𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐛.

Matt wasn’t… surprised. Mildly irritated and exhausted? Undoubtedly. But surprised? Definitely not. So when he heard the second, softer heartbeat resonating from his apartment he could only sigh. He could tell when you recognized the sound of his footfalls on the stairs by the minor spike in the pattern of your heart. It only heightened when he flung the door open, eyebrows furrowed and mouth pulled into a tight line.

Rushing to explain yourself you begin to speak before he’s able to close the door behind him. “Listen-”

“Where is it?”

A dumb question really. Both you and him knew he could easily pinpoint the location of his residence's newest imposter.

Through the haze of his fiery vision he could make out the way your arm flails half-heartedly towards the coffee table in the center of the room. After collapsing his cane and resting it on the table beside him, he silently steps past you.

Your breath is trapped in your lungs as you seal your lips shut in anticipation. You watch the way Matt stalks forward, much like a tiger would approach its prey. The irony doesn’t pass you by when he bends down and grabs the thing you pointed at by the scruff of its neck.

“I told you I don’t like cats.”

An overly exaggerated huff leaves you as you stomp forward. “I couldn’t just leave him outside! It’s freezing.” Gently, the kitten is taken from his rough hands into your tender ones.

“It’s 70 degrees.” Matt deadpans, hand dropping down to his side.

He isn’t met with a verbal response, just with the sound of you pivoting on your heel and stepping towards his couch.

“I’m not allowed to have pets here. It’s against the regulations or something.”

Your eyes flick towards him. “I might not have your incredibly freaky super hearing but I’ve known you long enough to be able to tell when you’re pulling shit out of your ass. Even if it was against regulations, when was the last time you actually gave a crap about the rules?”

He pauses for a beat and you can tell he’s trying his best to come up with another excuse.

“I’m allergic.”

“Me too. I have allergy pills I take. I can lend you some.”

“It’ll scratch up the furniture.”

“You have two pieces of furniture. This couch you and Foggy found lying in the abandoned lot a block away and that recliner that has two mysterious stains that refuse to come out.”

He opens his mouth to make another retort but none come to mind. The victorious hmph that comes from where you’d gotten comfortable on the sofa only irritates him further. He isn’t actually mad, you would cease all of your teasing if he was, you just thought it was cute how frustrated he could get and he hated it.

The soft pat pat of your hand hitting the cushion reaches his ears and he doesn’t hesitate before

moving to sit next to you. He doesn’t say anything, just listens to the purring of the kitten now curled up in your lap. Silently you reach for his hand and he opens it automatically, thinking you're going to hold it. Instead of interlocking your fingers with his however, your hand passes his upward facing palm and grips his wrist. He doesn’t pull away when he feels you tug it towards you or when you turn his palm over and run the tips of his fingers over the cat’s soft fur.

You can practically see his tough façade crumble right then and there. His face softens as he runs his hand along it’s back. However the small curl of his lips quickly turns thin once again when he hears the sickeningly sweet tone your voice carries.

“C’mon Matty.” You run your hand down his arm. “Can we keep him?”

“Absolutely not.” His hand whips back. “Stop buttering me up.”

“But he’s so cute!” The syllables are dragged out in a whine. “He’s all black with the biggest yellow eyes. How could you say no to that face!” Matt hears you make kissy noises towards the ball of fur in your lap and swats his hand in front of your face.

“Stop doing that!”

An annoyingly smug smile creeps onto your face. “Jealous?”

“No.”

“Yes you are.”

“No. I’m not.”

“Just admit it! Do you want some too?” This time the kissing noises are directed towards him.

His arm shoots out and his fingers latch onto your cheeks, effectively squishing the lower half of your face and stopping you from making any noise. “Knock that off.”

The faint mirth in his voice isn’t missed by you and you bat his hand away. He waits curiously as he tries to figure out what you’re thinking. He’s almost surprised when your lips slot with his but he doesn’t falter and quickly presses into you. The pad of his thumb runs along the high point of your cheekbone as he cradles your face. The kiss only lasts a few seconds but it’s long enough for his resolve to come crashing down completely.

You don’t even have the chance to speak before he's giving in. “I’m never changing the litter box.”

The next kiss is messier. You’re smiling too much and your teeth bump with his but neither of you care. His hand travels back towards the mass of fur on your legs and he grins.

You had begged him to do so practically seconds after finding out his identity, which he wasn’t too keen on in the beginning for very obvious reasons. Finally, after months, Peter had gained more trust in his abilities and offered to do exactly what you had asked for. What neither of you were prepared for, though, was your terrible fear of everything about the act itself: Heights, drops, and large buildings that could crush you if you hit them hard enough.

His grip on your side was secure, and your hold on his neck was deathly. He fully believed that if he were to let you go, you’d still cling to him without even noticing the lack of support—that’s how hard you were clutching him.

“Do you want to get down somewhere?” Peter asks with a laugh, which only escalates when he feels your head nodding feverishly. “Alright.”

Carefully, Peter shoots a web to the nearest (and shortest) building he could find and pulls the both of you to the flat, stable ceiling of it. You let out a large breath, that he assumes you've been holding ever since your last scream, before immediately sitting yourself down. Your head is placed in your hands when Peter squats down to your level.

"You okay?" Peter asks. It isn't patronizing, nor comical like his tone from before; it's honest concern. That's why you don't seem as angry as you promised you would be when you were in the air. You look up at him.

"Yeah," you shake your head. "I'm just sorry."

