#peter parkerxreader

“This isn’t real…” You whispered, tears running down your face. There was something devastating in his eyes, rich, molten brown, but fractured by hurt and heavy with worry. He looked at you as if memorizing every line of your face, as if holding you in his gaze could keep you from slipping through his fingers. And god, the way he looked at you made your chest ache, like you were both on the edge of breaking.

His face faltered, but he didn’t let go of you. Instead, his arms came around you, pulling you against him as if he could anchor you here, in this fragile, borrowed place.

“Maybe not,” he whispered into your hair. “But it feels real to me. And right now, that’s enough.”

You woke with tears still clinging to your lashes, your chest heaving like you’d run miles. The room was dark, your blanket twisted around you, the glow of your laptop screen painted shadows on the wall. 

“It.. It was just a dream.” The dream had been too vivid, his arms around you, the weight of his hoodie beneath your fingers, the way his voice cracked when he begged you to stay.

It felt real. It always felt real.

The dreams were becoming a pattern, disrupting sleep. You groaned, closing the laptop shut.

“Maybe I should stop reading manuscripts before bed.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself back under your sheets. But when you opened them again, hours had slipped away, and the shrill cry of your alarm clock dragged you up. The sound was cruel. Too loud. Too real. You slapped it off with a groan, lying there for one last, aching heartbeat before reality claimed you again.

By the time you finally pushed yourself upright, the world outside your window was already buzzing with life. You shuffled into the bathroom and flicked on the light. Harsh yellow bulbs spilled over your reflection: puffy eyes, flushed cheeks, hair knotted from sleep. It almost looked like you’d been crying over something real.

You brushed your teeth mechanically, the mint sharp against your tongue, the rhythm of the strokes pulling you further from the haze of the dream. Washing your face didn’t help, the puffiness stayed, the hollowness under your eyes deepened. You sighed, hoping the shower would help but you still looked like you only got 2 hours of sleep. Back in your room, you made your way through your closet. Every blouse felt wrong, tugging against your curves, never falling quite the way you wanted. You held one up, then another, before settling on the same soft, loose-fitting top you always wore when you didn’t have the energy to try. Black slacks. Flats. You sat on the edge of your bed to put on your shoes, pausing to press your palms into your knees, grounding yourself. For a second, you thought about calling in sick, curling back into the sheets and chasing the man through another fragile dream.

“One day wouldn’t hurt right?” You mumbled 

Your second alarm blared through your phone, and the weight of rent and bills pressed in. Sighing, you stood, grabbed your bag and laptop, and made yourself move. The smell of coffee filled your tiny kitchen as the machine sputtered to life. You poured it into your mug, adding just enough cream to soften the bitterness. The first sip burned, but you welcomed it, letting it scald away the remnants of his voice echoing in your head. You slipped out the door, coat slung over your shoulders. There was a reason they called New York “the city that never sleeps” 6:30am, the city was already alive, horns blaring, people rushing, the train rumbling in the distance.

The publishing floor buzzed with the usual Monday chaos, phones ringing, printers jamming, the smell of burnt coffee seeping out of the break room. You slipped into your cubicle, placing down the many manuscripts you had picked up on the way. Your monitor hummed to life, the glow too bright against your sore, sleep-starved eyes. You pushed your bag under the desk and sat heavily, praying no one would look too closely at you today.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice announced behind you. “Did a dementor kiss you in your sleep, or…?”

You groaned, not even turning. “Good morning to you too, Jenna.”

Your best friend leaned lazily against the partition of your cubicle, perfectly manicured nails tapping on the wall in a little rhythm. Her curls were piled on top of her head in a bun that looked effortless but probably took twenty minutes, and her cardigan was already half slipping off one shoulder like she was posing for a candid she’d secretly staged. Jenna always looked like she had her life together.

Which made it that much worse when she took one look at you and gasped.

