everything, your eyes warms and glimmering, full of love.
It wasn’t you whispering, “I know you, Peter. You’re not a ghost. Not to me. I didn’t know you before but I know you now. I don’t think that’s nothing.”
“It’s not,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. “It’s everything because you’re right. I’m a ghost to everyone, but you and I love you. More than that, I’m in love with you.”
“Me too, Peter. I’m in love with you too,” you whisper and that’s how the two of you fall asleep, curled into one another, his suit still on.
And when he wakes in the morning, he doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, just pulls you closer. You, the only person in the world who knows him. All of him.
He wouldn’t trade that for the world.
“Peter!” you squeal as he swings into his apartment, scooping you up and running to the bathroom. “Put me down! You need to shower!”
“I know,” he says, closing the door behind, peeling his suit off, standing there in nothing but his boxers before you, a tent noticeable. “You don’t expect me to do this alone, do you?” You laugh as he strips entirely naked and pulls your clothes off, guiding you into the shower and under the spray.
It’s not rough sex or fevered sex. It’s slow and gentle and full of kisses, lips gliding along skin, tongues against tongues. Him tracing the lines of your body with his mouth, whispering I love you against your body with every kiss.
It’s hot and sweet and perfect. Just like him.
You didn’t go looking for the letter, you went looking for your notebook that you left at Peter’s place two days ago, but you found the letter anyways. The letter written for the girl who forgot him, the girl he apparently never got over.
And sometimes, Spider-Man has to do the hard thing. Even if it breaks Peter Parker's heart. Maybe I'll never read this to you. Maybe I'm just writing this for me. Maybe that's my responsibility, to live alone with the truth. But the truth is I love you.
And I hope that deep down, something inside you remembers you love me too.
You didn’t go looking for the letter, but you found it anyways when it fluttered out of the pages of his favourite book. Almost four years of being with him, of knowing him, every piece of him and it’s not enough.
It’s not enough because someone else holds his heart and you are just the other woman. You are the one warming his bed until some miracle occurs and she remembers and they can live happily ever after together. And you’ll be nothing but a footnote in his story.
An adventure without her.
The truth is I love you.
How many times has he said that to you, you wonder, your tears soaking into your pillow, body shaking with your sobs, blankets pulled up to your chin.
Logically, you know it could be old. That it doesn’t matter, that things changed, but you…don’t believe that. You have spent nearly four years loving him and he hasn’t loved you. Maybe he doesn’t even now.
Maybe he’s never loved you. How do you know? The problem is you don’t.
All you know is that your skin is seared with tears, throat thick, heart racing, chest constricting, lungs burning as you cry. As you cry everything out, sobs hurting your body, destroying you because you know that even after that, you will not leave him. Because you love him.
Because how can you leave him when you don’t know the truth of the letter? Maybe it’s old. Maybe he does love you.
And life is good, isn’t it?
You just need to cry right now. That’s all.
“Peter?” you call out, pushing his door open, stepping into his apartment in the attic, webs everywhere. You’ve been avoiding him for a week, the hurt of the letter still too fresh. It’s why you’re here now, you want to talk to him about it, get the truth behind it, but the apartment…it looks destroyed.
Furniture knocked over, webs on every surface, over all the walls. Nail marks on the walls, deep gouges.
“Peter?!” you call out, your voice urgent, worried, your heart beating a frantic rhythm as you step deeper into the apartment, hearing a strange sound from his room. “PETER!”
“Go away!” you hear him yell, his voice hoarse, halfway between his voice and a deeper sound, a growl. “Just go away!”
“No,” you call out, heart beating both out of fear and anger because you are here because you need answers and you’re not just going to be turned away. “No, come out here!” You hear him stand, shuffle out towards you and your breath hitches when you see him, eyes black, just black. “Peter? What’s wrong?”
“I’m not…me,” he rasps, the black leaching away as he looks at you, body sweating, shaking, stumbling towards you. “I’m worried I’ll…hurt you.”
“You won’t,” you whisper and then he’s there, pulling you against him, his body shaking as he holds you, his nose buried into the crook of your neck, breathing you in.
“It’s like…the world is dark…” he whispers. “Like I know…nothing. Nothing but you. Always you.” And then he’s pulling you down onto the floor, his body holding yours, tight, tight, tight like he can’t let you go. Like if he lets you go, he’ll lose you.
Like you’ll leave him.
And if he knows nothing but you…doesn’t that mean he loves you?
“Peter,” you whisper, “is this because I’ve been avoiding you?” His grip tightens, a growl sounding deep in his throat.
“Mine,” he whispers and you swallow hard, guilt leaching into your bones as you shift, your hands brushing his hair back from his face, the black in his eyes leaching back to the warm, soft brown. “I think…maybe…it was a trigger. For my…change.”
“Peter,” you whisper and he looks at you, warm brown eyes filled with tears. “I’m not leaving you. I’m not. I was dealing with some stuff and didn’t know what to do, but I’m not leaving you. I love you.” And that’s your truth—you love him. Deeply, like it’s a piece of you.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers and you press your forehead against his, hands still smoothing his hair back, his body shuddering beneath you.
“Never,” you whisper and that’s how you stay, held tight by him all night. Because he needs you.
And you need him too.
“What if we…inhibit whatever is changing you?” you ask him the next morning, seated on the only intact chair in his apartment, pencil moving on the scrap piece of paper, formulas spilling out, a design sketching across the paper. “Like…Professor Banner did one. If we could inhibit this change in you, chemical or biological and prevent it from controlling you…that would be good right?”
He turns from where he’s been struggling to make coffee around all the webs and destruction. “God, I love you,” he says and you roll your eyes, a pleased smile growing on your lips nonetheless.
“Well come on, biotech engineer! Can’t do this without you!”
Peter knows nothing when the arachnid comes over him, takes over. It’s like the world is dark and everything is strange and foreign and so much. Too loud, too strong, too bright. It’s like he’s possessed, the real him shoved down, but one thing he does know.
You, always you. It’s like he’s engineered to know you, designed to love you.
He always knows you.
The arachnid in him always whispers mine and when Peter wakes up…he can’t argue with it. Because he’s never loved anyone like he’s loved you.
Peter doesn’t know how Jean Grey got into his apartment, but she did. She found the letter he wrote three years ago to MJ, back when he was feeling guilty, back before he’d spilled everything to you. Back before you became his everything.
But Jean Grey found the letter to MJ and once again he’s put her in danger. Because he loved her once, because he knew her. Because he misses her, not as a girlfriend, but a friend. The person he used to know. And he feels so guilty over putting her in danger again.
Which is why he’s here, at MJ’s apartment, bursting in only to see you there too, sitting and talking with her, that soft smile on your face, the one he fell in love with all those years ago.
“Babe?” he calls out and you turn, a question in your eyes.
“Why’d you ask me here?” you ask him and he can feel the ground shift underneath his feet as he looks at MJ, a smile on her face that he doesn’t know. One that’s wholly not her.
“You’re in MJ aren’t you, Jean?” he asks and the grin only widens as she nods, stepping around the kitchen counter, a knife in her hand. “Come on! Stab me, I can take it.”
“It’s not for you, Peter,” Jean says, but it’s MJ’s voice and it hurts, hearing her voice say his name. “It’s for your girlfriend.” He barely has time to breathe, to speak before he’s watching MJ (Jean) plunge the knife into your stomach, your body bending into the gesture, folding in, a silent scream leaving your lips.
“NO!” he yells and he can feel the arachnid claw up into him, the inhibitor not yet finished as he crosses the room to you, your body falling into his arms.
“Peter, Peter. Peter,” Jean says, her words in a parody of MJ’s voice, dark and cruel and unrelenting, teasing and taunting.
“WHAT?!” he roars, turning, his arms still holding you, tears slipping down his cheeks.
“I’m giving you a choice,” she says and he realizes just how close MJ stands to the open window, the one that if she fell out of would kill her. “You choose one of them to save. There’s a right choice and a wrong choice, Peter. The right choice saves them both, the wrong choice has one die. Who’s it gonna be, Peter?” He watches as she climbs onto the window ledge, turning, preparing to jump, that cruel smile on her face.
“Peter,” you whisper, your hand reaching for him, your blood soaking your shirt, soaking the floor and he feels his body hitch, fold in on itself because he wants to stay with you, call the ambulance and save you, but he knows that MJ is the right choice. Because he failed her once and he can’t fail her again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers and he lays you down on the floor, gentle and takes off, jumping out the window, arms wrapped around MJ, webs shooting up and out, carrying her away, carrying her to safety in Castle’s hideout.
“Wrong choice, Peter,” Jean whispers and then she’s gone and in her place is MJ, scared and terrified MJ who he explains some things to and she relaxes, going with him. He drops her off and then he’s rushing back, his heart feeling like it’s breaking as he races against time back to MJ’s apartment, hurrying and breaking, bursting back into the window, your body unconscious, the blade removed, a giant pool of blood beneath you.
“NO!” he cries, falling to his knees beside you, shooting webs into your stomach, using them to hold you together, the sound of the ambulance roaring, the webs soaking with blood and he holds you against him, crying, your pulse so weak. “NO! STAY! I LOVE YOU!”
And he stays with you until the EMTs take you away and then he leaves the apartment, needing justice. Needing to finish this.
For you.
“Why’d you do that to me, Jean?” you ask, your body lying flat in the meadow. A memory of yours that you’re in, that she’s in too.
“To show Peter the truth,” she says and you sit up, turning to look at her, a redheaded girl no older than you are, her face worried and tear-stained. “That sometimes you make the wrong choice and you have to live with that. With what it does.”
“So, you killed me for that?”
“No,” she says, sinking down beside you in the swaying grass. “No one was ever going to die. I called the ambulance as soon as he made his choice. I just need him to understand.”
“Why Jean?” She looks at you, utterly broken.
“Because I have answers that I need and I keep making wrong choices. And I have no one.”
“Not true,” you tell her and she looks at you, brows knitting as you reach for her hand, taking it in yours. “You have me.”
“I almost killed you.”
“But you were never going to let me die,” you tell her and watch as a single tear slips down her cheek. “You know, there’s this story I read once about sisters forged in blood. And I don’t know your story, Jean. But I can be that if you need it.”
“Why?” she asks you, her voice not breaking so much as already broken.
“Because everyone needs someone. And you’re not evil, Jean. You’re just…you need someone and that can be me.”
“I’d like that,” she says and the two of you lay back into the meadow, the ring of ambulance sirens just cutting through along with the echo of someone yelling stay. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah,” you tell her. “Later.” And she disappears and you’re left with the knowledge that Peter didn’t choose you ringing in your heart, tears slipping down your cheeks until the light flares bright and pain flares stronger and the meadow winks out and the hospital lights wink in.
“She’s back!”
But back to what, you wonder. What’s there for you now in a city where you’ve only really found pain?
When you got discharged from the hospital, the first thing you did was pack up all your stuff, the acceptance to Oxford for your Ph.D finally chosen. Two weeks before you fly out. Two weeks before you leave New York behind for good.
You took your stuff to your best friend, Gwen’s house where you’ve been ever since, camping on her couch, alternating between crying your eyes out and going out only when you know that Peter will be busy with work. The times where you’ll never cross paths.
He didn’t choose you. He chose MJ. He had the chance to save you both and he saved her because he didn’t see the fact that he could have caught her with a web while staunching the flow of blood from your wound. Choosing you was the right choice but he didn’t think at all. He just said sorry and took her to safety.
He left you to die.
He left you to die like you were nothing.
You can’t stay around him because when you look at him, how will you ever see anything but the man who left you to bleed out? How can you forgive him?
You can’t.
You just can’t.
So, you’ll bide your time before you fly out, before you leave New York, leave the fucking country behind, finding safety at Oxford, at the hallowed halls you’ve always wanted to be at.
You’ll leave Peter behind and move on with your life.
Because you deserve that.
Because he didn’t choose you. He’ll never choose you. You were just the Other Woman.