"For what?"

"Being dramatic." You hide your face in your hands once again, and Peter feels his heart sink at the genuine embarrassment that you curl yourself up with.

Grunting, Peter takes the seat right beside you, propping himself up with his hands. "Oh, you mean your screaming?" You wince. "That's hardly anything compared to my first time."

You snort. "You literally invented it, Peter."

"Well, yeah," he laughs in return. "But, when I took that first swing...God, I was probably heard all across New York." This time, you laugh. "No, seriously, I think I heard noise complaints on the police radio."

Your laughter didn't stop, and Peter's heart rises; it flutters up to his throat when you lean into him.

"You can't be serious."

He doesn't say anything, only staring at your beaming smile. For a moment, all he does is watch your body relax as the embarrassment and stress leaves you. When you catch his gaze, Peter finally finds words.

"It only gets better the more you do it, you know? You just need practice." He says honestly. That's how he'd gotten comfortable enough to be responsible of a whole other person while swinging, and that's how he plans on getting you to enjoy the experience. Because if you truly looked, the view was extraordinary.

You sniff before saying, "Okay."

Peter stands, stretching slightly, and offers his hand to you. You take it, lifting yourself up without letting his hand go.

"Ready?" he puts on his mask.

"Oh." You grip his hand tighter. "Can we walk?"

"Y/N, we're not even remotely close to your house." Peter explains quickly, slightly preparing himself to begin swinging again.

"But..." He feels a tug at his hand, and he knows turning around was in his worst interests

He turns to you regardless. Your eyes are wide, resembling a puppy who lost its toy, and a small pout shapes your lips. Exactly what he was expecting, and yet, exactly what took him off guard. Peter groans.

"Alright. But next time, we're swinging the whole time."

You gape at him incredulously, an old DVD of Congo clattering right onto the wooden flooring of his room as a rushed string of curse words fly from your mouth. Peter basically freezes in his spot, half of his body already in the apartment when you catch him red handed, his face contorting into a grimace under the mask like he’s just tasted something sour.

“You’re…” you try to fish for words, your hand gripping the door handle like some sort of lifeline, “you just broke into here.”

Peter’s mind goes blank, and he scrambles through the window frame the rest of the way, just barely avoiding falling to the ground with a thud that might have left his poor Aunt May calling out in concern. You, on the other hand, barely have the time to decide if turning on your heel and running is a better option than staying to hear out your infamous intruder. He can see the internal conflict that plays out in your head in a matter of seconds, your hands trembling with pure adrenaline as your lips press into a thin line. Luckily—and to Peter’s relief—you slip past the doorway and swiftly shut it behind you without another sound.

“I can explain,” he starts in a voice almost comically deeper than his own, putting his hands up as he cautiously treads further into the room.

You raise an unbelieving brow at him, although he can see your eyes darting from wall to wall as your brain attempts to process this very new, very unexpected development. “Oh, can you?”

He feels the rapid beating of his heart as it prattles against his ribcage, blood pumping heavy in his ears as you anxiously await an explanation. “Peter—you see, your friend Peter and I are acquainted.”

Acquainted? Who the hell uses that in a sentence regularly?

Your nose scrunches up, just like it does whenever you’re thoroughly confused on those statistics problems that Peter always helps you work through. “You know Petey?”

The nickname makes his stomach churn with something like guilt. “Yeah, we’ve met a couple of times.”

All of a sudden, you start to pace around the untidy room, narrowly avoiding the heaps of workbooks and the strewn about photographs that litter the floor. Your gaze flickers from his still-masked face, to the posters hanging on his walls, to the half-ajar closet door. And then without warning, your mind seems to click into a sense of understanding that leaves Peter’s hands fidgeting with nothing but the stilled air around him.

“Is this why he always seems to have those first aid things hidden in here?” you gasp, running a shaky hand through your hair at this apparent revelation. “He helps patch you up sometimes, doesn’t he?”

Peter nearly collapses where he stands.

All the immense pressure that had been building up in his body since the moment you spotted him is taken off at once, and he finds himself nodding enthusiastically with your absolutely oblivious proposition. Thank the stars that you even noticed a fact so minuscule, or else he would’ve had nothing else to go off for an explanation besides a prayer.

“Yup, he’s my guy, that’s for sure!” He hurriedly agrees, shooting you a thumbs up that makes him want to disappear into a dark hole for eternity. “He’s fixed me up a couple times—just small things! But he’s always a big help, you know.”

“God, I can’t believe it! Peter knows the actual Spider-Man. And he didn’t even tell me! For how long? I mean, if you don’t want to say that’s fine too, it’s just…this is so crazy.”

The boy in question watches on quietly as you start firing off your thoughts one by one, a low chuckle escaping his lips at your mindless rambling and incessant theorizing. You pick up on his staring after a few minutes, however, and a sheepish look quickly overtakes your features as your gaze returns to him.

“Sorry,” you cough out, unconsciously wringing your hands together. “Peter isn’t here at the moment, but he’ll probably be back soon if you need something. I can call him if it’s urgent. And I won’t bother you, promise.”

A rush of warmth floods his chest at your gentle concern. “Oh, it’s alright. If he’s not here I’ll just, ya’ know…get myself sorted back at home base.”

“Are you sure? It feels like you wouldn’t have stopped in if it wasn’t necessary.”

He panics, waving his arms around. “I’m sure! Just a cut or two, but nothing I can’t handle.”