“Oh, honey,” she said with mock sympathy, “you look like you’ve been auditioning for the role of ‘Dead Girl #3’ in a crime drama.”

You groaned again, swiveling your chair just enough to glare at her. “Rude.”

“True,” she corrected, stepping fully into your cubicle and setting her coffee cup down on your desk without asking. She tilted her head, examining your face with the kind of scrutiny only your best friend could get away with. “Dark circles, blotchy cheeks, your eyeliner’s smudged into next week—tell me you at least had fun last night. Because if you stayed up late just to read manuscripts, I swear—”

You snorted, powering up your computer. “Didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”

“Didn’t sleep well,” Jenna repeated flatly, crossing her arms. “That’s not just ‘didn’t sleep well.’ That’s ‘I cried myself to sleep while listening to Phoebe Bridgers and contemplating the void.’”

You tried to laugh, but it came out thin, brittle. “Thanks for the diagnosis.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” She perched herself on the edge of your desk, her skirt riding up just enough for her to tug it down again with exaggerated dramatics. “That, and to remind you that looking like a hungover raccoon doesn’t exactly scream ‘future star editor.’”

“Raccoons are survivors,” you shot back, sipping your lukewarm coffee. “I’m channeling resilience.”

“Yeah, but they also eat literal trash,” she deadpanned.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop a tired laugh from slipping out. With Jenna, you never could. Banter with her was easy—automatic, even. She was the only thing that made the office feel less like a cage and more like… something bearable.

But she was also too sharp, too perceptive. Her gaze lingered on you longer than you liked, softening in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Seriously,” she said quietly, lowering her voice so the neighboring cubicle couldn’t overhear. “You’ve been off for weeks. Not just tired—sad tired. What’s going on?”

Your fingers hovered uselessly over the keyboard. A lump formed in your throat. His eyes flashed in your mind and ached like a bruise you couldn’t explain.

“Nothing,” you said finally, forcing the lie. “Just… weird dreams.”

Jenna’s brows arched, and that sly smirk you knew too well slid across her face. “Weird dreams? Mhm. Was he at least hot?”

You froze, cheeks blazing. “Shut up.”

“Oooh,” she sang, hopping off your desk and reclaiming her coffee cup. “That’s a yes. Don’t even try to deny it. Now I have to hear about Dream Boy.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Why are you like this?”

“Because one of us has to keep you alive,” she called cheerfully over her shoulder as she disappeared toward the break room.

You let your hands fall, staring blankly at your screen as the login box blinked at you. His voice echoed in the back of your mind, so soft it almost hurt: It’s real to me.

Your chest ached. You typed in your password with shaky fingers.

The days bled together. Emails. Edits. Lunch eaten at your desk while Jenna tried to drag you into gossip about coworkers or the latest book release. She teased, she cajoled, she demanded answers about your mysterious “Dream Boy,” but every time you dodged her questions, she’d just narrow her eyes and say, “I’m watching you,” before shoving a stack of manuscripts in your direction.

By Friday, you were running on fumes.

“You’re gonna die,” Jenna announced when you stumbled into the office, hair hastily thrown into a bun, shirt wrinkled like it had been pulled from the laundry pile. She winced dramatically. “Oh, honey. You look like a Victorian ghost haunting its ex-lover.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, dropping into your chair.

“No, really.” She circled you like she was appraising a painting. “Your skin is pale, your eyes are bloodshot, and I’m 95% sure your soul left your body sometime between Monday and now.” She plopped into your visitor chair, spinning lazily. “So… let’s circle back. Who is he?”

You pressed your palms into your eyes. “Jen—”

“Don’t lie to me, babe. You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. You’re walking around like somebody ripped out your heart. That doesn’t happen from watching too many Netflix thrillers.”

Your throat tightened, words sticking. “It’s… complicated.”

Her spinning stopped. She leaned forward, all teasing gone, voice softer. “Hey. Complicated’s fine. Just… don’t carry it alone, okay?”