Peter didn’t want to meet with Ned, but he’s spent weeks moping over you, over the fact that everywhere he looks you’re not there. The arachnid is not happy, but it can’t do anything, not now that Peter can control it. Not now that he knows that it’s him.
He went because he just wanted to know if he could remember him and he wasn’t expecting that spark, the handshake or the way Ned cried after he said Peter. He wasn’t expecting him to remember.
“You really love her?” Ned asks now, the two of them in his attic apartment, piecing Legos together to form the Millenium Falcon.
“I really do,” he answers, pressing a block down and Ned sighs, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head at him.
“Then dude! You have to get her back.” Peter looks at Ned, red just tinging his vision, the urge to smash the work of several weeks still there, the darker side always going to be there.
“How, Ned? I chose MJ and she thinks I left her to die! I doubt she’ll believe anything I have to say.”
“If you really love her,” Ned says, leaning forwards in his chair, arms resting on his knees, hands folded under his chin, “then show her. Put everything on the line for her and tell her everything. Even if it means leaving it all behind.”
“But what if she still says no?” Peter whispers.
“But what if she says yes, man?”
The airport is far too loud for this early in the morning and you’re still sad, that particular sadness of leaving your life behind swirling in your gut, the sight of Gwen’s teary face as she waved goodbye still eating at you now while you sit, waiting for the time to board. Waiting for the time to leave it all behind.
At least that was until you heard your name being called in a voice you never wanted to hear again. You turn in your chair, taking in the sight of Peter, his curls brushed out of his face, hooded jacket on, dark blue jeans and the Rolling Stones shirt you bought him one Christmas on his frame.
He looks good. And that hurts. You turn back around, ignoring him, hoping he doesn’t come closer, but of course you aren’t that lucky, his footsteps, his unique rhythm echoing behind you as he steps around to sit down beside you, his hands folded in his lap, attention focused on the large windows exposing the planes.
“When Harry Met Sally,” he says and you glance at him, surprise etching on your face, throat thickening and lungs burning as you look at him.
“What?” you ask, your voice thick in that way a voice is when you’re holding back tears, that image of his masked face whispering sorry still too strong.
“Hardy-Weinberg equilibrium, blue, popcorn and milk duds. You hate coding but you love calculating. You love watching sunrises but hate watching sunsets. You like the moon more than the sun but the sun more than the stars. You hate sleeping with the windows open. You love sleeping with your arms out of the covers. You love when we cuddle. You love coffee, so much so that if we cut you open, you always say that you’d bleed caffeine.”
“Peter,” you whisper and he looks over at you, his face creased with pain, tears slipping down his cheeks over and over again, his face carved with the rivulets of grief. “Peter, you didn’t choose me. You left me to die. How can…How can I-I forgive you?” Tears are slipping down your cheeks now and he sighs, reaching for your hand, fingers interlacing through yours.
“I chose wrong,” he whispers. “I know that now. I could have saved you both, but all I thought in that moment was that I had already failed MJ and that I didn’t want her to die because I felt guilty. But I went right back for you. I must have broken a thousand speed records to get back to you.
“I held you as you bled. It were my webs that saved you, staunching the blood flow. I held you until the EMTs arrived. I yelled and begged and pleaded for you to stay, but you were unconscious, you didn’t hear me. But I was there.” He looks at you with such pain that you reach forwards, hands cupping his cheeks, thumbs wiping away his tears.
You look at him and in his eyes, you see the truth there. You know he’s not lying. You know he loves you. That he would do anything for you. That he loves you. That it wasn’t fake.
You weren’t the other woman after all.
“Peter,” you whisper, your voice still hitching with the tears, “I forgive you…but I can’t stay here. I can’t stay in New York.”
“I know,” he whispers and then a figure steps up beside him, two carry-on bags on his shoulders.
“I’m Ned,” he says and you can feel a bit of shock in your system, this man, Peter’s best friend. The one who forgot him. “And yeah, I remember.”
“I’m coming with you,” Peter says.
“While, actually,” Ned says. “We’re coming with you because he’s following you and I’m following him because I’ve gone four years without my best friend and not any more. Also, I’m mission control so… you know. He needs me.” He sits down beside Peter and Peter elbows him, a choked giggle escaping from your throat as you wave at Ned. Peter whispers, “Shut up” at Ned and it only makes you laugh harder.
“But what about Spiderman?” you whisper and he looks at you with such love as he pulls you against him that it feels for a moment like you’re complete.
“I’m always gonna be him,” he says. “It’s not the city that matters. It’s you. I can be Spiderman anywhere so long as my home is there. As long as you’re there, because, pretty girl. You’re all that matters to me. Where you go, I go.”
“I hope you like rain,” you whisper and he pulls back, pressing his forehead against yours.
“I love it,” he whispers and then he’s kissing you, hard and deep and fast and you were wrong before. Your first kiss wasn’t a kiss for the ages.
bf!peter who truly does feel bad when he leaves you sore and achey . . . but who also can't help but get so, so turned on by it!
it's like fighting against himself, because peter absolutely loathes the idea of ever causing you pain—and the almost sick surge of satisfaction he feels when he catches you wincing and massaging your inner thighs the next day and the subsequent chubby he usually pops from it makes him want to recoil. (or at least, makes him feel like he should want to recoil.)
but he just can't help it. there's just something about it—something about knowing that he had fucked you so deep and thoroughly that your body literally aches from it—that drives him up the wall. makes him feel almost animalistic. feral.
and there's something equally as mind-spiraling about making it up to you. about using his hands and mouth and tongue to soothe the aches he caused, to pull the soft sounds of relief and pleasure from your pretty lips.
maybe that's the best part, when he's got you like this—achey thighs split open by his shoulders, trembling softly, clit so puffy and pretty under his tongue, and your gummy walls massaging and drooling around his fingers as he steadily (and gently, of course) fingerfucks you to an orgasm.
and, fuck, he's so sick for the way his cock twitches when you wince or sigh out in pain despite him being so gentle with you—but, to his pleasure, you aren't running.
no, you're pushing back into him, softly humping your cunt against his tongue, clenching around his fingers and suckling them like you can't get enough.
"feel's'good, peter," you mewl, slurred, whiny, pussy constricting when he presses his pads into the sweet spot at the top. "mmm—ah, fuck—please—a-ah, wait, careful—hurts a little—"
your body seems to be contradicting itself, tensing up when he strokes a particularly sore spot but yet releasing the most delicious sounds of pleasure, with whines for him to slow down peppered in between cries for more.
"i know, baby, i know. i know she's sore." he cuts off your next whimper softly, massaging gentle circles into your thigh with his free hand, fingers still sinking knuckle deep inside you rhythmically. "'m gonna go slow, okay? fuck, i'll make it up t'you... 'm'gonna make this pretty pussy feel better, hmm? y'want that?"
"yes, yes, please," you rush out on a breath, one that catches on a small whine and a jerk of your hips when his shoulder rubs against the sensitive flesh of your thigh. "wan-wanna feel better, pete, please—"
fuck, he's hard enough to cut steel right now. his boxers are tight and sticky, pools of pre spilling from his swollen tip. he aches so badly to simply bury himself inside your sweet cunt, replace his thick fingers with something even thicker and longer—but he knows he has to wait.
there's no way your poor, achy pussy could handle his cock right now. that would be far too much. she needs his tongue and fingers to bring her to orgasm first.
"fuck—a-ah—peter, i-i think 'm gonna cum."
oh, speak of the devil. peter suppresses a small smirk and starts to pump his fingers just a little harder—not faster, not higher, just harder. he flicks his tongue over your clit in tandem, and fuck, now your pussy is clenching so tight. your chest heaves and your moans are loud enough to shake the walls.
"that's it, pretty baby," peter murmurs, breath hot and fanning over your slopped up pussy. "c'mon, let it go. mmhmm, jus' like that. let go f'me, cum on my fingers—oh, yes, that's a goooood girl—"
peter can't really tell if the whine that escapes your throat is one of pain or pleasure; maybe it's a bit of both. but what he can tell is that you are coming on his fingers, slick gushing and clit pulsing, so swollen and cute and sensitive when he sucks on it gently.
and now that you have cum, maybe you'd be willing to let him make you just a little more sore...
note. so acc idk entirely how i feel abt this one bcs i'm expirementing a lil with a more dominant peter, so pls lmk how you guys feel about it or if i did a decent job of it or if u like it yeah u get it lol. anyway luv yas xoxo!! ♡
summary: When you find a post you had submitted to an archive site years ago, you start the path to find out who the boy named peter was.
pairing: Peter Parker x fem!reader
tags and warnings: canon divergence probably, it's more of reader finding peter, there most likely will be a part two/mini series, not a lot of accurate details (cuz I do not remember the old movies), some original characters (not important tho), fluff, based off of that picture from unsent project, mention of aunt may's death, ty sarah (@patientofarkhamasylum)for proofing this!!
word count: 2.3K
Algorithms are a tricky little thing.
Sometimes, it worked well — showing you different posts based on your history of likes and follows.
Sometimes, it didn't.
Today had been a day where the algorithm seemed to lose its sense of logic, as your entire feed looked like it belonged to a teenager who was still stuck in the throes of the past.
Popular Vines from back in the day resurface when you sit down in the late hours of the night after work, lounging on your couch with your legs hanging off the armrest. Giggles tear through the silence of your apartment when you come across a particularly funny one. After five minutes of re-watching the same video, you scroll past it to come across a photo of what looked like a message? Usually, you were the one to not spend a lot of time on such posts in an effort to continue finding hidden gems buried from years ago, but there was just something about it that made you stay.
It was a message addressed to someone named Peter, followed by the text :
'I'm going to show you this site and this post after we get together lol.'
The post belonged to a social media project where people could submit messages of what they wanted to say to someone but couldn't. A form of therapy, really, as the words you wanted to say are out in the world.
The message itself was ordinary, but something irked you about it.
The human brain is the size of two clenched fists placed together. Social media algorithms are based on the biological neural networks intrinsic to the brain. And just like that, something tells you you were the person who was behind this message. Call it a hunch or a sixth sense, something about the post just seemed... You, but you didn't know anyone named Peter, let alone had a crush on one.
Within minutes, you find yourself scrolling backwards in your gallery till you could find the plethora of memories from years ago.
You had always been an over thinker so you were sure that you had taken some evidence if you had submitted anything online.
Among several pictures with your friends at your last prom, you found what you were looking for. There was a slightly blurry picture of the same message on the forum's submission form just before you clicked submit.
Though you were happy that your intuition remained strong throughout the years, it still perplexed you as to how you had no memory of anyone named Peter in your life.
Was your memory really that bad?
You decide only one thing could really answer your questions — your journals. The habit had been ingrained in your brain since you were a child at the age of eight years old after seeing your mother's countless journals depicting her life since she was a teenager. Rushing towards your bedroom, your feet skims against the rug covered floor as you kneel down before your bed. Hovering your hand over the darkness, your fingers finally grip the cardboard edges of a box, dust fluttering in the air as it came to light.
This was your entire life in a box.
It contained several journals, decorated with stickers and labels, spanning from the age of eight to twenty two. After a brief search filled with your throat burning every time you coughed from coming close to the grey fragments, you finally found the journal you had been looking for — eighteen-year-old you's journal.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, you dust the cover before opening it to the first page.
Dear Diary,
It's my last first day of school ever again. Wohooo!!! No more school, and life is going to be perfect. Cass and I have similar classes, while Steph has only one class in common :( But we will meet during lunch.
I saw him again. He looked so cute today! We have our lockers opposite each other. He has the same classes as Cass and me.
Maybe I will talk to him this time.
xoxo
There was no mention of the boy's name, but you knew it had to be Peter from the earlier evidence. Maybe if you asked your friends, they'd remember the mysterious boy you had a crush on.
"Hey girls, do you remember if I had a crush on someone named Peter in high school?"
The sound of rustling papers drifts across the call, as you could only expect Cass to be working on her grad school applications.
"You did have a crush on someone," Cass emphasizes, her voice sounding softer as if she had kept her phone beside her on the table while the sound of pen against paper returned. "But I don't think his name was Peter."