As soon as the word cut leaves his lips, Peter knows he’s screwed up. Your eyes flash with that all-too-familiar empathy, and all of a sudden you’re approaching him, closing the distance between you to just a few feet.

“Listen,” you sigh, and he already knows where you’re headed, “I can help you, even if they’re just small injuries you need looked at. Stick around for a bit, at least? Even just to rest?”

Every bit of hesitation in him dissipates at your sweet insistence, and the way your face lights up at his reluctant nod makes it all worth it in the moment. You beckon him over with a small wave, taking a gentle hold of his arm and sitting him down on the edge of the bed—his bed, to be exact. As you settle down beside him, a hint of nervousness ever-present in your features, the smell of your body wash hits him almost immediately; it’s the one he got you a new supply of for your birthday, the one with a stupid name that he spent way too long trying to find at the mall. Peter fights the urge to shake his mind of the memory when a stupid smile begins to curl on his lips.

God, why of all times does he have to think about that? How does he even know your care products by scent? You don’t even know that behind this stupid mask of his is your best friend, who’s feeling more and more shame-filled by the second. You’re completely blind to the fact that he’s seen you more than once in the past few months—not just as Spider-Man, but as your classmate. You aren’t even aware that he’s started to fall in love with you—

“So, where’s it hurt the most?”

Peter blinks, finding your attentive stare focused right on his unmoving face. “Oh! Um, I think I got grazed on my collarbone.”

“Okay. Would you mind, maybe showing me where it is so I can clean it?”

He startles a bit in recognition of your request, but he gives you an affirmative nod nonetheless. You turn away for a moment to sift through the clutter on his desk, allowing Peter the opportunity to tug down the collar of his suit just enough to reveal a nasty looking laceration right below his neck. To his relief, it doesn’t appear to go very deep (although it would likely be worse if not for his conveniently quick recovery times), and while his skin has stained itself with dried blood, it’s clearly nothing fresh. Regardless, the wound seems to sting the longer he looks at it, and he hisses when he brings a gloved finger up to trace the broken skin.

You’re quick to return to his side, a scavenged pack of rubbing alcohol, ripped cloth, and a half-empty box of adhesive bandages in your hands that you’ve managed to find amidst his other things. Peter can’t help thinking that he needs to start hiding that stuff better.

“Careful,” you chastise him lightly, gingerly moving his hand away from the cut. “You don’t wanna get more dirt in it.”

“Sorry,” he says. “Thanks, by the way.”

“It’s no problem. The least I could do for the friendly neighborhood hero, although you did scare the hell out of me.”

You’re joking, but a twinge of regret still swirls in his gut. Peter completely forgot you were coming over today for a cheesy movie night, something you’d repeatedly begged to do with him ever since the idea crossed your mind months prior. And now, on the day you finally convinced him to agree? Now you’re treating his injuries in his own room, completely unaware that he’s lying to you straight through his teeth.

He decides that at the very least, maybe he could put on his Spidey charm and entertain you for a while. Even if for a sparing moment or two.

“So, you think I’m a hero?” He jokes back, and he can’t help admiring the way your face contorts into flustered embarrassment.

“I mean,” you splutter, staring holes into the bottle that you flick open with a resounding pop, “you save people a lot, so I’d say you’ve earned the title.”

“Well I’m flattered that you think so highly of me—uh…”

Peter barely catches himself before your name can come rolling off his tongue, but he plays it off with as much charisma as possible, peering at you through those big white eyes of his mask as if awaiting your response. Thankfully, he gets one, and he even tests the pronunciation of it for good measure.

Way to cover, man.

“Pretty,” he comments, not fully understanding the weight that such easygoing compliments can have on you. While on the outside you manage to retain an air of confident coolness, your train of thought is already chugging away into a world of over-exaggerated imaginations, as you’re not well versed at handling such unabashed flattery from anyone, let alone this vigilante who’s probably the most famous person in Queens. You opt to wave him off, muttering a low-volume thank you as you drip rubbing alcohol onto a cleaner part of the cloth in your grasp.

Peter presses on, not wanting to leave anything hanging in the air, lest this conversation be made more uncomfortable than it currently is.

“So, how do you know Peter?”

You perk up at the casual inquiry, the mention of your closest friend very quickly reminding you that this was, in fact, his place. Technically his Aunt May’s, but you very much doubted she knew about this little arrangement between her nephew and Spider-Man.

“Well, he’s my best friend, and we’ve known each other since freshman orientation of high school—try not to tense up, this might sting a bit—” you’re right, it does, and he suppresses the urge to writhe away from your grasp like some sort of child, “but it feels like I’ve known him longer, you know?”

“I can understand what you mean,” he says, although it’s slightly muffled by the way he bites the inside of his cheek.

“Is it similar for you and him?”

“I suppose you could say that. Though, I doubt I’m as close with him as you seem.”

You dab delicately at the already healing gash, a hint of a smile on your face. “We spend a lot of time together, that’s for sure. His aunt says we’re attached at the hip.”

Peter chuckles lightly. Of course you recall May’s badgering from when you two started to hang out on a frequent basis. While he was exasperatedly trying to nudge his lovely guardian into the kitchen before she could make any further implications about your relationship with one another, you simply shot him an amused smile, assuring him that she was a lovely woman and that you didn’t mind her amiable nature in the slightest. Your kindness that day still made him fuzzy, knowing that you felt comfortable around his family—unconventional as their living situation was.