You swallowed hard and nodded, unable to meet her gaze. The day was long, 2 hours of overtime, 30 minute walk to the train, 1 hour train ride and another 30 minute walk to your apartment. You were on the verge of passing out on the street, you were not in the mood to deal with anyone or anything. Opening your apartment door, rushing to take off your flats, clothes scattered on the floor leading up to your bed. You plopped yourself down, hugged your pillow and greeted darkness. 

And he was there.Not your kitchen. Not even one you recognized. But it was warm, golden light spilling across tiled floors, the faint hum of a kettle on the stove. The kind of place that smelled like cinnamon and safety. And he was there. He stood barefoot by the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair a little mussed, like he’d just woken too. He looked up when he heard you, and his whole face lit in that way that made your chest ache.

“Morning,” he said, voice low, casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you’d always been here.

You blinked at him, throat tight. “Morning…”

He crossed the room in two strides, hands brushing your shoulders, your arms, as if to reassure himself you were real. “I made coffee. Thought you might want the first cup.”

You stared at him, at the chipped mug waiting on the counter, at the steam curling into the air. The ache in your chest swelled until it nearly split you open. “This isn’t real,”

He flinched. Just barely. But his hands tightened on you, grounding, desperate. “Does it matter? Right now? You’re here. With me.”

Tears blurred your vision. You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to step into that warmth, sit at that little kitchen table, drink his coffee, and pretend it could last forever. Pretend this was your life. But even as you reached for the mug, the edges of the dream started to waver, the kitchen fading like watercolor left in the rain. 

You gasped, drenched in sweat. You felt the tears slip, grabbing the pillow, screaming, punching the bed. You wanted one night, just one night where you could sleep peacefully. Looking at your phone, 2:30am, sighing, it was the weekend at least. 

“It was just a dream..just a dream..” You rolled over and closed your eyes.

As I held the infinity gauntlet in my hand, I felt the power surge through my veins. It hurt, fiery searing pain surging through me as I stared into the mad titan’s eyes. Nothing but spite and anger were in my eyes towards the titan. I could hear Loki’s last words in my head. “You’ll never be a God.” Thor had told me his brother's last words and I chose to stick by it. 

“You’ll never be a God.” I growled at Thanos, my voice rough and ragged from the battle. As the last word slipped my lips, I snapped. A force of power, coming from all of the stones in the gauntlet Tony had made, rushed over the battlefield and coursed through all of Thanos’ warriors and Thanos himself. 

The last thing I heard before the snap was a mix of Tony yelling “Kid!” and Peter’s voice “Y/N no!” Peter’s broke me the most. I was close with Tony, I mean hell, he was calling me kid. He doesn’t just call anyone kid. He had taken care of me since I was eight and ended up in Shield after my parents murders. I met Peter before Shield though, we had always gone to the same school and our parents used to be friends, along with Aunt May. Simpler times, I guess. 

Squeezing my eyes, I heard Peter’s voice in a broken state. “Y/N... Y/N, please.. Please wake up... Don’t leave me here.. Not like this.” In between his words were soft, broken sobs and if my heart wasn’t already breaking, it was now. 

I screamed at myself to open my eyes and with all of the strength left in me, I did. I opened my eyes to meet his, a broken, tired smile ghosted my lips as I looked at my best friend. “Peter...” I whispered out, my voice cracking. 

“Come on, Y/N.. We’ve got to get you up. We’ve got to get you home! You’ll be okay. Come on!” Peter pleaded with me.

I knew there was no way I was going home. How could I tell him that though? Looking at the wounds that wrapped around my whole arm, stretching up my neck, and across my face, I sighed ever so softly. I held the hand he had placed on top of my good one before looking up into his hershey chocolate brown eyes. “I’m tired...” I said quietly, tears now brimming my eyes. “The sky is overcast and I’m sorry...” Saying this, I shake my head as I look back down at my war-torn body. 