"Did we even have a Peter in school?" Steph asks, the sound of traffic permeating her voice.
"I don't think so," Cass murmurs.
"Besides, why are we talking about high school?" Stephanie pipes in, her breath laboured from probably running late to work.
"Just looked through some of my old journals."
A brief silence passes, occasionally interrupted by the honks from Steph's background. You were not sure whether what you saw was even true. Perhaps maybe it in fact was someone else. Maybe you did not know a boy named Peter.
"Are you okay?" Cass asks, her voice much louder than before.
"Yeah, I'm good. I just…" You sigh, gripping the edges of your journal. "I just feel like I know this person."
She hums.
"Maybe you should go by our school and ask Mr. Harrington. He'd probably know."
Evening sunlight breezes in through the open window. The curtains ruffle in the air just in time to see flashes of red swing past your apartment.
"Yeah, maybe I should."
Visiting your old high school when you're an adult ignites a sense of dread.
It wasn't that high school had been the worst experience, but it hadn't been kind either.
The walls remain unchanged, notice boards plastered with different yet the same posters. Students breeze through the hallways in groups while some embrace their own presence.
"Mr Harrington."
The man turns, chestnut hair neatly presented without a strand out of place as the similar circular glasses rested on his nose . He hadn't changed much except for a few new grey hairs muffled among the brown and slight permanent creases decorating his forehead.
He repeats your name in surprise before a smile curled on his lips. "What are you doing here, kid?"
"I can't visit my old high school again, Mr Harrington?" you ask, an eyebrow quirked.
"Well, of course not. You are free —"
"I'm joking. How have you been?"
He laughs, the same laugh that you grew up around during several meet-ups as part of being a member of the Academic Decathlon team.
"It's been the same honestly, except the kids — Hey," he replies before turning towards a student fighting with another in the hallway.
"So Mr Harrington, do you remember teaching anyone named Peter in the same class as mine?"
He frowns, his hand pinching at the centre of his glasses as lines formed between his brows.
"Does this Peter have a last name?" He looks at his watch.
"I don't know." You rub the back of your neck, heat crawling over your face.
"I don't remember teaching a Peter, but I can check in with the administrative office and let you know." He tugs his coat before looking at his watch again as his feet move unconscionably. "Nice to see you, kid."
Hours later, you receive a message from Mr Harrington about having found no records of a Peter existing in your class.
Dear Diary,
I spoke to him in the hallway. I was so shy I stuttered when he asked me whether Mr Rogers was coming to class. I'm so embarrassed, but that's okay because we are partners for an upcoming chemistry project!! YAY!!!
We are meeting tomorrow at Blue Token Cafe after school.
I'm nervous.
xoxo
The journal closes with a thud as you lean your head back against the wall. You had so many questions and not one answer to any of them.
Who was Peter? Why couldn't you remember someone from five years ago who clearly impacted you so much? Why was there no record of a Peter in school?
Did you even send the confession?
But you knew you did.
You had proof.
Right now, all you could do was trust yourself and hope you would find the Peter you were so in love with.
The cafe, as the name had suggested, was very Blue.
Blue colored walls paired with light blue chairs and tabletops. It was the same as years ago when you frequented it for coffee.
A high-pitched voice called your name from behind the counter — Ms. Marisol, the owner. She had been kind enough to lend you and many other students free coffee while running on mere pennies for the school year.
"Oh my darling, how have you been?"
"I'm so sorry for not visiting as frequently." You give her a tight hug, her smile lighting up the entire place.
"No worries." She swiftly ushers you to a nearby table. "I know how busy life can get as a young adult. Now, let me get you your favourite coffee and blueberry cheesecake first."
Before you could stop her, Ms. Marisol was already grabbing a coffee cup. A small laugh escapes your lips before you close your eyes, dropping your head down on your hands.
The smell of roasted coffee beans wafts through the air. It makes you ache for a time you wish you could return to. As memories of high school tread past behind your eyelids, a flash of sparkling brown eyes makes you blink.
Those eyes.
So full of life.
You knew them.
The smell of hot coffee and the scent of slight citrus hangs in the air as she brings to you the delicacies.
"So tell me, what have I missed?"
Thirty minutes pass by as you tell her all bout college, your courses and some stuck up professors, finally ending it with your current job. Ms. Marisol's son was now in London, working and engaged to his longtime girlfriend.
"Ms Marisol, do you ever remember a Peter from back then?"
"Peter…Peter…Peter," She repeats, eyebrows scrunched. “No, darling. Did he visit regularly?"
"I….I don't know…" You sigh, rubbing your forehead. "But thank you, Ms. Marisol. I need to get back to work now."
She pats your shoulder, squeezing it slightly with a smile that only ever meant good wishes.
"Don't forget to come to the wedding!"
Dear Diary,
I visited his home and met his aunt,May. She's sooo pretty and kind. And the food was amazing.
Peter's room was messy, but you know the right kind of messy (and nerdy)
We looked at each other at one point, fingers touching.
Does he like me too?
Nah.
After I left his home, there was a huge accident, and Spiderman saved me from being crushed under a car. His voice reminded me of someone.
I hope I see him again.
xoxo
You didn't remember visiting his house or meeting his aunt, but you did remember Spiderman saving you.
It had been your first time meeting the neighborhood's hero. He had swung you that day among crashing debris to a rooftop, miles from the spot.
"Hey, you okay?" Spider-Man asks as he sets you down.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," you murmur, holding your head in your hands before a smile breaks out on your face. " That was amazing."
He chuckles, and it reminds you of someone who had uttered the brief sound just hours earlier, but before you could ask anything, he swings across to the next building.
You swear he turns mid-swing.
You wished traffic didn't exist.
It was already close to nine in the morning, and you had missed your regular coffee, which had made you even grumpier than usual. Deciding to take a shortcut that you had never really taken in the past, you run towards your office.
Fifteen minutes from your home, an intersection comes into view — one that you had never really seen before. But something makes you stop.
Delmar's Deli-Grocery
It looked like a regular bodega, but something in you urged you to go in.
The door opens with a clink.
A man in his late fifties stands behind the counter. There aren't a lot of customers as he continues to read the newspaper. You were hungry from not having breakfast; you could use something here, still not sure what had made you visit despite being late. Looking around, you spot a sandwich on the menu.
"Sandwich with pickles, please," you say to the man before the following words slip out like practice, "Can you mush it down real flat? Thank you."
It felt odd, like you were reciting back a suggestion from someone, but you don't remember who it was.
"Reminds me of someone," the man mutters, flicking the newspaper.
Your heart thuds as you ask him, "Yeah, who?"
"I don't remember. But I know he had an Italian Aunt. May something," He pauses, watching you over the borders of the paper, "May... May Parker, I think."
Maybe if you could find aunt May using her last name, you might finally be able to know who this peter was.
Aunt May had passed four years ago.
After a brief amount of research, there was no mention of any relatives of hers. Maybe this was all just a weird, stupid dream you were going to forget about.
Deciding to pay your respects, you buy a bouquet of flowers from the nearby store and take the subway.
The cemetery is pretty empty other than a few people. You look around, trying to find her gravestone, when you see someone already by it.
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peter eating his college gf out while she studies! ⋆ 18+ (mdni)
“go on, baby,” peter sighs between your legs, patting the side of your thigh as a gesture to redirect your attention to your notebook. “you were studying so well.”
your notebook is clenched between your fingers, the quivering grip you have on the paper starting to loosen and tighten at the same time. through your window you can see the moonlight starting to leak between the skyscrapers.
the underlined words — something that has to do with quantum physics — start to blur, and one shaky hand snakes into your boyfriend’s hair, trying to still the push and pull of his face between your thighs. “peter— uhm—”
“hm?” the brunet mumbles, the timbre of his voice vibrating through you. his lips are greased with your slick, dripping all over his chin. his eyes are set in a pussy-drunk gaze as he looks up at you, tongue rolling over your clit with gentle, yet tormenting stripes as he looks at you. “focus, baby.”
“the maximum kinetic energy—” you start to speak, your voice breathy and light as you feel peter’s tongue push into your entrance. a single, glycerine tear awaits to escape when you feel his tongue poke at your clit.
you look down and— it looks like he’s enjoying it more than you. he pushes his face further into your pussy, his cheeks against the insides of your thighs. all your thoughts are snuffed out, turned into meaningless dust when the sticky sounds of your juices cloying against peter’s tongue travel through the room. “oh my— peter—”
“y’were talkin’ about kinetic energy, right?” he ignores you, his lips closing around your pulsing bud before he gently sucks. it makes you jolt, ecstasy coursing through your veins. “tell me more, baby.”
“fuck—” you say one more time, eyes on the verge of fluttering shut as they roam over the ruled page. you can’t even register anything, read anything, understand anything you’ve written down. “something with… mass and velocity—”
you can feel a wet patch starting to form under you, peter’s sweaty hair sticking to the crease of your thighs. “reduced planck consta—” you trail off when peter moans into you. “can’t think, peter, seriously—”
with the tantalising slide of his tongue between your folds, his hot mouth on you, how the fuck are you supposed to focus on your crappy notes?
“d’awwh, c’mon beautiful,” peter mumbles, still not letting up the wet strokes of his tongue, his lips try to suck all of your juices up between his words, “know y’have it in you. always so smart f’me—” his warmer hand soothingly slides over the side of your thigh.
an excited glint in your boyfriend’s eyes twinkles back at you. “again— what about kinetic energy?”
a/n: drop reqs in my inbox and i’ll get to them after my vacation? 🤧
About: As a nurse, nothing really fazes you. You've seen it all, but seeing the Punisher carrying in an unconscious Spider-Man? Well, maybe you haven't seen everything. Or Peter thinks you're cute while you're concerned for his elevated heartbeat.
Pairing: Peter Parker x Fem!Nurse!Reader
Warnings: MINOR SPOILERS FOR SPIDER-MAN: BND, Frank being Frank, possible inaccurate medical terms, fluff, MJ and Ned make an appearance, barely any use of y/n, and not edited.
WC: 2K
Author's Note: My writing inspiration has come back, all thanks to Peter Parker :') I've missed Tom's Spider-Man so much, and the movie was 100/10. I've already got tickets to the movie again.
Masterlist II Peter Parker Masterlist
dividers: @/saradika-graphics @/strangergraphics
"So, what's he like? What are they both like?" Your co-worker Mila has been hounding you all night with questions about your patient in 301.
"Mila," you hiss as a group of doctors and interns pass by the nurses' station.
"What?" she whines out, still draped over the counter as she watches you log some medical information into the computer. "Do you think you'll have to sign an NDA? I mean, if it's really him?"
"Him, who?" you distractedly ask as you finally meet her inquisitive gaze.
She heaves a sigh before looking around, making sure there are no prying ears. She leans in closer to you and whispers, "Spider-Man."
You try not to roll your eyes. "You're still on about that? It's been about a week."
"Oh, please. Stop acting like it's no big deal," she counters.
"It's not-"
"Lies. C'mon, when's the last time we had anything exciting happen around here?"
You shrug. "I mean, we're the night shift. We see a lot of weird stuff."
She dismisses your words with a wave of her hand. "Psh. Rashes and removing inanimate objects from noses and butts is a typical slow night for us."
"Great, you've jinxed us," you joke as you stand to stretch your legs. As you do so, you can't help but look down the hall on the left towards room 301.
You still can't believe it's been almost a week since Spider-Man's unexpected arrival. Since then, the hospital has been in an uproar. The floor he's on has been pretty much on lockdown. Surprisingly, there are no cops camped outside Spider-Man's door, but you're pretty sure it's because of the Punisher himself, who's become a permanent fixture inside the hospital room. Along with the silent vigil of Spider-Man fans and reporters outside the hospital.
Just you, Dr. Weaver, who's been assigned to Spider-Man's room, and the day nurse have clearance. You're not even sure if it's official clearance or Frank Castle's. So far, no New Avengers have been in the hospital to check in on Spider-Man.
"Is the Punisher actually scary looking up close?" Mila muses as she stares at the same room you've been thinking about all night.