A beat of silence falls over the room as Peter quietly watches you work. Your touch is so careful, trying to avoid his discomfort with as much consideration as possible, as if he’s not some masked guy who can stop a bus with his hands and who just took on multiple drunk idiots at once. You’re clearly apprehensive to let your fingers even touch his bare skin at all, only letting the soaked cloth press against his collarbone with thought-out precision.

It’s most likely because you want to avoid infecting the cut, but he can’t help wanting to feel the warmth of your hands anyway.

God, can his internal thoughts shut up for five minutes? Apparently not, because at this point his palms are growing clammy (not a good combination with a spandex costume, he discovers), and he’s practically itching to take your hands in his own, scrapes and bruises and secret identities be damned. He elects that asking another question will suffice as an alternative.

But then you’re peeling off the backing of a jumbo bandage and smoothing it out over his skin, and every nerve in his system jumps at the contact he’s been wanting but thought incapable of actually receiving.

What was he doing again? Right, asking a question. Something resembling an icebreaker. Maybe nothing too cheesy, but something standard.

“Are you dating anyone?”

Not that question.

Although it takes a moment for his words to register in your mind, Peter can tell they have as soon as your eyes widen, your hands freezing against his chest like a deer caught in headlights. He’s surprised that you’re not already running for the door screaming at this rate—a faceless guy of who-knows-what age asking if you’re in a romantic relationship, with the only saving grace being that your best friend allegedly helps him out sometimes. Rather, you simply avert your gaze to the wall, an awkward laugh bubbling in your throat.

“Not at the moment, no,” you tell him (and he doesn’t notice, but heat is creeping up from the base of your neck at an alarming rate). To his surprise, your words still hold an air of teasing confidence. “Who’s asking?”

“I—well,” he blanches, at a complete loss—and he’s quite nearly prepared to smack himself in the face at any moment, “I was just curious.”

“Sorry to disappoint, Spidey, but there’s someone else I’m into right now.”

Peter’s brows furrow. “Who?”

Wait. Too personal.

But you’ve never told him about anyone you’ve liked recently. The last time you’d ever brought up something like that was back in sophomore year, when Curtis Manfred was in that biology class with you and got you coffee on exam mornings. That never lasted though, seeing as he started dating some freshman you didn’t bother to share the name of soon thereafter.

Peter never liked Curtis. But that’s besides the point.

“Sorry,” he tacks on. “I doubt I even know who it is.”

You wave it off, smoothing out the edges of his bandage with much more deliberation than truly necessary. “It’s alright. Honestly, it’s probably the one person from my life that you do know.”

Peter freezes completely.

His heart rises to his throat, his every sense going haywire as if screaming ‘trouble!’ in big bold letters. Except, instead of realizing that something terrible is about to come his way, he’s left with the building realization that he might have just gotten confessed to. He decides to check just in case.

“You mean…you mean Peter?” he inquires, “As in Peter Parker?”

You finally meet his eyes again—well, as much as you can with that costume of his—and nod, offering him a sheepish smile.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit.

“I don’t know why I told you that,” you admit, blowing out a puff of air and giggling. “I think the mask thing makes it easier to be honest with you.”

“No! No, it’s fine!” and now his voice is two octaves higher than it began. “How long have you, uh, liked him for? I mean—if I can ask that.”

“Two years? I think it’s two now.”

“Wow. What’s made you like him for so long?”

“He’s just really sweet, you know? And smart. I’m sure you get that since you’ve known him for a while now too. And, y’know, he’s really cute. Dorky.”

You pause for a moment, realizing that the vigilante in front of you has barely moved a centimeter since your spiel began. It feels oddly tense, but you’re not really sure why.

You clear your throat, moving your hands away from him and back to your sides. “But anyways! That bandage should hold fine, but you might want to swap it out in a day or two. Do you need anything else looked at, or…?”

He still doesn’t move, and now you’re growing anxious. Did you say something you shouldn’t have? Was this way too familiar for just meeting the guy, who hours ago was simply a figure on your television? Was he going to tell Peter?

Before you can utter another word, Spider-Man is tugging his mask off, and in a matter of seconds you’re staring right at your best friend.

This time, it’s your turn to nearly pass out.

“Peter?” You’re practically whispering, and the shock in your face is clear as day. Not to mention, you can feel the embarrassment flaring on your face like a scalding lick of flames that just won’t burn out.

His hickory brown stare bores into yours without remorse, and he leans forward to grab your hand, pulling it towards his chest again. His hair is terribly ruffled in the best of ways, and even hours of doing the rounds through New York City have left his face without as much of a scrape, at least on this particular night. His thumb brushes the back of your knuckles with a tenderness that makes your stomach erupt with butterflies, and a gentle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“You mean it?” He says, just as quietly as you spoke his name.

A permanent warmth settles in your cheeks, and you figure that holding back anything else is out of the question now. “Of course I do. What about you?”

Peter doesn’t give you any time to be nervous once he leans into you fully, bringing you forward by the hand and catching your lips with his. You barely have enough time to inhale, let alone get a word out before you melt into him, a breathy laugh the only thing you can manage when a gloved hand reaches up to cradle the base of your jawline. In a word, everything about the kiss is soft, and Peter is very evidently over the moon.

Your arms wind their way around his shoulders, getting pulled further against him and into his lap—right until you accidentally bump the spot on his collarbone that you just managed to clean, which is proven still sore when Peter fails to conceal a huff of discomfort against your lips.