“Peter...” Tony said softly behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder in a comforting way to which Peter responded angrily and shook it off, shaking his head. 

“No!” Peter cried out.

A/N: Aaaand that’s it for now. Okay, so I have many different ways it can go for different love interests. I don’t know which way I would/will? go yet. Is Y/N dead yet? 🤔 Is Y/N ever really dead? 🤔

General Taglist: @in-a-lot-of-fandoms-tbh @peaches-parker @mischiefmanaged011 @hollanderfangirl @alinastarkrovs @parkerpeter24 @whatthefuckimbisexual @yourstrulyamour @felicityparkers @theonly1outof-a-billion @miraclesoflove @theliterarymess @osterfieldholland01 @spideyssunshine @zspideyy @chillingonlife @yousayironisayman @keithseabrook27

–

You had never been a big fan of group assignments on a count of the fact that no matter how well you did on your part of the assignment there was always the possibility that you could fail due to your other group mates mediocrity and lack of care in their work. This has, on more than one occasion, led to you doing group assignments by yourself in order to salvage your grade.

So, you weren’t exactly jumping for joy when the Chemistry teacher announced he would be assigning groups for the assignment.  Going down his roster of names you could already feel the exhaustion, from the possible hours of missed sleep you were going to have to commit in order to pick up the slack of your unnamed groupmate, creeping into your bones.

“Final group: Peter Parker and Y/N.”

At the sound of your name, you picked up your head that had unceremoniously clunked down on the lab table in your despair. Owlishly you blinked at your teacher, processing the information, before turning to the left to stare at your partner. Eye’s meeting when Peter turned to look at you at the exact moment, a shy smile forming on his face as he waved. You grinned back.

–

“How could you steal my favorite partner away from me!” Ned whined, his head down and cheeks pressed firmly against the cafeteria table to make a show out of his distress.

Glancing up from the book MJ lent you, you stared at his display with uninterested eyes. “Why are you complaining to me about something I, nor Peter, had a say in? You were literally in class when the teacher said he was assigning groups.” You replied, rolling your eyes before taking another bite out of your homemade sandwich. You still didn’t like the school’s food.

A smiling Peter approached the table with slow unsure steps as he noticed Ned’s slumped form and slightly flailing arms. Slowly sitting down next to Ned brown eyes turned to you and MJ in question.

“He’s whining about the groups you were assigned to in chemistry,” MJ mumbled, eyes never looking up from her book as she pointed a finger in your direction “and he’s sad she gets to have all your attention now.”

A light blush dusted over Peter’s cheeks as he stared at his friend in confusion. Sputtering in disbelief at the accusation, Ned’s head popped up to glare in MJ’s direction only to be met with a smirk and the bird flipped at him.

“That’s not it! It’s just not fair that the two best students in the class get paired up to work on a project together!”

“Like a power couple,” MJ mumbled. A loud cough rang out at the table as Peter chocked on the chocolate milk he was drinking, previous blush now back on his face and brighter than ever. Lightly elbowing MJ for her teasing and causing Peter’s chocolate milk coughing fit, you slid a couple of napkins his way.

“The point is that they’ll barely even have to stress over the work while I get stuck working with stupid Flash!” Ned whined, head falling back on to the table to resume his slumped over form. Rolling your eyes at Ned’s continued dramatics you decided to ignore for the rest of lunch. All you ever got paired with was slackers and you had never gotten this theatrical about the woes of it. Or at least not in public; behind closed doors where MJ silently listened to you bitch was a completely different story.

“So…” you started, taking Peter’s attention away from simultaneously glaring at Ned and MJ “did you want to hang out after school? Work on the project?”

“Y-yeah, definitely!” Peter grinned, shaky hand running through his curls “want to go to Queens Center? Sit in the food court or um the Starbucks and talk about it?”  

“Sure, see you after school. I’ll wait by the front gates.”