This time you do roll your eyes. "Mila, you've seen Frank Castle on the news. It's not like he hides his face."
"Yeah, but he's always glaring or covered in blood and yelling."
Mila's not wrong there. The first time you interacted with Frank Castle, he almost gave you a heart attack. It was the second night, 2:15 a.m., and you were doing your rounds. You saved Spider-Man's room for last. All you had to do was check his vitals and see if he'd woken up.
When you first walked in, the room was empty, except for the unconscious superhero. If you weren't at Dr. Weaver's side that first night, you wouldn't have believed it was Spider-Man himself.
As you move closer, you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest and the steady beeping coming from the heart monitor. You give a sigh of relief. Honestly, the first night was touch-and-go with him. He had lost a lot of blood, and Dr. Weaver wasn't sure what other injuries Spider-Man had sustained. Frank mentioned something about the Hulk and Spider-Man going at it at the DODC building that same day.
You can't help but wonder how he's still alive. Maybe it's the spider DNA running through his body or his suit? You move next to the bed, reaching out to grab the empty IV bag and replace it, when a gravely low voice directly behind you causes you to jump and almost drop the new bag.
"What are you doing?"
Spinning around, you see Frank Castle at the foot of the bed. Even in civilian clothing, he's intimidating. Eyes intense, locked on your figure and face, void of any emotion. You do notice, due to your staring at him, that his eyes briefly move towards the bed and then back to you in a flash.
"I-I-uh," you stumble over your words, completely caught off guard. It was well past visiting hours, and you didn't expect Frank to still be there. Instead, you raise the IV bag so he can see you mean no harm to his friend.
His eyes furrow as he takes in your face, and then his gaze drops to your nurse's badge pinned to your front pocket.
"You're not the nurse from earlier." He moves a little closer to you, and you can't help but tense.
"Uh... yeah, I'm the night nurse. Ian will be back at 8," you say, finally finding your voice, and you point to the badge even though he's already seen it.
His gaze slightly softens, and his shoulders drop as he gives a slight nod and then moves to the chair that's on the other side of the bed. The next words out of his mouth surprise you.
"Sorry... didn't mean to startle you or anythin'. I'm just..." he trails off as if he's not sure what to say or he can't find the right words in that moment.
"I get it," you quickly say as you change out the IV bags. "You're just worried about your friend." Turning back, you see that Frank is carefully watching Peter's unconscious form. It's quiet for a moment, just the sound of the heart monitor beeping as you check the rest of Peter's vitals before jotting them down on his chart.
You're about to head out when Frank's voice stops you.
"He'll be okay." His voice is lower than before, and you're not sure if it's a question for you or if he's talking to himself.
Reassuring himself.
Again, you're not sure what to say. The next second, Frank looks up at you with a raised brow.
You muster a small smile. "Of course. His vitals are good," you reassure.
He doesn't say anything else, just nods as he settles back in his chair, crossing his arms. It looks like he's staying the night.
The sound of the call button brings you back to the present.
"Oh my god, it's his room," Mila excitedly breathes as she checks to see which room you're being called to.
"Mila," you lightly chastise as you push her back. "He's still a patient. Also, don't you need to do your rounds?"
She makes a face as she watches you head towards Peter's room. "You're no fun," she calls after you.
---
As you draw nearer to Peter's room, you hear some familiar voices floating down the hall. You met Ned and MJ the other night. Again, aside from the Spider-Man suit poking out of the patient bag and Frank's constant presence, it seems like a typical patient's room.
You pause in the doorway. Ned is by Peter's bed, showing him something on his phone. MJ and Frank are out of view, but you can hear them talking near the windowsill. You give a slight knock, alerting them to your presence.
"Hey," Peter says, immediately sitting up, hand going to his slight bed head.
"Hi," you reply, slightly uncertain as your eyes scan over him. MJ and Frank's conversation dies off as they spot you entering the room. "Visiting hours end soon," you gently remind Ned and MJ. You know Frank isn't leaving.
"Oh! Yeah, cool, no problem. We're heading out," Ned says, gesturing to MJ.
"Yeah, we'll be back tomorrow," MJ adds as she grabs her coat. She gives you a small smile as she passes you and heads out the door. Ned says something to Peter before grabbing his things and hurrying after MJ.
"Bye, Frank!" Ned says to the man who's currently staring out the window. "Bye, y/n," he adds as he passes you, and there's a teasing grin on his face as he says your name.
"Bye?" you barely get out, slightly confused and taken aback by that grin. You focus your attention back on Peter, who's messing with something in his hands. "So, what can I do for you?" you ask as you check his IV bag.
"Huh?" Peter replies, confused as he blinks up at you.
You can't help but smile. "You hit the call button."
"I did? Oh! Sorry, I uh didn't mean to. I guess I sat on the remote," Peter slightly rambles.
"Yeah, again." You hear Frank mutter from the window.
"Don't worry about it," you reply as you move closer to the bed and reach out, gently adjusting his pillows. Something you do out of habit with all your patients. "Happens all the time." Your arm brushes his shoulder, and there's a slight spike on the monitor.
You put on some gloves to check his bruised ribs. As your hands gently roam over his side, the monitor increases, and that alarms you.
You quickly pull back, scanning his body and face. "Are you still in pain?" you ask as you look at the monitor, still beeping away.
"Wh-what?" Peter slightly chokes out, trying to calm his heart.
"Didn't that happen last time you checked in on him?" Frank adds, and Peter shoots him a glare.
"Did it?" you muse, frowning slightly as you check his chart and the previous records of his monitor. Frank's right. Everything was fine during Ian's morning shift. But you do note his slightly elevated heart rate from last night during your rounds.
"It's nothing," Peter quickly reassures, reaching out to briefly touch your arm to get your attention away from his chart.
You look up, and Peter notices the worry and concern written across your face. "Maybe I should get Dr. Wea-"
"No! No, really, I'm fine," Peter cuts in, voice slightly raised.
You eye him and then reach out and touch his forehead with the back of your hand. Just by touch, he feels warm, but you're not sure if that's his natural body temperature or if he has an infection. You listen to Peter's persistent reassurance that he doesn't need Dr. Weaver as you continue to check his vitals. The constant semi-frantic beeping of the monitor still worries you.
"Peter," you gently cut in, your hand resting on his shoulder, and his rambling about how his body runs hot and there's no need to worry dies away at your touch. "I know your body heals faster, but still, maybe Dr. Weaver should-"
"No, no, really, I'm good. I can prove it to you." Peter is pushing back the blankets, and you quickly realize he's trying to get out of bed.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," you exclaim, pushing him back. "Stop moving so fast. You were literally knocking on death's doorstep a few days ago."
"That's a bit dramatic," he teases, still trying to get out of bed.
"It's on me if you collapse on the floor," you counter.
"Eh, she's got a point," Frank says, watching you two. "That Grey girl was basically keeping you alive the whole time you were unconscious."
"Frank, seriously. Like I keep saying, I'm fine. Go home-"
"The only way I'm leaving is if you force me out-"
"Don't think I can't. Just because you shot me-"
"Seriously? You're gonna hold that over my head? I was literally aiming for the girl, and you decided to pull some hero bullshit-"
"I'm not holding it over your head, Frank! I'm just saying-"
"Yeah? Let me tell you something, kid-"
"Guys!" you interject while simultaneously trying to push a standing Peter back on his bed. Their whole partnership... friendship? Was giving you a headache. A moment they're having a heart-to-heart, and next they're at each other's throats.
Peter's heartbeat slowly dies down as the monitor does. "Sorry," Peter sheepishly says, sitting down.
"You guys can go back to arguing, or whatever it is you two do once you're out of the hospital." You point a finger at Peter, who just stares up at you.
Frank mutters something under his breath and goes back to staring out the window. The rest of Peter's checkup goes smoothly.
"So, same time tomorrow night?" Peter jokes.
You grin. "It's a date."
The sound of the heart monitor picks up, and you eye it before looking back to Peter.
"Don't think I won't mention your heart rate to Dr. Weaver."
"Oh, come on-"
"Nope," you firmly say as you head out of the room.
"Maybe it's the machine," Peter calls after you.
Frank snorts. "Right, the machine. So, what's the reason for the red face every time she comes in?"
"Shut up."
A/N: I dunno how I feel about this. It's been SO long since I've written anything, but now that my writing inspiration is back, I have several more Peter fics in the works (:
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Peter relives his relationship with you via voicemails you've left him over the years.
Wc: 2.5k
Warnings: angst, fluff, crying, kissing, implied bisexual reader, illusions to suicide, lonliness, depression, pain, suffering and regret.
3.12.16 7:43am
“Hi buddy, it's Ned, just wanted to let you know I have an amazing plan. Okay. It's amazing. So you know how we have that chemistry project coming up? And we conveniently aren't allowed to be together? Well I was doing some thinking… I know. Me, thinking ha - ha im saying it because I know you're thinking it. Well, game plan. You ask that girl okay. Be nonchalant. Just turn around all suave and ask. ‘Hey, do you wanna be my partner? You're super beautiful by the way. Did it hurt when - i jest haha, don't do too much though. The lady might be put off.”
His laughter drones off until he hears the beep of the message ending. Peter Parker tugs his pillow closer to his chest, propping his arm up to relieve the pressure from the aching beneath his ribs. He clicks to play the next one.
3.12.16 12:33pm
“Hi Peter, I don't know how I haven't managed to catch you today, have you even come into school? Are you hiding in case I bring shame upon you and your lineage? Are you hiding in your locker perhaps -” the sound of crashing lockers is heard in the background as he swings one open. “- Perhaps not. Fear not my dear friend. Ned the noble has got you covered. I've sorted it all out. For what is a Frodo Baggins without his Samwise. I riddle you that.”
His analogy still makes Peter laugh, but it's cut short by the stabbing pain in his side. He takes a deep breath trying to relax the muscles. His fingers hover over the next one, wondering if he should even play it.
03.12.16 4:32pm
"Hi, hello um, this is so awkward -" you clear your throat, "Ned gave me your number? Something about not being allowed to be partnered together for chem? But anyway he said you didn't have a partner, and I don't either soooo yeah. Could you ring me back to confirm a time to work on that project? Umm unless you don't want to - or if you had another plan. Just let me knowww."
Your voice crackles through his speakers. A lilt of awkwardness ringing clear through the air, or perhaps a hint of regret the further you commit to the voicemail.
Peter lies in the darkness, eyes squinting at his screen. The busy streets of New York traffic still bustling into the early hours of the morning. He focuses on the date to the voicemail.
He thinks of a time, back when all he worried about was not getting his homework in on time - or remembering every item off of Aunt May's grocery list for the dinner she would make in the evening. He remembers her smile, and the soreness of his cheeks when she'd pinch them as a boy. He catches himself grinning into the screen, before he drops it, focusing on the split lip he sports in the reflection.
She really liked you, too. As soon as she'd met you, her hands clasped yours, delighted he'd made a new friend. Or just a chem partner he'd insisted at the time. But she was delighted none the less. You smiled at her, all teeth and creased eyelids, whilst she bombarded you with questions.
Peter remembers how embarrassed he was, cheeks flushed whilst he rolled his eyes at Aunt May's antics trying to pull you away from the woman's grasp. “Alright. Alright. I'll leave you two lovebirds to it " -” she waves her finger at him, but you are finding it all gloriously entertaining - and Aunt May is loving it.
“I was young once too. It's hard to believe - I know -” she throws her arms in the air in mock desperation.
“You still look young Miss Parker!” you giggle out.
“Thank you - what a lovely girl you've brought home to me Peter. Will she be staying?”
“It's just a chemistry project. Aunt May.”
“Is that what we are calling it nowadays? Well I'll leave you guys alone then. To your chemistry.”
God he missed you both.
He regrets all those times he was embarrassed of her, pushing her away instead of pulling her closer into his arms.
01.02.17 6:01pm
“Hi Peter! Ned and I were wondering if you wanted to rewatch that film you like. Umm, Back to the future? The one where he tries to bang his mom? Or she tries - I'm talking about the right film, right? Well. I guess we will find out - I mean, if my mom was Lea Thompson -” you pause, holding back your laugh, wondering if that was too inappropriate.