“Alright,” you scold playfully, flashing him a knowing look, “don’t strain yourself.”

“Come on,” he groans, brushing your nose against his, still holding you by the waist, “I’m a friendly neighborhood hero, right? I can take it.”

“Nice try. Maybe you should enlighten me a bit more on that whole Spider-Man thing first, hm?”

Peter drops his head back to stare at the ceiling, a dazed smile lighting up his face. “I thought it was cheesy movie night.”

You can’t help laughing. “I cannot believe you.”

“I’m not hearing a no.”

When he tilts his chin down again, he finds you looking right back at him, a glimmer of admiration in your eyes that makes his breath catch. You cup his face in your hands without a second thought, and he willingly relents to your touch without a moment’s hesitation, the urge to kiss you again settling in the back of his mind.

“Movie first, and then we’re talking,” you concede, affection laced in each word. “God, Peter. You’re incredible.”

He just smiles, shaking his head lightly. “And you’re everything to me.”

He knew where he could find that moment of solace. That’s how he ended up at your window at 10:30 P.M., knocking exactly 5 times to alert you who was waiting.

From outside your window, where he was hanging off the second story wall, he could hear a small noise of surprise leave you and then footsteps. Peter couldn’t help but his already growing excitement reach his throat, and before it could escape on its own, it shot out as a laugh when you greeted him.

“Jesus, Peter.” you laughed back in response, moving out of the way to allow him into your room. You continued as he settled in, “You really need to start texting me before you come over.”

He looked over and smiled. “You don’t like my little surprise visits?”

You scoff as you close the window shut. The room quickly adapted to the new warm temperature. Peter felt his ears grow warm again, and he was reminded why he came all the way over here in the first place. As soon as the window closed, he shut out the world and let his entire focus fall onto you.

Attentive eyes watch you move from the windowsill to the floor right in front of the bed. He always thought that habit was cute—you explained to him that laying on the floor helped you focus when you studied—especially with the small noise that escapes you when you reach the ground.

“Not when you scare me.” you say with a faux glare. Peter only laughs.

He finds his usual seat on the bed directly in front of you. These motions have been repeated so many times that it’s almost like a routine, a part of his life that he can’t go without. It’s happened so often; this exact moment in these exact circumstances. That’s why he’s surprised that his presence still scares you—a part of him hopes he just makes you nervous.

The repetitiveness is what makes everything so perfect. The comfort of knowing what to expect in a world where nothing seems to go the way he wants. Nights like these are really the only nights where he gets exactly what he looks forward to.

“So what were you up to?” Peter is casual. Of course you make his pulse rise and his palms sweat whenever, but he’s comfortable with you. More comfortable than he is around anyone else. No anxiety. No hyperactive thoughts. Just you.

“You mean before you scared the shit out of me?” you raise your eyebrows when he laughs. “I was studying.”

“For what?”

“A test I have this Friday.”

“Do you want help? I can help if you want.” Peter offered. You shake your head at him, your eyes growing wide in a strange amusement.

“I doubt you’ll be much help.” you said.

He raises his eyebrows. “Elaborate.”

“Oh, my gosh. This isn’t to say you aren’t smart, because you are but…” Peter feels his face warm at the passing praise, but he chooses to blame it on the rising temperature in the room. You explain further when his eyebrows are furrowed and his lips part as though he’s going to start speaking. “But you are such a distraction!”

“Excuse me?” Peter pretends to be hurt and angry, holding his hand above his chest in mock offense. “I am the best at studying!”

“Don’t start, Parker.” you warn lightly with an even lighter smile on your face. “You’re a distraction and you know it.” “I’m hurt, Y/n. Truly, truly hurt.”

“You can sit on the bed while I go over some stuff,” you glance at him and his pout before adding, “I’ll join you soon, you baby. Just let me make sure I don’t fail my test.”

Of course, he ended up on the floor right beside you. Flashcards he had written were sprawled all over the ground after having been used repeatedly for the past hour. The two of you were sitting close to one another, letting accidental acts of physical touch linger, and staring into each other’s eyes.

He doesn’t understand why you look at his eyes like that all the time. You’re staring into them now, and he can’t help but question why. His eyes were by no means special, nor did he think they were beautiful. All they were to him was just things he sees with. But, he did enjoy staring back into yours.

They glow. They’re soft, especially when you look at him after he’s done something good, and soulful. He liked the thought of being able to look into your eyes and actually, truly, really see who you are. And Peter doesn’t have to think too hard about what would be lying underneath.

“What?” the sound of your raspy, strained voice makes Peter snap up in attention.

“What?” he echoes.

“You were staring.” you say before turning over away from him. You act like it’s just a move to get up from your laid position on the floor, but it’s your way of hiding from his watchful gaze.

Peter can feel his ears become hot. Be smooth, Peter. Be smooth. "Well, it's hard not to."

There's a soft silence, and then, "Shut up, Parker."

He can't help the large, toothy smile that stretches across his face. You were everything that was good in the world. Peter might be dramatic or intense when it came to you, but he held no remorse for the admiration in his heart. It was earned.

“Why’d you come tonight?” you ask. You sit down on your bed and fully lean against the wall; Peter smiles when he notices the gap that you left for him to fill.

When he sits, your legs touch. Neither of you move. “I don’t know.”