Conveniently the bell rang out, signifying the end of the lunch period. Gathering your stuff and throwing a balled-up napkin at Ned’s head in the process, you headed for the door.

–

You found, as per usual, that you didn’t have to wait long for Peter. It wasn’t uncommon for you two to walk home together after school since realizing you both were next-door neighbors but it still surprised you how he managed to meet you after school so quickly considering his last class for the day was usually on the other side of the building.  Did he sprint? If he did, he never even looked like he broke a sweat.

Walking to the bus station you two began to fill each other in on the day’s events. considering most of the classes you had you shared together it was mostly spent rehashing incidents from class. It wasn’t long before you both found yourself struggling to catch your breath in the laughter that erupted between the two of you.

“Flash’s face…when his sleeve caught on fire…was priceless!” You wheezed, clinging to Peter’s arm to stay upright.

Peter shook with barely contained laughter, “I thought…his face when Ned poured the bucket of water on him was better!”

“He’s going to make Ned’s life a living hell on that project!” Ned’s theatrics at lunch didn’t seem nearly so dramatic now that you thought about it.

You were only a block away from the train when suddenly the ground shook taking you off steady footing and into Peter’s arms for balance, clinging to the sleeves of his sweater. The sound of maniacal laughter rang out and carried through the air as you both watched what looked like smoke rising in a distance.

“What the hell was that…?” You whispered, eyes squinting in a poor attempt to see what was going on.

Peter was already running before you had a proper chance to say anything.

“Peter! Where are you going!?” You shouted “The project!

Halting his sprint, he turned to look back at you, eyes looking around erratically. “Um…I-I just remembered that Aunt May needs me for something really important! I’ll stop by your apartment tonight to work on it!”

Speechlessly you watched him leave, confused by the sudden change in attitude. Shoulders slumping in slight defeat, already missing the presence of your friend, you continued your walk to the train station perking up only slightly at the thought of seeing him later that night.

Unfortunately, he never made it. The only warning in the form of a text at 10PM;

“I’m sorry, won’t make it tonight.”

–

Moments like that went on for the next couple of days, Peter making plans to work on or discuss the project only to bail last minute, his excuses getting vaguer every time he opened his mouth. You gave him the benefit of the doubt the first couple of times because Peter was your friend and even more so because he was good; He was never the type to take advantage of another person not even for the smallest of favors. Hell, every time you let him borrow your notes, he thanked you with goods from Delmar’s Deli-Grocery.

But when there were only three days left before the project was due and still no sign of Peter you began to realize maybe your judge of character wasn’t that great. With a sigh you turned to the TV, barely taking in any of the information on the green goblin spider-man coverage. It had been going on for days and quite frankly you were tired of hearing about it. Grabbing the remote you turned off the news and tossed it on the couch with a huff, preparing yourself for one of the three all-nighters you were going to need to pull to finish the assignment on time.

-

“Can you please wait?” Peter shouted, running to catch up to your fast-paced stomping. “I want to apologize!”

Tired eyes turned to glare at Peter with fierceness. 2hours. 2 HOURS is how much sleep you got in order to finish the project on time, and by yourself no less! Peter was the last person you wanted to talk to this early in the morning.

“Don’t bother!” You yelled “If you’re worried about whether we have an assignment to turn in, don’t be, I got it done so your grade is intact. But leave me the fuck alone!”

Slamming your locker closed you stomped into your third period (chemistry) paying no mind to the other students watching you, too exhausted and filled with anger to be bothered with what your peers thought of your outburst. The sooner you turned in this project the sooner you could be done with it.

With a huff you sat in your assigned seat which, though two tables behind Peter, you suddenly decided was far too close to him. You could practically feel his eyes burning a hole into you.  

“Alright,” Mr. Cobbwell started “before we start class everyone please turn in your group assignment

Assignment in hand you sluggishly made your way to the front of the classroom, not even bothering to acknowledge Peter as he stood with you.