Peter's lip catches between his teeth, holding back a snort.
“Well just ring me back, or don't. We are on our way. To watch Back To The Future. On your television. Be there or be square. Bye!”
Peter remembers this movie night. Of course he does.
1.02.17 6:32pm
“Hey, last minute change, Ned apparently can't come - ummm, something to do with not feeling very well and not being able to leave the bathroom. Apparently it's nuclear. I don't want to know what that means.” A silence fills the room whilst you think of what to say next. “I hope he's okay. Is it okay if it's just me that comes? It won't be awkward, right? We could just take a rain check. I don't mind. Call me back when you can.”
He remembers ringing back instantly, adamant that you had to come. He didn't want the snacks you'd bought to go to waste after all. Also, he'd already vacuumed the floor twice, and straightened the couch cushions so it would be a shame for it not to be used. He told himself that was the reason, and not that he desperately, so desperately just wanted you all to himself.
02.03.17 01:05am
“Hi Peter, look - I had a really nice time tonight. Like, really nice. I'd like to do it again sometime if you're cool with that?” He can hear your smile whilst you speak, he can picture your cheeks straining, lips pressed against your teeth. He can imagine you, totally oblivious to the strangers who pass you whilst you giggle down the phone. As if nothing can touch you, your energy overflowing out and being felt across New York. “I don't know what overcame me. I can't believe I kissed you. Peter Parker. You have bewitched me. Body and soul.” You laugh to try to cover your embarrassment. “Maybe that's too much. Well, just get back to me when you can, maybe you are sleeping. It is late...”
He recalls just lying in his bed, silent. Much like he is now, but instead of an empty pit of loneliness, it was a growing ball of warm light that reached the tips of his toes and all the way to the tips of his ears.
He wished he'd walked you home, reaching a hand out to meet yours. Why didn't he do it? To wonder what it would be like to knock your shoulders together one last time, or the simple gesture of offering you his coat, zipping it up to your chin in the cold winter months, his warm hands cupping your face - dusting off the snow.
He remembers the way your body shifted closer to him that night, the heat gathering between you both without either of you noticing. The warmth that filled him inside and out, glowed bright within him. He remembers the look in your eyes, the way you looked at his lips and the feeling of them pressed against your own. Your hands lay idly in your lap, uncertain of where to put them, both of you exploring uncharted territory.
Peter's hands reach up, pressing his fingers against his own cracked lips, dried blood coating them. If only you could see him now.
He continues scrolling on his phone looking for the next one, not paying attention to the clock warning him of the time.
The voicemails are far and few between now. Gaps between months turning into years. He figures he must have begun deleting them once he deemed them no longer relevant. Curse past Peter. What was he thinking? How could anything from you not be relevant? Damn it. The guilt eats away at him, pooling in his stomach.
02.10.18 4:02pm
“Hi baby, can't believe it's been one year. I still can't fathom that you are my boyfriend.” You whisper the word, worried that someone overhearing you could just reach over and steal that word from you. “I love you sooooo much. Have you had a good day? I picked up that sandwich you like from the deli… with the pickles?” You question him, but don't expect an answer. “Anyways I asked for it to be flat… but it might be a little bit extra flat now. Umm, yeah. Don't ask.”
He chuckles at your predicament, picturing you maybe accidentally crushing it at the bottom of your bag with your books. Some of them are still stacked at the side of his bed, curating a fine layer of dust from neglect.
The next voicemails are the worst. A slow cascade into loneliness once you realise that he's gone and he might not ever be coming back. To think you could have been celebrating your sixth year anniversary, rather than just the one - if only he had stayed and things had been different.
If he could go back he would. He'd tell you he was spider-man, about Tony Stark and saving you in Washington. He'd beg you to listen and to understand. You would have done it. He sees that now. He was just a foolish teenager then. He'd even give up spider-man for you, If that was what you wanted. He would marry you in a heartbeat, if it meant you'd stay with him forever.
You'd hold him in your arms and he'd never let you go.
06.14.18 7:21pm
6 missed calls
“Peter? I don't know what's happening - people seem to just be disappearing? I'm scared. I don't know where you are, okay? Could you just please get back to me. Now is not the time to not pick up. Please call me back when you get this, I love you.” Your voice is strained, holding back your tears. He can picture you bringing a sleeve up to wipe at your face, hands shaking whilst you put down the phone.
His face is wet now. He knew he shouldn't have looked at them. Not tonight. But sometimes it just feels so easy to slip into the habit of pretending you were still here. Pretending they were new voicemails and you'd be coming over soon, eager to press kisses against his face and listen to the sound of your laughter. He worries he might forget you if he doesn't, and he can't let himself become that person. A person that exists without you.
08.11.18 8:00pm
“Hi baby, I guess I'm still leaving voicemails for when you come back. Old habits die hard I suppose.” There's a long pause before you begin again. “Ned and Mj are gone too. I guess I don't know what I'm supposed to do. We had all these plans about college and now you're all gone - and I'm still here.”
You must have been so alone. For months.
01.15.19 8:34pm
“Hi Petey, school has been hard without my chem partner. A man came to visit me the other day. Happy, I think his name was. Which was strange because he didn't seem very happy. More like grumpy ha-ha.” You chuckle to yourself, but it falls flat. “Anyways, he said he was a friend of Aunt May's and he told me what you'd been doing. How I deserved to know or something along those lines.”
“I just wish you'd told me. How long were you going to keep it from me? A few more years? Forever? It's fine, it doesn't matter right now. We can still work through this…what am I even saying right now.”
06.23.19 9:05pm
“Hi Peter, it feels like I haven't seen you in a while… I love you, I hope you know that.” Your voice sounds defeated, unsure of the next steps to take. “I've been busy, recently. Or for a while now. Just trying to get out there and not spend too much time inside. Does that make sense? New York is the city that never sleeps after all!” Your laugh is forced and awkward. “I just wish you'd told us what was happening.”
He remembers the first thing he did when he came back was look for you. But he couldn't find you. He remembers crying the first time he listened to these ones. Holding his breath whilst laying above the Manhattan cityscape. Hot wet tears pool beneath his irises, even now, so many years later.
He can hear the traffic rushing behind you, whilst you bite your lip between your teeth, mind running through the words to say. “I'm sorry you had to do this alone.. is what I'm trying to say. I just thought that.. I guess maybe I don't know you as well as I thought I did.” He can tell maybe you had more to say but the words die on your tongue and you end the voicemail.
His hands begin to shake, drawing in a shaky breath, and a sharp exhale through his nose. He counts in his head up to 10, holding the breath. Wondering for how long he could hold it for, and if it would be nice to just stop for a while. But he didn't deserve to stop, not after what he had done. He deserved to carry the burden. This responsibility.
12.05.22 2:03am
“Hi Peter. I think this might be the last one I do. I just worry that, now so much time has passed, if you do come back - I'll be different. I'll have changed so much that you won't recognise me anymore and I might not be the same girl you fell in love with back then.” Your voice is older, less naive, but still you. “I love you Peter and I've never stopped loving you. But I just can't do this anymore. Okay? This is it. I love you, bye.”
The silence fills his bedroom. His fists clench whilst he holds back from punching his headboard. He wants to scream and scream - plead for you to come back to him. The tears fall down onto his pillow, seeping into the cotton and staining it with salt.
But now, he's older than you were when you left.
A/n the real question is who is paying for Peter Parkers phone bill this whole time.
Taglist: @parkrsdoll ik this isn't smut and its pretty long lol but no pressure to read it all!!
iris⠀／⠀peter parker
happy birthday, spidey! peter comes home late at midnight after a long day of spider-ing to find you waiting in bed for him with cuddles, kisses, and birthday wishes.
another late night. peter swings from web to web, taking in the cold air of new york as the breeze chills his skin right through his spider-man suit. it had been a long, exhausting day. but the fatigue dissipates at the thought of coming home to you. buildings fly by, blending into a blurry landscape of scattered bright flecks among the dark horizon.
eventually, his bedroom window comes into view, left open just a crack for him. peter flexes his wrist, shooting a web to catapult himself through the frame with practiced ease. on the nightstand, the digital clock blinks to midnight. he’s made it. it’s august 10th.
he slides the window shut, muting the cool winds of queens. instantly, the room wraps him in a quiet tranquility only associated with you. his gaze softens as it lands on the bed. you’re carelessly sprawled under the covers, completely buried in one of his oversized midtown high hoodies. no matter how many times he comes home to find you in his room—your room, since you've moved in—his heart does a quiet, happy flip.
he plops his bag on the floor, and the soft thud catches your attention.
"peter?" the way you sleepily coo his name falls from your tongue like a spell. a sudden timid warmth creeps up peter's neck. he feels like a criminal being caught red handed, rather than a boy coming home to his person. he carefully treads to the side of the bed, dropping to his knees to be closer to you.
"uh-huh?" he hums, his voice barely above a whisper.
your arm lazily emerges from out of the plush covers and tugs weakly at his synthetic suit. "'wanna see your face." you mumble and squint your eyes at him with a pout of disapproval due to seeing spider-man, rather than peter parker.
peter gladly obliges, slipping off his mask in one swift motion, his brown curls tossed free. the familiar article is left strewn across the floor, waiting to be tidied up later, because all that matters now is the careless, lazy smile tugging at your lips. finally, eye to eye.
"happy birthday, peter." the words spill from your lips as gentle as can be. in the same instant, your fingers card through his hair, gaining purchase on his brown curls to draw his face closer to yours. assuming you're leaning in to kiss him, peter expectantly closes his eyes and parts his lips—but all he's met with is a quiet giggle, warm against his cheek.
oh. embarrassing.
you clear your throat to stifle your laughter. "pfft, sorry petey. that—that's just too cute." peter furrows his brows, though a flush paints his cheeks. he isn't annoyed—far from it. whenever you get giggly because he's done something you find endearing that he finds embarrassing, it completely undoes him. he loves the way you look at him whenever he nerds out, laughing under your breath only after he's finished talking.
"uh-huh," he grumbles, letting his forehead face-plant directly into the soft mattress in front of you. with how delirious he is from exhaustion, he could honestly fall asleep like this—on the floor.
but then, you press a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of his head. the gentle touch snaps him out of his faux moping. peter flicks his head up, brown eyes wide and staring into yours.
"now you kiss me?" he pouts, brows furrowed in a childlike manner.
your smile widens. "yup. for motivation, so you can change n' get in bed with me."
get in bed with you. that's certainly motivating.
peter is struck with a newfound sense of urgency. trying to be as quick as possible, though stumbling through his fatigue, he scrambles to the dresser. he shuffles through the drawers, snagging a random pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, which sports a graphic from your favorite film. as he wrestles to get his suit off, he catches you watching him with that frustratingly fond look of yours. it makes his hands clumsy. the shirt gets momentarily stuck on his head, and his foot tangles in the leg of his sweatpants. he wants to blame it on his fried brain, because it's too embarrassing to admit that is the sort of effect you have on him.
finally dressed in soft cotton, peter walks back over and stands by the edge of the mattress. a spark of mischief shines in his eyes, causing an expression of mock suspicion to cross your face.
"don't you dare," you scold gently. "i mean it, peter."
you don’t mean it at all. he can tell by the way the corners of your mouth curve up, and by the fact that you’re already lifting the heavy comforter, inviting him in.
and so, accepting the invitation, peter flops directly on top of you. he sinks into your space, his weight and muscle serving as a weighted blanket. though really, it's a massive weight that might crush your bones—but the first option is far more romantic.
a soft huff of air leaves your lungs at the impact. "shithead…" you murmur, "told you not to… heavy as hell…" the rest of what you say becomes indiscernible to peter, your dramatics cut off by the peppering of lazy kisses on his face.
as you pull the blankets securely over the both of you, your arms snake around his back, sliding under his shirt to rest against the warm skin of his waist. peter melts. he's always loved your unspoken honesty—the way your body language gives away what you're thinking when you feign annoyance. peter embraces you tighter.
but with his head nuzzled safely in the crook of your neck, a realization dawns upon him.