You nod, accepting that answer. With the way your forehead creases and your lips fold down into a faint frown, he knows you have underlying concern. He knows that more questions press the tip of your tongue, and he knows that you’re pushing it down so as to not overwhelm him. And he knows that his heart is now beating faster because of the care you handle him with.

“Well, I do know,” he says quickly. You look up at him, your frown now a straight, attentive line on your face. Peter feels like melting into the floor when he looks back. “I uh…I had some fights today, y’know. The usual, but they, uh…”

Peter doesn’t know why his mind chose to erase any thought it held in that specific moment. The last thing he wanted to do was make you worry about him any further, and his stalling was not helping you whatsoever.

Your hand hovers over his in hesitance before you pull it back completely, settling to only graze his arm with your knuckles. The sensation still relaxes him, your light touch rippling through his tense body despite the exiguity of it. “They what, Peter?”

He leans his head back against the wall, settling his stare on the ceiling. Looking at you as he recalls the night he had would push him over the edge and send him falling into a pit of despair; he’d let go of everything he was desperately trying to hold together.

“They were worse than usual today. I couldn’t—I almost couldn’t…” Peter explains, although that barely cleared the fog he created. You seemed to understand though. Just as you always did.

This time when you reach for his hand, you place it in yours with confidence. Your palm presses against his; Peter focuses on the pressure you create between him and yourself. It grounds him. The feeling reminds him that he is there, that he’s real and that he is not alone.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. You use your free hand to push hair away from his face. Before letting your hand fall to your side, you touch his cheek with a small smile. “You’re here now.”

You had no idea how thankful he was for that fact.

Peter swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

The subject would have dropped if he was talking to anyone else, but he was talking to you. Your eyes, your sweet soul, look into his, and he feels unworthy. With what happened…he doesn’t deserve half of what you give him—you love too much for your own good. That’s what he finds so fascinating about you. You hear all about his mistakes and regrets and still choose to hold his hand the way you do.

You know that there’s more going on in his scattered, relentless brain just by studying his face. He looks away to hide himself, a habit he stole from you.

“Peter,” you say with a tighter squeeze to his hand. “Look at me.” He complies. “It doesn’t matter what almost happened. You made it through. You figured it out, because that’s what you do. Don’t worry that pretty head of yours too much, okay? You got it. You always do.”

You were perfect.

Peter lets his head fall limp on your shoulder and he buries his head into your neck. You remained still and warm, allowing him to soak up every last bit of your radiance.

His heart beats more and more as his thoughts are no longer blank or deafening—they are only you. Just over, and over, and over, and over. You. When he takes in more of your presence, his thoughts and reality become one, and he looks at you.

“Y/N…” he grabs your attention, but it was already his. You were already his. Peter doesn’t speak another word.

He leans forward, unclamping his hand from yours only to place it just under your jaw and near your cheek. Pulling you closer, he touches his lips to yours.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you, until he physically can’t any longer. You were a sanctuary of love and everything good in the world. You were everything. Having that closeness with you was a blessing, and Peter didn’t want to waste a second of it. When his chest tightens as air is lost, he rests his forehead on yours and holds your face.

“I don’t know where I’d be without you, Y/N.” he whispers. You say nothing in return, only holding his wrists tightly and smiling at him the way you always do—smiling in the way that makes him smile back, only brighter.

“You’d be just the same,” you respond. “Maybe a little sadder, but—” your own laughter interrupts you before you carry on, “—but you got here on your own, Peter. Don’t give someone else credit for the good you’ve done.”

Although he’s sure you have no idea what you’re talking about, he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t speak at all. He simply thinks.

He thinks of all the times he felt like giving up, and all the times he’s tapped at your window so he would find hope again. He thinks of all the times you’ve cleaned his cuts in silence because you knew asking would only reopen the wounds you had just tried to heal. He thinks of all the times the pure thought of you was the only thing he could hang onto as he lost grip on everything else.

Peter wouldn’t be the same. He wouldn’t be the same at all.

Tony Stark:

"I respect you."

Tony isn't the greatest at expressing affection, so when he feels a certain way, he struggles with getting the other person to realize that. He can say he loves you, but if you haven't said it yet, he won't. He's terrified of the feeling not being returned.

So when he gives you a mini speech of how much he respects you, that's his way of getting out his feelings towards you. And he means every word he says.

Steve Rogers:

"I'm with you no matter what."

Sometimes, 'love' isn't enough for Steve. He does say it, and he means it, but he feels so much stronger for you. He would lay down his life for you. He would follow you to the ends of the Earth, just because it's you who's leading.

He has such loyalty to you, in more ways than one. He wants you to know that he will stay by your side forever.

Natasha Romanoff:

"I need you."

Natasha is a very independent person. She was alone almost her whole life, and her line of work depended on her being emotionally detached from everything she did. Vulnerability is something she avoids.

When she finally opens up to you, the words "I need you." hold so much more weight to her than "I love you." She really does need you. You keep her grounded, keep were motivated. She can't stand the though of ever losing you.

Bucky Barnes:

"Stay with me."

When he says this, it's probably when he's at his worst. Not to say he doesn't want you to otherwise, but it's something he would never request if he didn't need it as desperately as he did.

After the Winter Soldier, Bucky struggled to let people back in completely. He thinks he's a monster, someone who everyone will eventually give up on. When he asks you this, it's his way of communicating that he has faith that you will never give up on him.

Wanda Maximoff:

"I love you."

Wanda is a very loving person. Despite her heartbreaking past, she has no problem showing her love for someone. She falls hard and usually feels the strongest towards the ones she cares for.