“Good job guys, I can’t wait to see what you guys did.” Mr. Cobbwell praised

“Mr. Cobbwell, I didn’t help…”

Your weary eyes shot up in surprise, jaw falling slack as you watched Peter’s miserable form. What was he doing?

“I didn’t help with the project. She did it all by herself…” Peter turned to face you “I’m so sorry Y/N. I’m so sorry I made you do it by yourself, it was never my intention to make you feel…used.”

You didn’t know what it was, the sad look in Peter’s face, the heartfelt apology, or the exhaustion leaving you to raw and aware of all your emotions, but you found yourself tearing up a bit.

You had it right the first time…Peter was good. He was a good one.

While in the past you had no problem rating out a group mate who tried to slag by on your hard work, you had no actual intention of doing that to Peter. Maybe it was because there was a soft spot still in you for your friend or maybe it was because deep down you really wanted to believe something truly had come up to make it impossible to help. Whatever it was you had every intention of letting Peter get the grade. He…he didn’t need to do it…

Sighing Mr. Cobbwell stood from his desk and motioned to the door. “Let’s have a conversation in the hall, Mr. Parker.”

–

It was around 4:30PM when you finally got out of your after-school practice session. You were lucky, practice usually didn’t end until 6 or 7PM but the minute your coach saw your exhausted face, falsely assumed it was because of sickness and sent you on your merry way only an hour in.

You were so beat you didn’t even bother to correct her.

In the empty hallway you sluggishly you trudged to your locker to grab your backpack, thankful for the lack of student chatter roaming the halls. The lack of sleep had turned into a throbbing headache you could feel behind your eyes and you were already dreading all the rush hour train chatter you were going to have to hear on your way home.

The sound of a Captain America PSA halted your steps. Looking around in confusion you followed the sound to an open classroom you had passed. It was a bit late in the school day to be listening to a Captain America lecture, right?

Taking a couple of steps back you peaked your head into the classroom you passed and had to hold in a laugh at the sight: a passed out Coach Wilson snoring to his heart’s content while slumped over Peter watched the PSA in boredom head-nodding lightly every time Captain America reminded him detention was a time “contemplate the wrong they’ve done” and to remember that “doing something bad…does not make you bad.”

Yeah…Peter didn’t deserve to be left alone to listen to that.

“Psst! Peter…” You called in a loud whisper. Thankfully he heard you the first time around and immediately turned to you at the sound of your voice. Good, you didn’t want to stand there whisper-shouting like an idiot any more than you needed to.

A fit of laughter almost passed through your lips at the comical wide-eyed look Peter sent your way. The snort was that came out was a little bit harder to keep in when he went so far as to point a finger at himself, as if to ask for clarification that he was the one you were calling despite being the only student in the room. He was adorable. You nodded your head before motioning him to come to you with a couple of flails of your arms.

Nervously Peter ran his hands through his hair “Hey…I didn’t expect to- “

“You wanna get away from here?” You cut in, carefree grin making its way to your face despite your fatigue. Owlishly Peter blinked at you, your word being processed -you assumed- before he cautiously turned to look at a still slumbering Coach Wilson.

“Come on he won’t even notice,” You urged “plus you only have 20min left in detention anyway.”

Crossing his arms Peter looked up at the ceiling in thought before cocking his head in the direction of the TV where the Captain America PSA continued to play. “I think Captain America would frown on that.”

Smirking you placed a defiant hand on your hip, “You gonna listen to a former war criminal or me, the girl who’s willing to buy you your favorite sandwich from Delmar’s store on the way home?”

Beaming Peter rushed to go grab his bag, careful not to disturb Coach Wilson’s sleep by running into a desk, before following your skipping form out of the classroom. Once by your side you linked arms with Peter, suddenly a bit more cheerful than drained, and grinned.

“So…what should we do this weekend?!”

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