"were you waiting for me?" peter asks softly, his warm breath fanning against your neck.
all he gets is a withdrawn grumble against his hair.
you were waiting for him. probably just to be the first person to wish him a happy birthday. the thought brings upon a sudden, overwhelming wave of affection. peter considers himself lucky that you cant see the pink heating his face. ultimately, he decides against teasing you, and instead plants a kiss on your neck, burying his burning face even deeper in its curve. god, he loves you.
"you totally were." he whispers into your skin. the comment isn't a vaunt, but rather a quiet reassurance for his own heart.
and despite your coy behavior from before, you let out a susurrated, "mhm."
peter closes his eyes, his breathing falling in line with the gentle, steady rhythm of yours. he was finally home. and when he woke up, you'd make him fall in love all over again.
surely with you, next year's birthday will be just as perfect.
slowly training myself to write softer scenes better because my amazing sarcasm and wit tends to peek through my fanfics (jokes)... i WILL do better. also this is #notproofread and i mean to post it on his birthday (aug 10th) but i didnt, because i spent so long working on it that it became august 11th..
「 MCU 」 𓂃 ★ peter parker guesses the flavor of your chapstick . ★ genre / themes 𓂃 kissing ˶ fluff ˶ established rs ˶ drabble ˶ sfw .
peter is currently horizontal on your bed, which is a position he finds himself in more often than he’d like to admit these days. one of your pillows is half under his head, the other is being slowly crushed under his shoulder, and you’re sitting cross-legged beside him with that little tube of chapstick still in your hand, ensuring that the label is covered by two of your fingers.
“guess the flavour,” you’d said, like it was some big challenge and not just a flimsy excuse to get his mouth on yours.
he’s already on his third try.
he leans up, catches the back of your neck with one hand, and kisses you slow. not the polite kind of kiss. nah, he’s past that. it’s the kind where he licks across the seam of your lips first, tastes the sweetness of the flavor there, then does it again because he’s above pretending he doesn’t want to. your mouth opens under his and he takes the invitation, tongue dragging lightly over your bottom lip before he deepens it. he stays there longer than necessary, just feeling the way you melt a little more against him with each kiss.
when he finally pulls back it’s only far enough to murmur against your mouth.
“…strawberry?”
you huff a laugh. “wrong.”
he knows. he knew the second he tasted it. it’s not strawberry. but admitting that would end the game, and peter is many things but he is not a man who willingly ends a good thing early.
so he goes for it again.
this time he doesn’t even pretend to be efficient about it. he tilts your chin, licks into the corner of your mouth, traces the soft curve of your upper lip with the tip of his tongue like he’s mapping it. the chapstick is still there, faintly sweet and a little sticky, and he chases it until you’re making that quiet sound in the back of your throat that always does something stupid to his heart (dick). he kisses you properly after that, deep and unhurried, one hand sliding up into your hair just so he can keep you close a second longer.
when your lips break apart this time his voice is just a tiny rougher. kissing you doesn’t come without side effects after all.
“cherry?”
“peter.”
“what? it’s a fair guess.”
you’re smiling that soft, knowing smile that means you’ve already clocked exactly what he’s doing. he doesn’t care. he leans in for a fifth time before you can call him on it, licking over your lips again but it’s a bit slower this time, like he’s making an effort (no, he’s not). the flavour is something warm and a little tropical, maybe mango, maybe something else entirely, but the exact answer is less important than the way your breath hitches when his tongue sweeps across your bottom lip once more and his teeth dig in just a little bit, tugging as he pulls back.
when he does, it’s just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“coconut?”
you laugh under your breath, the sound warm against his mouth. “you’re so doing this on purpose.”
“nu uh. i am not,” he lies, already leaning in again with that stupid smile on his face. the one you love oh so very much. “scientific method. gotta be thorough.”
his next kiss is even less subtle. he licks into your mouth properly this time, slow and deliberate, tasting the last traces of the chapstick like it’s the only thing that matters. one of his hands finds your waist, thumb stroking idle circles over the soft fabric of your shirt. he leans you back into the bed so you’re on your back and he’s only slightly above you. his hand moves further into the back of your head, fingers only lightly gripping the hair there. he doesn’t pull away until his lungs start complaining, and even then he only goes far enough to brush another soft lick across your lower lip.
“…passionfruit?”
you’re laughing properly now, pushing lightly at his chest even as you lean into him. “it’s mango. you suck at this game.”
peter makes a thoughtful noise, like he’s considering the data. then he leans down anyway, already angling for another kiss.
“huh. weird. i think i need one more sample just to be sure.”
thought of this concept while i was applying my mango chapstick earlier LMAO
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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Spider-man x Fem!Reader Oneshot
Summary When a flash flood has Spider-man seeking shelter, he winds up on your fire escape.
W.C. 6k
Tags No use of y/n for reader insert, explicit smut, mask stays on until it doesn't, strangers to lovers, thigh riding, oral (mostly just m receiving), unprotected p in v, doggy, just absolutely unrealistic escalation of events I need you to stick with me on this, mock flirting, calling him fucking spider-man the entire fic bc reader doesn't know who he is I'm sorry it is a little annoying, anywayyyy
Author’s Note does this happen before or after bnd I don't know but I do know he's never looked more hot and miserable.
xoxo
Rain pelts the windows of your corner unit. Fat raindrops that seem to rush down faster with every gust of wind that runs through. The sky is dark and angry, a wall of clouds that makes it look nearly night outside.
These damn summer storms
It was perfectly sunny maybe thirty minutes ago. The dark clouds rolled in out of nowhere, and it wasn't long until the heavens just completely unleashed the worst storm of the summer on New York City.
You knew it was going to rain. But you didn't know it was going to rain like this.
You watch from the windows as the rain moves sideways, people on the streets below searching for any cover they can find from this flash flood. The trees flail like tissue paper, as if their trunks and branches are mere twigs, thunder shaking your building as the storm moves closer and closer.
You slide a pizza into the oven, having decided that there was no way you were getting takeout in this weather. Music is playing low in the living room, lights illuminating your apartment in a soft glow. It’s just lucky that you were ready to stay home at this point and had no intention of leaving your apartment any time soon.
There’s a soft thud at the window outside your living room. For a moment, you think it’s nothing. Just something blowing against the wind or a trick of your imagination. But when you move into the next room, you see a flash of bright red and blue out of the corner of your eye. You blink and see someone hunched over on your fire escape. Not just someone.
It takes a second for you to process that this is real. You move quickly, pulling at the windowpane.
Spider-Man nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden noise. You finally pry your window open, water splashing inside with every rain drop.
“Hey,” he waves awkwardly. “Can I borrow your fire escape for a minute? It’s not exactly prime swinging conditions.”
“Get in here!” you wave him inside, trying to make your voice carry over the storm.
“S’okay!” Spider-Man shakes his head and holds his palms up towards you, “just waiting it out!”
You almost roll your eyes. “Come on, wait it out inside!”
Spider-Man hesitates. Cocks his head to the side slightly and considers you.
“Preferably before my apartment also gets soaked!” you add.
“Right, sorry,” Spider-man shakes his head. He slips inside.
You move to shut the window, but it has a tendency to stick. Old building and all that. Slightly embarrassed, you yank and yank, more raindrops blowing inside the longer the window stays open.
Spider-Man reaches over from behind you and, with one hand, carefully lowers the window with ease.
You turn around to see him, very much soaked and very much standing in your apartment.
“Thanks,” you smile, a little sheepishly. “It does that sometimes.”
“Don’t mention it.”
There’s a stretch of silence. Your brain slowly catches up to what your eyes are seeing. Spider-man is in your apartment. He’s in your apartment and he’s soaking wet. His suit is soaking wet and clinging to his body even more than usual and also dripping on your rug.
“Let me get you some clothes to change into,” you start for your bedroom.
“No, I’m fine, really,” Spider-Man shakes his head rapidly.
“I know, I know, you can leave the mask on,” you say. “But at least lay your suit out to dry. You’re getting water everywhere.”
“Oh,” he looks down, lifting his arms to see the wet puddle that’s accumulated by his feet. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you give a half smile. “Plus, you're literally shaking.”
“You really don’t have to-”
“I’m already doing it,” you call behind you, already on your way to your bedroom.
Once there’s some distance between you, you take a large, steadying breath. It doesn’t work, but at least you know your lungs still work. What the actual fuck were you thinking? Bringing Spider-man into your apartment and then pressuring him to take his suit off? He’s going to think you’re insane, or a pervert at the very least.
But he is actually shaking, probably drenched to the bone. It is the least you can do at this point.
You dig through your closet, looking for some old clothes that your ex left behind. A t-shirt, hoodie, anything.
“Here you go. I think these will fit you,” you come back, and Spider-man hasn’t moved an inch since you walked off. Probably too scared of getting water everywhere, which you appreciated. “Clothes that my ex left behind. I guess they came in handy. Bathroom is that way,” you point.
Spider-man gently takes the clothes from you. He looks down at the stack, then up at you. “Right. Yeah. Uhm. I’ll just, I’ll be right back.”
He emerges shortly after. T-shirt, cargo sweat pants, and his mask still on. You bite back a grin, but it just looks so funny. That grin is quickly wiped off your face when your eyes drift down, and you notice his arms. Spider-man is much…thicker than your ex-boyfriend, the short sleeves straining around his biceps and screenprinted design stretched against his chest.
You blink a few times, trying to get your head on right.
“May I?” you rise from the couch and hold your hands out, nodding at his suit. He reluctantly hands it to you.
You move your clothes hanger closer to the radiator and pin his suit to it, hopefully getting it warm and dry without ruining anything.
“Thanks,” Spider-man says, raising an arm to scratch awkwardly behind his head. “I knew it was going to rain, but I thought I could make it back before-”
A large crack of thunder shakes your apartment.
“Yeah,” you nod. “I get it.”
There’s another awkward stretch. You’re freaking out internally, and he’s not making this easy.
“I think my pizza’s about done,” you move to the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”
Spider-man meanders, almost following you but not really. “You don’t have to…” he starts, trailing off.
“If you’re going to say that every time I offer you something, you can save your breath.” You open the oven door and poke at the pizza, making sure the cheese is melted and the crust is crispy. “Besides, I’ve already made it. And I’m not eating this whole thing myself.”
Spider-man sighs, his head dropping down dramatically. “You’re right, sorry. I guess I’m just- I don’t want to impose.”
“Please,” you roll your eyes, “You’ve done enough for this city. Let someone take care of you for a change.”
He doesn’t react to that. At least, not verbally. You wish you could see his face. Not to know who he is- although you would be lying if you said you weren’t curious. But it’s almost impossible to understand him this way. His tone, how he takes what you're saying- you’re completely in the dark in this conversation. It’s freaking you out.
“Just, go sit down, or something,” you nod to the couch.
Spider-man turns on his heels. He’s clearly not comfortable letting someone do anything like this for him. Makes you wonder if he lives alone. He must, right? How difficult is it to balance both lives?
“Hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” Spider-man crosses his arms. It stretches the sleeves of the shirt even more. He uncrosses them, unsure of what to do with his hands.
You have to close your eyes for a second to collect yourself.
“Nope,” you say. “Just an exciting afternoon of trashy television and doomscrolling over pizza and wine. I’m sure you were doing much more important things when the storm hit.”
“Yes, absolutely,” he nods dramatically. “Super important, uh, super hero stuff. Top secret.”
You slide the pizza onto a cutting board, eyes flickering up to him.
“Yeah,” he sighs, “I was on my way to pick up a new lego set.”
That took no effort on your end, just a narrow gaze. It's almost like he was waiting to talk to someone about it.
You bite back a smile and nod, cutting the pizza into slices. “Yeah, that tracks.”
“What tracks?” Spider-man cocks his head to the side, taking a few steps closer.
“Nothing,” you shrug, “just that you would be hot and nerdy. You know?”
“You can’t even see my face,” he says. “How would you know if I’m hot?”
You open your mouth to respond, but your eyes fall on his arms again. On his torso. Heat floods your face and you rip your eyes away again, focusing on the task at hand.