When she says it, you know she means it. It's something so genuine, so sweet, so beautiful from her. She wants you to know how much she feels for you, and what better way to do that than to tell you directly?

The tension that rested in the air could almost kill you any second.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Electro asked, his brows knitted together.

Peter didn't respond, looking between everyone in the room, his eyes filled with distress. You took Aunt May's hand and pulled her to the doorway of the room, sending that something big was going to happen.

Peter closed his eyes, his spidey senses going wild, alerting him that something was going to happen, but he didn't know what. Focusing his energy, he inhaled and exhaled shortly before opening his eyes. He gritted his teeth and abruptly shot a web to Norman's hand onto the table, taking everyone by surprise.

Norman looked between his hand and Peter, his eyes darkening, "It's amazing...That sense of yours."

"May, I think we need to go." You whispered into her ear, your gut telling you it wasn't safe to stay here.

"Norman?" Doc Ock said.

"Norman's not here right now." He said, lowering his head and giving a half-smile.

You looked over at Peter, his eyes wide as he shot you a certain look, nodding your head in response. You slowly stepped back, not wanting to alert anyone with your movements or for them to refocus your attention on Aunt May or yourself.

"Did you really think that I'd let that happen? That I'd let you take away my power just because you're blind?" Norman ranted while you walked over to the table with the treatments. You took the cures and devices off of the table and shoved them inside your bag.

Cautiously walking back into the doorway, you stood next to Aunt May and gave a sly nod to Peter. Holding the bag tightly in one hand, you grabbed Aunt May's arm, ready to make a run for it.

"We don't need you to save us. We don't need to be fixed! This is not a curse, they're gifts." Norman exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement. Norman looked over at the rest men, his desire for them to join him and to stop Peter Parker.

Electro looked down at his chest, the device beeping signalling that it was closer to curing him, closer to taking away his blessing.

"Norman, no." Doc Ock muttered, shaking his head.

"Quiet lab dog."

Peter's jaw clenched as he gave Norman a hard stare, "You don't know what you're talking about."

Norman narrowed his gaze, "I watched you from deep behind Norman's cowardly eyes. God's don't have to choose, we take." He shot Peter a cynical smile.

Peter kept his stare at Norman, afraid he might do something if he looked away. "Y/n, run." He warned you.

Pulling May's arm with the bag tight in your hand, you darted across the room. Electro immediately pulled off the device in his chest and aimed his hands for the Stark tech. Electrical beams were coursing through his veins and shot out from his hands, the device flying into his palms.

Norman ripped his hand off of the spiderwebs and threw a fist at Peter, hitting him on the jaw and sending him to the floor.

"May, quick!" You screamed, pulling her behind you to the elevator, your adrenaline on a high. You pressed the button to the elevator multiple times, wanting it to arrive already.

"Come on, come on, come on." You murmured, smashing the button in hopes of it working.

The lights around you began to flicker, causing an uncomfortable eerie feeling to settle in.

May's eyes were darting everywhere but paused on the stairwell. "Quick, Y/n, let's go through here." She whisper-yelled, pulling you down the stairs. You held tightly on the railings, the lights making it hard for you to watch your steps.

You felt the building shake as you almost lost balance, but Aunt May and yourself didn't stop running. The sirens of police cars and the sound of a helicopter only increased your anxiety.

Finally reaching the end of the stairwell, you pushed open the exit door allowing Aunt May to run past with you following behind her. Hues of red and blue flashed before your eyes and the smell of smoke entered your lungs.

The ceiling began to shake as you held May tightly beside you until the roof collapsed in front of you, two figures fell through, both grunting and moaning.

You pulled out the cure in the bag, gripping it tightly as though it was your life saviour. As the smoke began to crawl away, you were able to see Peter and Norman.

Your breath hitched in your throat once you saw the scene displayed to you. Norman on top of Peter, strangling his throat with his bare hands and Peter struggling to breathe. Peter tried to pry Norman's fingers away from his throat, but the intense power he had only led to futile attempts.

Gripping the cure tightly in your hands, you ran up to Norman, your seething resentment towards Norman had reached a boiling point. Norman was continuing his speech to Peter but froze once the syringe was stabbed into his neck.

Peter gurgled and gasped for air as Norman stumbled back, getting up and holding the syringe to his neck.

He pulled the syringe out and stared hard at it, a smile growing on his face. Standing in front of The Green Goblin was scarier than you had thought, his menacing laugh and the dark glint in his eyes.

He threw it away, his attention solely on you. "It didn't work," His voice was hard and raspy. Aunt May ran to join you, in defence of Peter Parker, she pulled a piece of metal that was detached from the ceiling.

Peter grunted, his breath shaky as he attempted to sit up. "So, you're Peter Parker's little girlfriend? Norman was right, he got it from you. That pathetic-" He stomped his feet onto Peter's weak back,"-sickness." Peter's body fell to the floor again due to the impact of Norman's foot. He moaned as Norman knelt and pulled his hair so that we could see his face.

Peter's eyes landed on you, the fear and humiliation were evident in his face that you would see him in such a poor state.

"You're crazy, Norman." You muttered, your eyes burning with hate.

"He tried to fix me, Y/n. Tried to take away my gift."

You shook your head, "it's not a gift, Norman. You're sick." You growled, stepping in front of May.

"Go back..." Peter breathed out, his voice gravelly.

"Now, I'm going to fix you."