“Yeah, you’re right,” you cough. “Just a guess.”
You pull plates from the cabinet behind you, cursing the fates that brought him into your apartment like this.
A bright light flashes through the sky, immediately followed by a crack of thunder. The eye of the storm has officially hit. You can feel it in the way your windows shudder and the raindrops come down harder and faster.
The lights surge and flicker. You hold your breath, hoping that the old wires in the building are stronger than they seem. Of course, they’re not, and everything goes dark.
“You’re joking,” you deadpan, running a hand over your face.
“You got any candles?” Spider-man tilts his head to the side.
“Uh, yeah, one sec,” you try to remember what you even have. Where they are.
Even with the ambient lighting from the street outside and the flashlight on your phone, you’re hopelessly clumsy looking for your small stash of candles. You feel around for the tealights in the cabinet in your kitchen, and the random taper candles you used for decoration at a dinner party.
“Hey,” Spider-man takes the candles from you. Not forcefully, but firmly enough that you don’t argue. “Let me. I can make my way around just fine.”
“Suddenly you have night vision?” you say, trying for a joke but not quite liking how it comes out.
“I’ve got good senses,” he says shrugs, setting up the candles around your living room.
You follow close behind, hanging on to the back of his shirt at one point when he starts walking over to the kitchen, worried that you’ll trip over a landmine, or your slippers. If he notices or minds, he doesn’t say anything.
Soon, your apartment is lit up with a gentle, amber glow. There aren't many candles, but it's enough to make your way around.
It’s annoyingly romantic, and doesn’t help the fact that your heart is already racing whenever Spider-man so much as looks your way.
“There,” you say, trying your hardest not to look at him. “All lit up. I mean. All- the candles- they’re-”
You sigh and close your eyes for a moment.
“At least this way you can eat without worrying if I can see your face,” you say, handing him a plate.
He takes it from you, your fingers brushing in a way that cannot be an accident. But you don’t know who’s fault it is. Yours or his. You swallow and take your own plate in your hands.
You both settle down on opposite sides of the couch. When Spider-man picks up a slice of pizza, you avert your eyes as he lifts his mask just enough to take a bite. Even though you can’t really make out the details of his face in this shitty candle light anyway, it feels respectful.
Rain continues to batter against your windows, and it feels all the more intense without power in the apartment.
“I’m not sure what we should even talk about,” you say in between bites. “It’s not like you can tell me where you’re from, what you do for work, what your favorite color is.”
“No,” he shrugs, “but you can tell me those things.”
“Titilating conversation,” you say, “I just talk your ear off for an hour straight.”
“This is the most I’ve talked to anyone in months,” he says, turning his head to take another bite of pizza. “Well, except for the people I'm fighting. But they don't usually like when I make conversation. And the police chief. And sometimes a few of the New Avengers. Or Frank-”
You stop eating and just look at him, taking it all in.
“Okay, so the most I’ve talked to a normal person,” he concedes.
“You don’t have like, I don’t know, a girlfriend?” you ask, super nonchalantly and not digging whatsoever. “Like a Mrs. Spider-man or something?”
He freezes and lets out a breath, biting back a laugh.
“No, there isn’t a Mrs. Spider-man,” he shakes his head.
“Pity,” you say.
It isn’t supposed to mean anything. You’re not even sure why you said it. It’s not like you think flirting with Spider-man will get you anywhere. It’s just the storm outside and the cozy candles inside and him in clothes that are obviously too tight and it’s all making you really…
Hot and bothered.
That’s it. That’s all it is. There’s a hot guy in your apartment and you're single and horny. Simple.
You clear your throat and set your empty plate on the coffee table.
“You’re nervous,” Spider-man says, cocking his head to the side a little. It’s not a question. It’s a fact. He says it calmly.
“Wh-what makes you say that?” you pull your legs in close.
“Am I making you nervous? I usually try to make people more comfortable. It’s kind of important, you know? I want people to trust me. Friendly neighbor and all that,” his voice is picking up speed the longer he goes on uninterrupted.
“Spidey,” you say.
He stops talking immediately.
“Thank you,” you nod, trying not to laugh. “I’m fine. Swear.”
“Well, I wouldn’t blame you. There is a masked vigilante in your living room,” he nods.
“You’re so focused on my comfort level, and yet you haven’t done anything to make me more comfortable?” you tease, leaning in closer.
He looks at you, face tilting downwards slightly. It’s the only thing letting you know that he’s looking down your shirt. Under which, you’re not wearing a bra. Because you are in the comfort of your own home and you were alone and didn’t realize you would have company or that said company would be Spider-man or that-
Your mouth is dry. His plate is stacked on top of yours. You clear your throat.
“You know any card games?” you say, pulling hair behind your ear. You go to stand up and he gently wraps a hand around your wrist, pulling you back down.
“You need to relax,” he says softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. Or do anything- I mean, anything that’s- if you don’t want-”
“You’re telling me to relax?” you bite your lip and settle over him, sitting on his thighs. Not quite his lap. Not yet.
Thunder claps outside again, and you jump slightly, moving closer to him. You're almost taken out of the moment. Out of your head.
“Yeah, I guess I am,” Spider-man nods at you. “Still jumpy.”
You just look at him for a minute. Look at the situation, where he has you right now. His hands are settled on the couch on either side. You lean down and take them in your own, turning them over and feeling how warm he is, the callouses on the pads of his fingers.
“Maybe we both need to relax,” you say softly.
Spider-man just watches as you slowly move his hands, letting you place them on your hips. You lean in, giving him time to push you away, to tell you this is a bad idea, or completely insane. But he doesn’t. You press a kiss to his forehead, feeling the warm, real man under the suit.
He goes soft under your touch. You shift over his slightly, sitting over one of his thighs.
“Your heart rate just spiked, yeah?” he says, voice low.
“You don’t say,” you reply.
He looks down, and in the dim glow of the candle light, you can just barely make out the wet spot you're leaving on his sweats, your sleep shorts doing nothing to protect you here.
“Shit,” you hiss softly. You move to get up, trying to put distance between you again. And again, he stops you. Hands planted firmly on top of your ass with his strength, you aren’t going anywhere.
“Don’t be embarrassed," he mutters. “You’re feeling needy?”
“Maybe a little,” you shrug.
Spider-man puts gentle pressure on your hips, moving you forward on his thigh. The feeling sends heat straight through you.
Surprised, you fall forward, holding yourself up against his shoulders.
“Don’t- please-” your voice is breathy and faint, losing the battle with your racing heart.
“Let go,” he says, moving your hips again. A small whine slips past your lips against your will, and you can feel his fingers dig in slightly. “I want to watch.”
Eventually, you let your hips move without his aide. Sliding up and down the length of his thigh, the friction against your clit sending sparks through your body. It feels good. And the lights are low and there’s a storm raging outside and nothing matters at this moment. There is nothing and no one else. Just you two, alone in your apartment.
You tilt your head back, breathing quickening, and close your eyes. You’ve committed to this. Committed to your pleasure.
Spider-man raises a tentative hand under your shirt, right at the top of your ribs. Without opening your eyes, you gently move his hand further up your shirt, leading him right to your breast. You inhale sharply as he twists your nipple, a slight moan escaping your lips.
“Feel good?” he mutters.
“Mhmm,” you nod, biting your lip, eyebrows creasing. You pick up the pace, grinding against his thigh with increasing desperation.
“You gonna come on my thigh babygirl? Yeah?” he teases you, pinching and twisting your nipple, pulling louder moans. He sits back and watches you move slowly back and forth, losing yourself in the feeling.
“Please,” you breathe.
In one fluid motion, your shirt is gone, discarded on the floor. You’re not even sure which one of you slid it over your head. But it’s gone, and your nipples are hard as his thumb grazes over them.
“Please what?” he says. “You’re the one in control here.”
You fall forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders and moving your hips out. It puts more contact on your clit, and you can feel your orgasm building closer and closer. You close your eyes, jaw slack as your pants turn into long, drawn out moans. His hands move around your ass, fingers spread wide. Not pulling, but holding you steady as you ride him.
Your orgasm washes over you, and bury your face into the crook of his neck as you ride it out on his thigh, still sliding against him as you come back down.
“Fuck,” you say, voice muffled by his shoulder. He lets you stay like that for a moment, thumbs moving back and forth over your ass as you find your breath again.
You shift in his lap to sit upright, your knee knocking against the obvious- and large- tent in his sweats.
Your eyes flick down and back up to his mask, taking your bottom lip in your teeth as you brush your knee against him again, this time on purpose.
Spider-man shudders under you.
“You don’t- ugh,” he bites back a groan.
“I told you earlier that you need to let people take care of you,” you slide off his lap, eyes flickering to the damp spot you left on his thigh.
You rub your hand over his covered bulge. He lays his head back against the couch, chest rising and falling steadily.
“You gonna do that?” his hand reaches out for your cheek. “You’re gonna take care of me?”
You slip your hands under the waistband of the sweats and pull out his hard cock, already slick at the tip and aching for you. You lean forward and drop a long string of saliva onto his cock, rubbing it around with your fingers and stroking him gently.
“When was the last time someone made you feel good, Spidey?” you whisper.
Spider-man drags a hand over his mask, his other hand twitching on the couch next to you.
You drag your tongue up his length before taking him completely in your mouth. Just a little, at first. Just enough to get a taste and hear him let out a long, low groan. You drop your moth around him, taking in as much as your throat will allow.
“Fuck,” he breathes, “you’re- you’re good at this.”
You pull your mouth off him with a wet pop and smile. “You deserve the best treatment, dontcha?”
“Well, I don’t know about- oh fuck,” he bites his word back as you slide your mouth over him again, opening your throat to take his cock as far back as you can. “That’s it, just like that,” he coos.
Head bobbing up and down, you can’t help but slide your fingers under your shorts. You slip over your clit, through your soaking pussy before sliding one finger inside.
“You touching yourself down there, baby?” he nods.
“Mmm,” you blink, looking at him through your lashes.
The vibration against his dick makes Spider-man groan. You can see the mask puff out slightly by his mouth, because he’s definitely panting.
“Fuck,” he lets out a frustated groan. “You’re touching yourself, I’m- I can’t-”
He pulls you up from the floor and just stands there with you. You think his eyes are taking you in- bare chest, tousled hair, sleep shorts hanging low on your hips- you can’t actually see his gaze, but you can feel his attention.
The candle light flickers around you, and his breath is so close, but so far away.
His cock bobs over the waistband of the sweats, and you reach out to pull the waistband down further, taking his underwear, too.
“You can fuck me,” you whisper, “if you want.”
“If I want?” he lets out a low breath, echoing your words with the hint of a laugh.
You pull at the hem of his borrowed t-shirt, peeling it off over his head, making sure not to accidentally pull on the mask. He lets you, raising his arms and tugging gently when the sleeve gets caught around his biceps.
There’s some faded bruising on his ribs that you can barely make out. Clearly, they’re from an old fight, and you bend down to press small kisses over each one, mouth moving up towards his chest. Your hand wraps around his dick, stroking gently as you make your way up to his neck.
“We don’t have to do anything else,” you say softly. “But just so you know, you can do whatever you want with me.”
He tilts his head back and lets out a low groan.
“Fuck, you can’t say that,” he says, voice gravelly.
“Why not?” you look up at him through your lashes.
Spider-man’s shoulders settle, his head tilts to the side. Just barely. You wish you could read his expression.
“Because I want to,” he says.
He seems to have made up his mind.
Spider-man takes you by the hand and folds you over the arm of the couch, pulling your ass in the air. He drags his hands up the backs of your thighs, gently pushing your legs apart.
“Don’t turn around, okay baby?” he says.
You nod.
“Okay?” a heavy hand comes down on your ass.
You yelp. “Okay! I won’t. I swear.”
“Good,” he breathes.
There’s some movement behind you, and in your periphery, you see his mask land on the coffee table. Spider-man takes his first unobstructed breath. A deep, low breath. You squirm under him, your neediness blooming within you.
He bends over you, pressing open, wet kisses along your back. His teeth grazing your skin every so often. Mouth warm and hungry, you didn’t realize how something so simple could make you feel so good.
“I’m gonna slide these off, is that okay?” he toys with the elastic waistband of your shorts.
“Yes,” you mewl, already breathless.
He moves your shorts down, exposing your pussy to the cold air. You shudder slightly as he moves his face closer, his breath making your cunt pulse in anticipation.
“Goddamn,” he breathes. He presses a few more kisses to your inner thighs, before dragging his tongue up through your cunt.
“Oh my god,” you groan. His tongue slides in and around you, savoring the taste of you, spending time on your sensitive clit.
“What’s got you so wet? Hm?” he says, his fingers pulling you apart just a little. “You this pent up over a little grinding?”
You bury your face in the couch cushion, heat rising in your cheeks. When he moves his mouth away, you immediately feel frustrated and needy again, validating his teasing words.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he mutters. “Be a good girl and remember what I said.”
You arch your back as his hands travel over you. Touching and grabbing every soft curve and plush fold. It’s enough to make your head spin.
“I promise. I promise, I’ll be good. I won’t turn around,” you plead.
“That’s it,” he says, voice low and appraising. “Thatta girl.”
It’s embarrassing how much the words run through you. Your body heats up, cheeks flush and skin prickly. The lack of air conditioning in your apartment is starting to have an effect, and there’s already sweat collecting at your hairline.
You feel his cock slowly poke at your cunt, and your eyes close as you stretch to make room for him. He slowly sinks in, inch by inch, until his hips are flush against your ass. You let out a low, desperate moan.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “Fuck, you’re sucking me right in.”
“Feels s’good,” you whine.
He starts to move. Slowly, at first. Letting you get used to the feeling of him filling you up. His hands hold you tightly at your hips, fingers sinking into your soft skin.
You arch your head back, looking up at the ceiling. At the last second, you close your eyes, not willing to do anything to risk him getting spooked and pulling out. This feels too good to lose.
His fingers wrap around your hair, close to your scalp positioning your head exactly where he wants it. You whine a little at the contact, but it doesn’t bother you. If anything, it makes you hotter.
“Careful, doll,” he breathes, his voice firm.
His other hand moves around your hip, gently pressing his fingers over your clit and moving in small circles. It sends sparks through your body.
“I can already feel you twitching around me,” he mutters. “You like when I play with your pussy? While I’m filling you up?”
“Yes,” you mewl, pushing your hips closer to him, “yes, I do. I do, fuck.”
“Yeah, I knew it,” Spider-man breathes out half a laugh. He bends over and presses another kiss to your back. “You’re gonna come again for me, aren’t you? You’re gonna let me feel that pretty pussy come around my dick.”
You let out a low, bitten off moan as his pace picks up, hips slapping against your ass. You feel insane, he’s reaching so deep inside you and it feels so good.
His hand moves from your hair to your face, pressing firmly over your eyes. Slowly, he pulls you up against him, pressing your back flush against his chest.
Without being able to see him, everything else is amplified, making your head spin. His strong hands holding you, fingers still slow over your clit, his breath in your ear. It’s all you have to focus on, and it’s driving you crazy.
“So pretty, you know that?” His lips move against the pulse point of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. His voice is low, it's making you insane. “Letting me fuck you like this. You can’t even see me.”
His words are hoarse right against your ear. He feels it too. This pleasure coursing through you. You can feel that familiar pressure building again.
“Right there,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
“Good,” he mutters, “tell me what you need.”
“Just,” you breathe, leaning back into his hold. You can feel sweat dripping down your back, between your bodies. His fingers twitch against your eyes, but don’t move away. “Just like that.”
Spider-man sucks a bruise right above your shoulder, and suddenly, it’s all too much. Your legs want to give out, but he’s holding you so tightly against him, you have no choice.
“Fuck!” you moan as the crescendo hits.
“That’s right,” Spider-man keeps his pace, fucking you through it. “Let me have it- f-fuck.”
You cry out, and his pace stutters as you come undone, cunt clenching around him, panting and writhing in his grip.
Spider-man gently folds you back over the couch, moving his hand away from your eyes and grabbing a handful of your ass.
“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “That was- you just- I’m so close.”
You tilt your hips up slightly, letting get a better angle. You’re so stuffed and overstimulated, you probably couldn’t turn around if you wanted to.
Spider-man lets out a choked sound and suddenly pulls out. He pants through it, breaths short and rapid, stroking himself to completion. You can feel him let out sticky ropes of cum all over your bare ass.
Both of you stay like that for a moment, just panting and coming back down to earth.
“Good job,” he kisses your shoulder blade. “Just, uh, stay there for a second.”
“I don’t think I can move, anyway,” you mutter against the couch cushion.
There’s movement and commotion behind you. His footsteps carry him away, and you hear the bathroom door creak open. Suddenly, there’s a warm, wet feeling of a fresh washcloth being gently wiped over your sensitive pussy, and cleaning off your ass.
You smile to yourself, letting Spider-man take care of you. There’s another pause, and you see the mask lift away from the coffee table.
“Okay, you can- well, you can look now,” he says. And you already miss the clarity of his voice without the mask.
You blink slowly and turn your head back. “You didn’t have to put it back on right away,” you sigh. “I could have kept my eyes closed a little longer.”
“Yeah, but then I couldn’t do this,” he says. Spider-man gently unfolds you from the couch, taking you in his arms.
He carries you down the hall to your to your bedroom, and settles you on your bed. You tug on his hand, so he crawls next to you, pulling you to his side so you can lay your head on his chest.
It’s quiet for a moment. You can feel his heartbeat, once pounding, now calming down to a steady pace.
You have no idea how long you’ve been laying like that when the power comes back on. It’s rude and bright, illuminating the reality of what just happened. You drag your eyes out the window and finally let yourself notice that the clouds are a little less angry, the rain a little less intense.
“The storm has let up,” you mutter.
“Yeah,” he sighs, running a hand up and down your back.
“You can go get your legos,” you settle your chin on his chest, suppressing a smirk.
“Jesus,” he drops his head back and drags a hand over his face. “I can’t believe I told you that. Ace flirting.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” you raise your eyebrows, looking down at your naked bodies still tangled together. “Come on, let’s see if your suit is dry.”
You press a soft kiss to his chest.
You know his suit is going to be dry. You know that as soon as you make it to the living room, he’s going to get changed again and leave. This will be just a crazy memory. But you know better than you hope that this could last any longer.
Spider-man puts his suit back on in your living room, and you watch from the couch, wearing the old t-shirt you had just peeled off of his chest. It’s amazing how the suit molds to his body. And more amazing that you now know what that body looks like. What it feels like.
He opens the window out to the fire escape and sticks his head out, noting that the rain has slowed to a gentle drizzle.
“Yeah, I can head out in this,” he says. “It’s just, when it downpours like that, you get really weighed down. Totally messes up the velocity of my swing, how I move through the air, you know?”
“No,” you shake your head, smiling, “I don’t think I do.”
“Right,” he nods.
You rise from the couch, the t-shirt sliding up your bare thighs, and pad closer.
“Thanks for letting me wait the storm out,” Spider-man says, climbing out to the fire escape.
“Wait,” you lean out the window, laying a hand on his shoulder.
Spider-man looks back at you, positioning his body to face you fully. You take a breath and reach out, settling your fingers along his jaw. Testing the waters. Making sure this is okay.
He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t swat at your hand. So you take it one step further. Hoping that, for whatever reason, he trusts you enough.
You lift his mask. Just slightly. Just enough. Right under his nose. He licks his lips, clearly nervous. You see his jawline up close, run a light touch along it.
“Be safe,” you say quietly, and press a light kiss to his lips.
You go to pull away, only for him to move closer, deepening the kiss. Fire moves through your belly, and you groan into his mouth. He finally pulls away, readjusting his mask.
“I’ll see you around,” he nods, gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer.
You watch as he falls backwards, into the air, and swings away.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter to yourself, scrubbing your eyes with your hands.
You turn back to your apartment, the romance of the afternoon gone with Spider-man. Plates stacked on the coffee table, your clothes strewn about on the floor, remaining pizza getting cold in the kitchen.
It takes a week for you to stop thinking about him randomly. To stop getting distracted at work, remembering how he groaned in your ear, what he sounded like calling you babygirl. To not get wet and annoyed every time you see a story about him on the news.
It takes a week for you to settle back into your regular life, making peace with the fact that you had a one-off hook up with a superhero, and it will be a story you tell your grandkids when you have one foot in the grave.
But, it also takes a week for you to hear a soft knock at your window, and see a familiar figure waiting on your fire escape. Your heart skips a beat.
You bite your lip, and raise the glass, leaning out the window.
♡⃕ ∿ genres && warnings: fluff && suggestive at the end but nothing in detail !! also, the reader doesn’t know that peter is spiderman
⋆˙⟡ boyfie!peter parker…can kinda be like a small puppy and keeps himself lying on your lap. your lap is like his haven, and he feels himself let go of everything when he lies on top of you; clinging onto your thighs and sighing against them
⋆˙⟡ boyfie!peter parker…let’s you try out different makeup looks and products on him, and ofc he would be the best boyfriend on earth to let you know about a new product that your fav brand just dropped. juvia’s place has a new blush palette? getting it! fenty beauty has a sale? already ordered your fav products and sent you the confirmation email
⋆˙⟡ boyfie!peter parker…gives you new ways to experiment on how you express yourself. even if it’s him being the experiment for your creativity, he doesn’t mind it. he’ll even assist if you're still stuck, even though he knows nothing about what you’re doing
⋆˙⟡ boyfie!peter parker…who uses emoticons heavily and is not ashamed!!! “ :D :(( ^3^ ” are his favs to use when texting; he uses them even more than emojis tbh. don’t introduce him to kamojis, you might unlock a new addiction for him
⋆˙⟡ boyfie!peter parker…if not deep into his studies, always the best person to shop with !! especially if you’re one to get tempted easily, he knows how to steer you away and spend more money than you need to. but also great at remembering what you needed from each store you go to :)
⋆˙⟡ boyfie!peter parker…after a shopping spree, asks for a haul of what you got and finds different ways to say how much the pieces suit you. even if it’s basic stuff, he’ll still mention how much he loves it on you
⋆˙⟡ boyfie!peter parker…who created a pinterest account just to send you inspo for hair, nails, makeup looks, etc. personally, he enjoys looking through nail sets on there and imagining you scratching his head with said sets
⋆˙⟡ boyfie!peter parker…who loves loves lovessss a good head scratch. some days he’ll just show up unannounced at your apartment and lie down on your couch, gently taking your hand and placing it on top of his head. if you reach a certain spot on his scalp, you may hear a certain sound coming from peter
⋆˙⟡ boyfie!peter parker…please do hot oil treatments on him. listen, explaining to him might sound a lil crazy to him, and dangerous, but after hearing that you’ll be massaging his scalp, he was quick to agree. during the treatment, he loosened his tense body and let himself feel heaven as you massaged the oil into his scalp
⋆˙⟡ boyfie!peter parker…who isn’t big on pda but doesn’t mind leaving lil pecks to get you flustered or just to catch you off guard. preferably, he likes longer kisses, longer moments of intimacy instead of something that’s rushed (unless horny). who said that ???
⋆˙⟡ boyfie!peter parker…will never stop wanting a makeout session, no matter how long or late in the day it is. he savors the tingling feeling that he gets when you’re on his lap and lightly scratching the back of his neck and letting his lips chase after yours. he adores the little noises that you let out when he presses his hands more intensely on certain parts of your body than others. please don’t let it be a night where he has been feeling a bit more needy than usual cause he’ll be clinging on and kissing you like it’s the last day on earth
𐔌 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘪 💭⭑.ᐟ ꒱
♡⃕ see i was gonna keep going and add nsfw but i wanted to tread lightly with peter
♡⃕ this can be interpreted with any peter !! I did have tom’s peter in mind but any you find fit is okay as well
♡⃕ if you guys want more boyfie!peter, lemme know 😋