The sudden whirring outside alerted you, spinning your head around, you could see the shadow of a glider through the window.

"May, run please." Peter croaked

The glider got closer and the noise increased, if May doesn't move she would get hit. In a last-second split decision, you shoved May to the right, letting her fall to the ground and before you knew it, glass shattered everywhere and the Glider directly collided against your back.

"Y/n!" Peter screamed as he watched you fall into the debris, not moving.

You wanted to scream so badly, the pain unreal and you couldn't feel anything past your hips.

Norman took the chance to hop on his glider, he threw on a cloak and flew in front of Peter, a wicked smirk on his face.

Peter stumbled and tried to stand up but he only fell to his knees. Peter looked up at Norman his facial features expressing betrayal and hopelessness. Peter glanced at Aunt May who was cowering in the corner, her hands trembling over her mouth once she realised you had taken the blow for her.

"Peter, Peter, Peter...No good deed goes unpunished. You can thank me later." Norman took a glance at your fixed body, his eyes wide with chaos. Norman pressed a button on the neon green hand bomb he held and threw it to your body, a malicious smile on his face as he escaped the building as fast as he could.

"No!" Peter screamed, using all of the leftover strength he had, he jumped in the way of the bomb. Peter's fingers stroked the bomb, stopping it from hitting you, but nevertheless, the explosion was loud and hit Peter, throwing him to the back of the wall.

More explosions followed but they occurred outside from where Norman left, cars were blown up and the debris flew everywhere. Loud crashes and sirens were all you could hear, the smoke enveloped everything in its way.

The ringing in your ear and the muffled talking weren't enough for you to miss the stinging all over your body, groaning you turned to rest on your back. The harsh sensation in your stomach was hard to forget, bring your fingers, you lightly grazed the area where the glass is piercing you, whimpering at every touch. You brought your hands to your face to take a look. Your fingers had scarlet red running to the sides, a nauseous feeling kicking in as you stared at your quivering fingers.

Too focused on your stained hands, you hadn't realised Peter was sitting beside you, calling out for you until he took your hands into his.

"Y/n? Y/n, you're okay." He whispered, his eyes tracing around your face.

You inhaled, panic setting in, "P-Peter. I can't feel-" You gulped, unable to keep talking.

Peter shook his head and closed his eyes, "You're okay, Y/n. Come on, let's go." He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you tight and slowly tried to pull you off of the ground. As soon as you felt Peter try to lift you, a sharp pain ran through your body and you cried out.

"Peter, I-I can't do this. It hurts so much." You squinted your eyes, feeling the tears begin to fall as you were placed back on the gravel.

"Okay, just take your time and try to catch your breath." He nodded, almost as if he was trying to convince himself. Peter brought his hand out to brush the hair out of your face and wipe away the dirt that sat on your cheeks. "I'm not going anywhere, I'll be here as long as you need me to be."

Aunt May sat behind Peter, every instinct in her body was screaming at her to thank you, to apologise, to help you, but she knew that this moment was for Peter and Peter only. There was no other way to help you, talking to you was the best comfort you could get. The blood that began to pool around you and stain Peter's clothes was too confrontational for Peter to want to acknowledge, he didn't want to believe that this was happening.

You breathed out, your eyes became heavy within every past second. Closing your eyes, you let yourself rest for a second, longing to forget about everything.

"Y-Y/n, don't close your eyes," Peter pleaded, his anxiety growing as you become weaker by the second. "Somebody help! I need an ambulance, please, somebody!" He called out, hearing the sirens wailing in the background.

"Peter, she's not going to-" Aunt May tried to explain to him, her eyes pooling with tears.

"No, no, no.." He whispered, trying to wipe the blood away from your wound, but it only made it worse as more began to flow out.

You smiled for him, wanting to pretend it was okay, but it kept faltering with every sharp stab you felt.

"I love you, Peter." You whispered, taking his quivering hand into your shaky ones.

Peter shook his head, the tears streaming down his face, "Don't say that. Please don't say that, Y/n." He begged, brushing his lips against your forehead.

Peter lowered his mouth to kiss your lips, your cold lips felt softer than Peters chapped ones. Using all of your strength, you kissed back as hard as you could, though it felt weak for Peter. You could taste the blood on Peter's lips as he deepened the kiss further, resting his hand on your cheek.

Pulling away for a breath of air, Peter returned his lips to your forehead, closing his eyes, silently wishing he could kiss you without you bleeding to death.

You felt your body go limb, the pain slowly relieving its self. There was so much you wanted to say Peter, but you just didn't have the energy. You wanted to encourage him, to help him fight, to let him know that your death wasn't the result of him. But as you lied there, you had no energy to speak, instead, you stayed silent, allowing yourself to fall into the depths of the darkness.

Peter pulled away from you, his eyebrows furrowed. "Y/n?" He asked quietly. But you didn't respond.

"Hey, Y/n. What are you doing? Talk to me." He pleaded, blinking away the tears but they just kept resurfacing.

"Y/n, please.." He begged, clutching onto your clothes as his body began to shake. "I love you, come back, please. Talk to me."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." Peter whispered into your hair as he shook with sobs. Peter hadn't noticed Aunt May holding him back, telling him that the authorities were outside.

"We have to go, Peter," she said urgently.

Peter kept shaking his head and peppering your forehead with kisses, mumbling incoherent words. He wasn't prepared to let you go. Not now, not ever.

--

a/n: her back was broken but not in the good way